This side of the room

It’s your standard-issue dorm room. One of thousands on this mid-sized, Midwestern college campus.

Snug. Yet functional. With just enough room for two beds, two desks, a fridge, and a TV.

As for its occupants, they will struggle to share this space because they are worlds apart.

On that side of the room, it’s White Sox. And tits. No reading material beyond the required and ridiculously expensive textbooks. There’s a box of Kleenex on the shelf by the bed. It’s bland. Average. Orderly. Nothing at all extraordinary or unexpected.

But on this side of the room, it’s another story.

It’s Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson. A psychedelic poster graces one wall, a Fear and Loathing poster, the other. Pencil drawings taped above the bed. Empty liquor bottles stuffed behind the bolster. This side is delightfully – almost intentionally – cluttered.

These two kids are freshman. At the dawn of their professional adult lives.

Who are you betting on?
~~~~~~~~~~~
People like us – from this side of the room – don’t take the standard, acceptable path to get where we are.

Some people call us courageous. But following our own path has always been more about instinct than bravery.

Things don’t always go according to plan for us because, quite frankly, there is no plan.

We don’t always follow the rules. Because some of the rules are downright ridiculous.

We don’t learn from the mistakes of others – preferring to stir up our own share of fresh (often silly, always exciting) screw-ups.

What’s ordinary bores us. We’re drawn to everything sophomoric and irreverent and rude because it helps us escape everything that’s expected and typical and normal.

We’ve disappointed our parents and friends, teachers and bosses. But these are the same people who are still around, rejoicing the most when things go well for us, because they knew we had it in us all along.

We’re attractively normal looking (much to our disappointment and undying dismay) but are always more comfortable among the freaks on the fringes.

We’re scarred. But rarely scared because we’ve survived more than our share of self-induced shit.

We’re atypical addicts. Food, sex, drugs, booze – you name it, we’ve got it. But there’s no AA meeting, no counselor, no ‘Higher Power’ that’ll rid us of our demons because we know them so well, they know their place, and we genuinely enjoy having them around.

We know damn well why we do the crazy-ass shit we do – we’re often excruciatingly self-aware – but will rarely change because it’s what keeps us so alive, so lively.

We don’t talk much. When we do, it’s meaningful. It has to be. Our silence, coupled with our innate inability to follow anyone (ever) makes us reluctant leaders. We’re destined to disappoint our followers, too, but they’ll stay with us because we’re the only people honest enough to tell them the really right thing to do.

We’re happy to play The Fool – keenly, often uncouthly stating the truth when everyone else remains silently satisfied with lies.

We are also capable of great foolishness. But don’t be mistaken – we rarely suffer fools.

It could be intelligence. A bit of creativity. However, we believe it’s mostly some cosmic quirk that allows us to experience a little more success than most. We also know we’re quite capable of losing everything at any moment, so we tend to be more grateful than most, too.

We’re the kids from this side of the room. Bet on us.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dissident – Pearl Jam
I am reading: The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951 - 1993 by Charles Bukowski
And I am: From this side of the room

Traveling with Balzac

A few years before we were married, I met Jim in Paris for a long weekend.

It was a great trip -- he was in Europe for work and I got there a day early, visiting the Palace of Versailles by myself.

Once he arrived, we made a beeline to the Eiffel Tower. The next day, the Louvre. And a very memorable evening in Montmartre.

But the best part of the trip was an ages old cemetery called Pere-Lachaise. It was fascinating. Tons of famous people are buried there. Moliere. Proust. Gertrude Stein. Jim Morrison.


And the famous French novelist and playwright Honore de Balzac.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Balzac, I sat across from this guy on the train yesterday.






















Hedy?

Yep. You bet I snagged a shot.

They were so impressive I felt like a tourist all over again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Purple Haze - The Cure
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Traveling with Balzac

The Fictional President

If you were ever a fan of West Wing, read this amusing column from Maureen Dowd at the New York Times: Seeking a President Who Gives Goose Bumps? So's Obama.

"You were raised by a single mother on food stamps — where does a guy with eight houses who was legacied into Annapolis get off calling you an elitist?"

I sure miss Jed Barlet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sunday house sounds
I am reading: Everything
And I am: Voting for Aaron Sorkin

How you know

Someone asked me this question the other day:

‘How do you know that you're in love?’

Great question.

I told her if she’d asked me 20 years ago, my answer would’ve been way different than today, but beyond that I’d have to think about it.

It’s been a few days and here’s my answer:

Beyond all the flowery crap, being in love comes down to two things: How you feel about what the two of you have in common and how you feel about the things you don’t have in common.
~~~~~~~~~~~
It's September. Nineteen years ago. And I'm deeply in love (the first time) with Jim.

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon and we're making out on the couch at a condo I share with two roommates. I can’t recall why we weren’t upstairs naked and abusing each other in all sorts of amusing ways, but anyhow.

“Look at that,” I say, coming up for air. “You have three moles in a triangle on your arm.”

“Yep,” he says.

“Look. So do I.”

This odd coincidence gets added to the short but growing list of things we were discovering that we had in common – right after a love of fast cars and out-of-the-way beer gardens and the raw, sinfully sarcastic humor of Sam Kinison.

The point is, back then we were looking for things that we had in common to reinforce the rather uncontrollable and irrational feelings we had for each other.

It was fucking hot. It was love.
~~~~~~~~~~~
At some point in the relationship, however, you begin to notice the differences again.

It happens right about the time the guy you love and share the odd polygonal birthmark with says he’s going to come over after a golf outing but decides to stay out partying with his buddies then shows up at your door at midnight wielding his whiskey dick.

The fact is, it happens.

You begin to come out of that initial euphoria and throttle back on noticing the things you have in common and start noticing the differences again.

If you’re self aware and not needy and/or co-dependant, you quickly realize either a) There are too many things that you don’t have in common for the relationship to survive or, hopefully, b) There are just enough things that you don’t have in common to keep things interesting for a whole lifetime.

That’s the extremely cool moment when you and your partner go from arguing about your differences, to laughing about them. It's when you go from loving all the things you have in common to loving all the things you don't have in common.

Then you’re in love all over again, only better.

Make sense?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bad Things – Jace Everett
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Sun-Times
I am: Still here

Push

Oh. Hey. That’s not good. He/she’s really struggling in that wheelchair. It’ll take hours to get anywhere. Should I go over? Wait. See if there’s someone. Nope. Nobody to help. What would Susan do? She’d definitely help. Don’t hesitate. Just do it. Okay. I’m doing it. Wait. Some disabled people don’t want help. Asking them is offensive. But he/she’s really having a hard time. Hey, if asking causes offense, at least you asked. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Remember: What would Susan do? Okay. Here goes.

“Wanna push?”

“Oh? Yes. That would be great,” replies the somewhat bedraggled and unshaven yet obviously grateful he.

“I live right there,” he says, pointing a gnarled finger at the poshy entrance of a high-rise condo building less than 20 feet away.

Disabled. Loaded. Yet no one to help.

Interesting.

Then, a rush of words as I wheel him towards home:

“I try to do this on my own but it’s hard and I’m not even supposed to be in this thing anymore thank you so much for stopping I really appreciate it.”

“Are you in physical therapy?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s where I’m coming from.”

“They sure beat you up, don’t they?”

“YES and they don’t give you any breaks, either, I was really sweated up today.”

“I’ve been there,” I say. “Were you in an accident?”

“Sorta. I had a heart attack and they gave me the wrong medication and I had a bad reaction to it and it put me in a coma for a while.”

I’m rescued from having to say ‘That’s terrible’ or ‘What a shame’ or some other inane comment because we’re at the entrance where a tall, impeccably dressed black man hustles around the security desk to open the door.

“Could you take me upstairs?”

“I can’t leave the desk,” says the security man.

“No, I was asking her,” says the man in the chair, thumbing his shoulder.

Silence of the Lambs. The creepy pupa dude asks the chubby chick to help him load a chair into the van. I’m the chubby chick. He’s not really disabled. It’s a scam and he’s gonna get me upstairs and starve me and make a swimsuit outta my skin and no one will ever see me again. Nobody even knows where I am right now, just walking back from lunch. But he's old and lives in this ritzy-titzy condo and the security guard saw me and he obviously needs help and oh what the hell, Heather, have a little faith in the universe for once.

“Sure.”

He’s Mike. I’m Heather. He’s on floor 9 please. The hallway is all polished hardwood and much darker than I thought it would be.

“Right over here,” he says.

My heart is in my throat as he struggles to put the key in the door.

Now. Now. NOW. If this is one of those scary Stephen King stories from your childhood, NOW would be the time when he leaps up out of the wheelchair -- transforming from a weak old geezer into a crazed psychopath with Super Human Strength -- and shoves you into his lair.

Serial killers have lairs.

Rich old cripples have condos.

I roll him through the doorway, careful not to cross the threshold.

“Thanks again for your help today,” he says.

“You’re welcome. Take care.”

And thank you for not being Ed Gein.

So.

Incredibly stupid? Or just every day kindness to strangers?

What would you have done?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: If I Ever Feel Better - Phoenix
I am reading: Salesforce.com stuff
And I am: Chubby and helpful

The Washington Post does your homework

In case you're wondering which of our fine presidential candidates is going to raise your taxes, the Washington Post has created an excellent graphic that should clear things up.

Start on the left with 'Family Income in 2008 dollars' and locate your household's annual income below. Then slide your eyes across the grid to see what the two candidates have in store for your tax bracket. McCain is in red for Republican. Obama is in blue for Democrat.




















Surprised? Me too.

McCain is running ads claiming that Obama will raise taxes on the middle class.

Of course the Republican candidate believes 'wealthy' begins at $5 million, so it's easy to see how he'd think folks making more than $2.87 million per year are middle class.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"But Hedy, you can't trust the liberal media. They made up this graph to make Obama look good."

Actually, the Washington Post is known for its more conservative views.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, McCain's plan lowers taxes for everyone.

But here's what bothers me about this graphic: under McCain's plan, the percent decrease in taxes gets higher towards the top of the graph and goes down to practically nothing for people at or near poverty level.

I'm not a math person, but it sure seems like it ought to be the other way around. Do you know what I'm getting at?

0.2% of $18,000 amounts to dick. And 4% of $2.87 million is, well -- like I said, I'm not a math person -- but it's a veritable ass-load of money.

Call me crazy, but don't people with lower incomes need the higher percentages than people making millions of dollars per year?

Better still, why can't the tax cuts just be equal across all income levels?

"But Hedy, Obama is worse! He's raising taxes disproportionately on the wealthy and that's not fair, either!"

Agreed. Obama's plan isn't fair, either.

But I think we can agree that Obama's plan provides more significant tax relief for more of the people who need it most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course, if you care about big issues like abortion or the environment or the war in Iraq, the Washington Post graph won't help you make a more informed decision.

But if you're willing to pay more taxes because your candidate can effect change on issues that matter more to you than money, then that's pretty cool.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"But Hedy, both of these plans are essentially bullshit -- no one really knows what'll happen once either candidate is in office. Remember Daddy Bush's promise about read my lips?"

True.

Put the numbers aside then. And look at the core of each tax plan -- which one provides more help to more people? What does that say about the candidate's intentions - whether the tax plan gets implemented or not?

What does it say about Obama that he wants to help regular working Americans keep more of their paychecks? And what will it do for our economy if a majority of people have a little more money to spend?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Blah blah blah, Hedy. I'm so fucking tired of this crap. I just want the new season of Heroes to start."

I know. It's exhausting. I'm tired, too.

But we gotta do this, people.

We gotta care enough about our country to make an informed decision on November 4. Now more than ever, your vote matters.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sex and Candy - Marcy Playground
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Tired

And he's a patriot, too

You know how I feel about Craig Ferguson.

Well, he took it to the next level Wednesday night with this monologue on 'our sacred right as an American' to vote.

Watch it. Register. Vote.

He doesn't care who you vote for and neither do I. Just do it.

And Craig? If you're reading this, CALL ME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Silly evening news
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Enamored

Perhaps crazy

“You know you’re flying on 9/11,” I say to Jim this morning.

“Yeah, kinda weird,” he says. “But I’ve done it before.”

“I know, but isn’t it odd that there wasn’t any news about terrorist threats in the U.S. all summer? Not a peep. It would be just like the Republicans to lull us into a false sense of security and then BAM! There’s an attack on the anniversary of 9/11 and McCain wins in a landslide.”

“Yes, it would be just like them, wouldn’t it? Because you know George Bush was the one who actually ordered the 9/11 attacks.”

“I KNOW! See? So be careful today.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What does it say about the state of affairs here when someone like me – arguably liberal, but hardly a nut-job – is speculating on a government orchestrated terrorist attack in order to screw with the presidential election?

Well, you are kind of a nut-job, Hedy.

Right. Kinda.

But seriously, with the economy, the war, oil prices, and scandal after financial scandal, would you be all that surprised if Bush & Co. figured out a way to mess with the election?

Be honest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Clear skies across the country today,” said the weatherman on WGN. “A quiet day, weather-wise.”

When I think about that day back in 2001, the morning weather report is always the first thing that pops into my head.

A quiet day. Right.

Then I remember what happened the night before.

I’ve never told anyone this until now.

It was a normal night. I went to bed before Jim, like usual. I’m lying there, all cuddled in, when all of a sudden this overwhelming feeling of horror and grief came over me.

I couldn’t breathe, I was crying, and completely terrified. For no reason.

I understand now that it was a panic attack.

I’d never had one before. Or since.

There was no stress in my life, no reason for it to happen right then, and I guess that’s the reason why I remember it so vividly – because it was very, very out of the ordinary.

Now I’m not saying that I had a premonition or anything – of course no one could predict what happened that screwy, scary day.

But if it ever happens again, I’m hiding in the basement all day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An attack on the anniversary of 9/11?

Too obvious. People might expect that. Plus, it could reflect badly on the current administration and given enough time, people could blame McCain.

I know: Let 9/11 pass quietly and lull our clueless citizenry into an even greater sense of false security. Then BAM! Stage a Super Secret Strategery U.S. government-sponsored terrorist attack two weeks before the election.

The ultimate October surprise.

That close to the election, it’ll scare the crap outta everyone. Folks will be too busy mourning and praying and vigilizing that they’ll elect that great patriot and war hero John McCain in a landslide.

Yep. That’s it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, you're officially crazy.

Perhaps.

Add that to the catalog of damage that Bush & Co. have done to this country. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Crazy – Patsy Cline
I am reading: An explanation of the Fannie/Freddie bailout by Steve Chapman at the Trib
And I am: A nut-job, kinda

Lips and assholes

Straight outta the shoot:

"So have you ever put lipstick on a pig?" asks David Letterman.

"No," says Obama. "But it might be fun to try."

"The McCain camp has demanded an apology. They say you called Sarah Palin a pig."

"Technically, she would be the lipstick. The failed policies of John McCain would be the pig, following the logic of this illogical situation."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Another infernal Viagra commercial
I am reading: This guy
And I am: Craving hotdogs

On My Own

He’s away again this week.

He thought hiding the Bag of Eternal Gloom in the closet would keep me from figuring it out, but He was mistaken.

Because I am Gromit, Genius Dog.

I conducted a full investigation while He was showering and, upon discovering said B.E.G, proceeded directly to the middle of the floor in order to affect my very best Woe is Dog pose.

I’ve perfected it over the years. It starts with the eyes. Always the eyes.

It’s a withering glare, quickly followed by a brief, hopeful ‘You’re Not Really Leaving Me Alone with She Again’ glimpse.

Then, when I know I have He’s full attention: unimaginable, soul-penetrating Peepers of Grief.

If it’s allergy season, I can actually work up a few tears.

Of course in my life, there’ve been few exceedingly sad moments, so I try to imagine not being able to lick my wiener ever again. It works pretty well.

Then I flop down on the bed, carefully positioning my hindquarters so that’s all He will see upon exiting the bathroom. As soon as He is within earshot, I let fly The Whole-Body Sigh. In truth, it’s more of a groan than a sigh and often can be heard in the next room.

It’s highly effective.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s Wednesday, Gromit,” She says with more enthusiasm than ought be allowed before 7 a.m.

“He’s coming home tomorrow. And Grandma is coming to visit you today.”

I respond with one of my more advanced maneuvers: The Sigh, quickly followed by a Roll Over and Face the Wall combo.

Don’t get me wrong, Nobody’s better than She when it comes to leg massages and ear scratches. And She is the Queen of the Butt Rub.

But my whole standard of living goes down when He’s away.

For example, upon returning from my morning constitutional, I expect breakfast accompanied by fresh water in my bowl.

He knows this. I suspect it is because He is a man, although He doesn’t lick his wiener ever, which is unsettling, since wiener-licking is without question the greatest joy of being a member of the male species.

Anyhow.

He knows the schedule. He sticks to it. After eight years, He ought to.

She, on the other hand, is always fiddling around cleaning things and doesn’t get to my food before I’m at the door, with my Terse Bark, demanding to be let in.

And that’s another thing. I never have to break out the Terse Bark with He. He is always at the door, waiting to let me in. Better than a garage door opener, He is.

“Sorry Grom, let me get that for you,” She says, as if sorry makes up for having my entire day ruined because of a flagrant schedule violation.

Then, with nothing more than a Bye Grom, Love You Dog, Be a Good Boy, She leaves.

Be a Good Boy. As if I have a choice. As if I could be anything else.

And it’s only Wednesday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Those damn morning doves on the chimney
I am reading: Nothing, She never brings the paper in, either
And I am: Dog of Woe

Waffles, anyone?

Okay, Sarah Palin is a lying little bitch. With a stinky crotch.

Well, maybe not that last part. But she's no good with the facts, that's for sure.

Please read this. And this. Oh, and this.

This is why we should never rely on our 'feelings' when it comes to political candidates. We need to investigate their background, their accomplishments, their ethics.

I broke my own rule. Never again.

Also: Here's a huge, heartfelt apology for Taxman. I'm sorry, sir. Feel better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The rain
I am reading: Mists of Avalon by M.Z. Bradley
And I am: Feeling much better now

Big Red Boners, Laying Pipe: A Special HedyBlog RNC Update

I like Rudy Giuliani. I once thought he could be the next president.

But his speech at the Republican National Convention sucked.

He talked about terrorism. Because it's the only thing he's capable of talking about.

Sadly, somebody forgot to tell him that nobody cares about that stuff anymore.

It's 2008 -- not 2001 -- and I'm sorry to bring out this tired old Clinton-era phrase, but it's about the ECONOMY, stupid.

I don't know anyone who's worried about terrorists. But I know plenty of folks scared shitless about the economy.

It's not "Boy I sure hope Al Qaeda doesn't come back."

It's "Boy I sure hope I can make my mortgage payment this month."

We're not afraid of terrorists attacking our buildings, we're afraid of a very real, imminent threat: The shit-ass economy attacking our way of life.
~~~~~~~~~~
On the other hand, Sarah Palin was great.

She talked about laying pipe and drilling. And white, gun-toting men across America saluted her with a collective Big Red Boner.

Seriously, I didn't want to like her.

But she's genuine and tough and interesting. And, God bless her, she's capable of giving a roiling political speech without sounding like a caterwauling shrew.

She confronted the issue of experience head-on and in some respects, kicked 'community organizer' Obama to the curb.

Sure, she was a little disingenuous talking about the 'pride' involved with her 17-year-old daughter's unplanned pregnancy, but what the hell.

Oh, and then there's this: With a new special needs baby and an unplanned grandbaby on the way, was it right for her to accept the nomination for VP? What about her family? How will she manage all of this?

"Nobody's asking Barack Obama how he's managing his family while running for office, so it's not fair for us to question her decision to take on the role as VP, Hedy. It's sexist."

Bullshit.

Asking the question isn't sexist, it's honest. Because let's face it: Moms do everything. Dads are great, but Moms think of - and do - practically everything. It's what they do.

And that is precisely why I think Sarah Palin would make an excellent vice president.

She reminds me of the amazing, dedicated, where-the-hell-do-they-get-the-energy moms I know. There are a bazillion unsung Sarah Palins out there right now who care enough to get involved in the PTA and on school boards and in local governments to make a difference not only for their own kids, but all kids.

We need more strong, dedicated people like her getting involved in government so they can do the same kick-ass job for our country that they do for their families and their local communities.

Plus, she talked about laying pipe. Which is sexy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I Am Woman - Helen Reddy
I am reading: Mists of Avalon by M. Z. Bradley
And I am: Probably not voting for McCain, but this new chick has made it really fun to think about

You wanna know

"You wanna know why I like you?" says my chiropractor this morning.

"MMMmmm?" I reply, face down on the table.

"Damn, that's it? I was really hoping you'd help me answer that question."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bad 70's music
I am reading: The Mists of Avalon by M. Z. Bradley
And I am: Damn fuck shit hell hurty again

Spam

"Please fuck me this is not a joke"

It's rare that spam gets my attention anymore, but this subject line prompted me to open the e-mail Right Away.

My mind was racing during the Michael Phelps millisecond it took to click, then load. Could it be...Craig Ferguson? Someone with a yet to be identified life or death medical condition? Moe?







Nope.

Turns out it was someone named Melodyxkon2 inviting me to chat via Yahoo messenger.

Hmmm. Melody. xkon. 2.

Enticing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ever get a spam e-mail you just HAD to open? Are you still getting spam?

The only reason I even see spam anymore is because of Yahoo - it was the first personal e-mail account I ever opened and is only used now for placing orders on-line or for signing up for news sites that require a login.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So what'd you do with the e-mail, Hedy?

Sadly, I had to forgo a humorless roll in the hay with the tuneful two-time felon.

But I know just the guy who would LOVE that sort of thing.

Click. Forward. Send to: MoeWanchuk@ElitistHornyPigs.com.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit breathing
I am reading: The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley
And I am: Not falling for it again

But wait

And this one's entirely unintentional from Paul Begala, a Democratic strategist, on CNN.com:

"In choosing Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin to be his running mate, he is not thinking 'outside the box,' as some have said."

Yep. Outside. The. Box.

Brilliant!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Heart Shaped Box - Nirvana
I am reading: Henry VIII
And I am: Rolling

Miss Alaska

Regarding McCain's pick for VP:

"It's a coup de twat."

"Great to see another woman with a 'crack' at the presidency."

I sure love this country.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: What I Got - Sublime
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Amused

That’s great, but

“He gave a great speech last night, Hedy,” says Da this morning.

“Now do you understand why I like him?“

“He said everything we wanted to hear and more. If he can do half of what he says he can do, he’s a miracle worker. I’ll pray for him.”

“That’s great, but will you vote for him?”

“Ah. I don’t know about that.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Like a Prayer - Madonna
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Happy

Great day

"It's a great day," said the cab driver, winding his way through Chicago, helping me get to Union Station. Helping me get a little closer to home.

"It sure is," I say.

"Obama is our candidate for president," he said.

"He sure is."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Listen.

I realize I can't convince any of you to vote for Obama. And that's okay.

Even if he doesn't win, tonight changed everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Obama in Denver
I am reading: Henry VIII by Margaret George
And I am: Elated

Getting it straight

Thanks for all the great comments yesterday.

My favorite was submitted by brave little Anonymous. I was really hoping someone would pick up on my disingenuous jab at McCain. Thank you. Whoever you are.

"Let me get this straight. You're not contesting that the man spent extra time in a POW camp because he refused to leap-frog other POWs and accept an out-of-sequence repatriation offer...But you are questioning his motivation for doing so? That truly saddens me."

Confession time.

I don’t actually believe that McCain passed up a Get Out of Hell Free card for political gain.

I can believe a lot of bad things about politicians – hell, John Edwards and his wife were willing to jeopardize the entire democratic process earlier this year – but I don’t believe McCain was focused on anything beyond surviving his time in Hanoi.

Really.

Here’s my point: How is what I said any different from the right-wing whack-jobs claiming Obama is a Muslim terrorist?

The fact is, both are extreme, ridiculous claims with no basis in reality or fact.

But if my pseudo-cynicism about McCain saddens you, then good. As that brainiac Bush would say, Mission Accomplished.

Because what saddens me more than anything is when people don’t bother to investigate the facts before spewing garbage about political candidates.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Songbird - Fleetwood Mac
I am reading: The Autobiography of Henry VIII by Margaret George
And I am: Sad, too.

Two choices

The way I see it, you have two choices: You can vote for McCain – a tired, angry old man who represents the party that plunged us into the worst economic crisis of our time, not to mention a war based on nothing but lies and greed that has killed thousands of American soldiers.

Or you can vote for Obama – an intelligent, patriotic young man who represents a break from politics as usual, a break from our disgracefully racist history, and a break from an economic policy that has helped the rich get richer over the past eight years.

But Hedy! Obama will tax the crap out of our businesses. If we don’t elect McCain, companies like mine will simply shut down.

Bullshit.

All of the brilliant Bush/Cheney tax cuts for the wealthy and tax breaks for big business have done what for us? C’mon. They’re economic morons. Admit it.

The Republicans – who claim to really understand finances, ironically enough – have done nothing but increase our debt and lower our standard of living since they’ve been in office.

But go ahead, vote for McCain if you want more of the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy! You call Obama patriotic when McCain is the veteran and former POW? Shameful! Show some respect!

Yes, being a veteran is the ultimate patriotic trump card, isn’t it? McCain deserves respect for the sacrifices he made for our country. No question on that.

However. Being a veteran is not the only way to define what it means to believe in your country.

Because of Obama’s history – because of his heritage – and because of his accomplishments, I believe that he understands more about what this country means to regular folks like you and me, than McCain ever could.

McCain is just like Bush. He got where he is because of his family, because of the privileged life he lead, and ultimately because of his connections (and don’t get me started on what uber-wealthy wife #2 has done for him.)

I know, I know.

As a POW, McCain could’ve used his connections to get out earlier than the rest of his men – he chose not to. Maybe because it was the right thing to do. Or maybe because he didn’t want it coming back to haunt him in his political career. We’ll never know, will we?

Obama got where he is through good old-fashioned hard work. And intelligence. And a willingness to make sacrifices to make a difference in the lives of others. He believes in everything this country stands for because he’s lived it and benefited from it and ultimately, his children will benefit from it.

Being a patriot isn’t something you can inherit. It’s not something you can assimilate by simply knowing the right people.

It’s an effort.

And as far as patriotic efforts go, McCain and Obama are more than equals.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey.

Vote for McCain if you want more of the same.

It almost has the same ring as 'Be a Moe Ho'. I like it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But I’m a one-issue voter, Hedy. I’m pro-life. And McCain is my man.

Okay. What has the Republican Party done for you on that issue, really?

They’ve held more sway over the Supreme Court than the Democrats, by far.

And yet Roe v. Wade still stands.

Here’s my theory: Republicans love, love, LOVE you pro-lifers because you’ll give and give and give ‘til it hurts in hopes that abortion someday will be illegal again.

It ain’t happening. As long as abortion is legal, people like you will support Republicans, who care more about being re-elected than about the Right to Life. But go ahead, continue to support these folks. Sure.

To summarize: The Republicans take your money and do nothing.

Don’t you want to at least give the Democrats a shot at taking your money for a change? Who knows what could happen? And you’d be no worse off, that’s for sure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I stopped forwarding you stuff about Obama so we won’t argue,” says Mom this morning.

“Like what?” I say, knowing what’s in store.

“Well, that he’s a Muslim.”

Sigh.

Like I asked Mom, I’ll ask all of you: Please, please focus on what the candidates say and not what others say about them.

And please, rather than relying on the endless stream of crap forwarded from people too lazy and too shortsighted to care about the truth, do your homework.

Care more about your country and your way of life than to trust it to anonymous, fear-mongering assholes who have a vested interest in keeping things just the way they are by keeping you desperate and afraid.

I would also ask that you focus on what’s really important. Things that will have a direct impact on your family, your work, your lifestyle, and ultimately your freedom.

Things like our piss-poor economy. The deficit. Our antiquated energy policy. The war in Iraq. Healthcare. The environment.

I don’t give a fig if Obama worships the God of Bacon Bits and Oreos.

Is he more capable and more committed than McCain when it comes to making a difference for you and me? Yes.

Two choices. Care enough to make the right one. Please.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Walk This World - Heather Nova
I am reading: Neil Steinberg
And I am: Worshiping the God of Bacon Bits and Oreos

Hillary

She always sounds like she's reminding us to clean our room.

Whether you like Obama or you're a total Moe, you have to admit Barack's way better than Hillary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: "CLEAN YOUR ROOM!" Clinton
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Grateful

The way it's meant to be

When things are good, it's easy to forget how miserable you were.

Walking into the office today, I remembered that dark and dreadful feeling I'd get going to that other place. It was a smokey, dirty, depressing and dysfunctional environment. Not to mention the fear of getting screamed at for no reason every day. Hard to believe I lasted six months.

Now I walk into my clean, airy, fun, positive office -- with no worries beyond how to do more today than I did yesterday for these fine folks. Better still, we're not only growing, but thriving, in spite of the crap economy.

Since it was entirely serendipitous finding this place, I'm noodling lately on how everything happens for a reason and how (perhaps) being in this new place was meant to be.

It seems like everything finally clicked back into place when I came here. This is a feeling I've been waiting on for nearly four years.

Have you ever had that feeling? That ahhhh, sigh-filled feeling when everything goes back to being right and good again? Maybe it was when you had your first child. Maybe it was when you found your spouse. Or the right job. Or a house that finally felt like home.

That's where I am right now. And it's cool.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Way Life is Supposed to Be - Bob Schneider
I am reading: Nothing much
And I am: Joyful

C’mon, how much?

“C’mon, how much you making these days?” he’d ask. “C’mon. How much? Just tell me.”

And then: “What kinda car you driving these days? C’mon, tell me. Tell me.”

My first reaction? “What difference does it make? Why is this so important to you?”

But eventually he’d wear me down, I'd wince and tell him.

It happened every six months or so – much later, I realized he’d only call after receiving a raise or promotion, or after getting a new car.

It always was important to him to know where he stood in relation to me – a twisty little competition he’d created between us since childhood that was mostly amusing but occasionally downright irritating.

We don’t speak much anymore. I’m not sure why.

But I don’t miss the competitive aspect of our relationship at all. And I wonder how happy he is, constantly measuring the 'things' in his life against others.

To me, the better questions have always been: What have you been up to? What is new? What excites you about your life? How’s your family? How are the kids? How's work?

If you’re going to count anything in life, it ought to be your blessings above all else.

Right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What’s the rudest question anyone’s ever asked you? And how did you respond?

Beyond the whole salary/vehicle thing, here are a few more of my favorites:

Are you pregnant?
How much did your house cost?
Is that your real hair color?
How about a blow job?
Are those your real boobs?
Are you a professional?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Are you a professional? Why is that rude, Hedy?

Well. I was in a club. Dancing.

"HEY, that GUY just asked if I was a PROFESSIONAL," I yell to Nelson over the music, beaming proudly, thinking the dude meant professionally trained dancer.

"STRIPPER, Hed. He thought you were a STRIPPER."

Oh. Right. Rude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Everything Counts – Depeche Mode
I am reading: Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine
And I am: Counting my blessings

The devil craves Vicodin, the angel takes Advil

"Would you like some Vicodin or Codeine for the pain?" asks the young and lovely Dr. Patel at Urgent Care this morning.

TAKE IT. YES. YOU NEED VICODIN. YOU LOVE VICODIN. VICODIN IS YOUR FRIEND. GET THE VICODIN. NOW. GET IT. NOW.

That would be the wily little devil camped on my right shoulder.

Now, Hedy, the Advil is working just fine. You don't need anything stronger. And do you really want the temptation of Vicodin, which Jim calls your Bitch Pills, in the house again? Remember what you went through getting off that stuff after your knee surgeries? Be smart. Be like Nancy Reagan. Say no.

Imagine harp music playing while the angel buzzing my left ear talks me down from the splendid and tempting offer for heavy drugs.

"No, thanks, the Advil is enough," I say, with a tiny bit of regret.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well, we almost made it two years," says Jim just now.

Yep. Injury-free for almost two years.

Tip: If you're going to fall and would like to maximize your embarrassment/horrification, do it right outside Union Station during rush hour where everyone congregates on benches.

If I hadn't been so shocked by suddenly sucking on the sidewalk, I would've leaped up and yelled "TA-DA!"

A few friendly tourists helped me up and offered me beer.

"How could you tell they were tourists?" asks Jim.

"Well, they had British accents and...they helped me up and offered me beer."

So I have a bruised bone at the base of my thumb. It's covered by a nifty black wrist brace, for broadcasting my bumbliness.

And the angel is doing back flips while the devil is flipping me off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Angel to You, Devil to Me - The Click Five
I am reading: My interview with Playboy's EVP of Interactive
And I am: Taking Advil

A jolly rogering

Here at HedyBlog, we're all about excellence in journalism.

And cock jokes.

So whether you're large or small, thick or thin, you'll say God bless Jan Vinzenz Krause, inventor of the spray-on condom.

Have you heard about this? It's called Jolly Joe.

Apparently ill-fitting condoms are the scourge of the $300 million willy wrap industry.

I seriously wouldn't know.

The closest I come (shaddap) to a condom these days is putting on the nifty rubbery case for my iPhone. It's a sick, twisted little thrill. And I do it as slowly as possible. Gently slipping the case over the hard edge, giving it a fun little snap to secure it in place...

Whew. Okay, I'm back. Sorry.

So Krause - who Time magazine compares to Edison and Ford - invented spray-on condoms.

Yep. Edison and Ford. Time Magazine.

All hell's breaking loose in Russia or Atlanta or whatever. It turns out the ancient Chinese secret is "Lie about everything, who gives a fuck, we're communists."

And leave it to Time magazine to make a headline out of protecting your cock from crotch rot.

I'm not even going to say it. It's too easy. Okay, I can't resist.

When it comes to hard news, Time is like a sore wiener: You just can't beat it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
However, all is not well in the land of the sealed penis. Apparently the latex takes two to three minutes to dry.

More than enough time for Mr. Peeper to lose his pep, if ya know what I mean.

But no worries, ladies. Krause - who says he "felt a little like MacGyver" created clever packaging so you can diddle while your dude dries. Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just a side note on the Olympics: We've got Tancock and Beavers fighting it out in the Men's 200-meter individual medley tonight.

Again. Excellence in journalism, folks.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: "Beavers ends the race on top of Tancock..."
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Playing with my iPhone again

That's my classy wife

From: Heather
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 2:25 PM
To: Jim
Subject: Hi

Looking forward to our date tonight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On 8/12/08 2:32 PM, "Jim" wrote:
Me too
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: Heather
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 2:35 PM
To: Jim
Subject: Re: Hi

I got my digital picture frame working finally
It’s very nice. Thank you. xoxo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On 8/12/08 2:59 PM, "Jim" wrote:
Well that’s good
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: Heather
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 3:01 PM
To: Jim
Subject: Re: Hi

Are you okay? Are you disappointed because you’re not coming downtown tonight?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On 8/12/08 3:09 PM, "Jim" wrote:
No I am in a meeting
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: Heather
Sent: Tuesday, August 12, 2008 3:11 PM
To: Jim
Subject: Re: Hi

Ahh well then fart poop shit ass piss. Ta-da!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On 8/12/08 3:15 PM, "Jim" wrote:
My laptop is on the projector
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Pump Up the Volume - M-A-R-R-S
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Classy

Here's the deal

Yesterday’s entry on alcoholism caused more of a stir than I imagined.

All of your great comments helped broaden my understanding of why alcoholism is, as Taxman says, ‘a strange genetic curse.’

Having grown up in a family where alcohol was literally non-existent, I can’t begin to know what it’s like living with an alcoholic.

I do know that it means a cycle of profound pain and anger and disappointment and grief for those touched by it. And I’ve seen how that deep, in-your-bones brand of hurt bruises generations because it changes people and their relationships and their view of the world.

But here’s the deal.

Anytime learning about a topic takes me from a place of anger and judgment to a place of compassion and understanding, I feel like I’m growing a bit and doing my part to become a better citizen.

I wrote on this for one reason and one reason only: Because Neil Steinberg’s book Drunkard transformed my perception of alcoholism. This is a Very Big Deal, as Mom can attest. She was shocked by what I wrote because we’ve argued repeatedly (and sometimes rather loudly) about the alcoholism/disease thing over the years.

Beyond the small miracle of changing my narrow opinion about alcoholism, Neil’s book has me assessing our family history to determine if we’re at risk of allowing it to ruin our lives. It's entirely possible. And it is frightening.

Again, I can't imagine what Neil's drinking put his wife and children through. But his book helped me understand that alcoholism isn't about wanting to hurt your spouse or family, it's about your body and your brain making it damn near impossible to avoid hurting them.

And that kind of pain is simply unimaginable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Starry-Eyed Surprise - Paul Oakenfold
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Relaxed

Drunkard

Maybe you know someone with a drinking problem.

They’re fun – way fun – until they’ve had too much alcohol. Then they become abrasive:

“I HATE YOU!”

Or emotional:

“I LOVE YOU!

Or silent:

“ . . . !”

Which implies they HATE you or LOVE you – something for you to ponder whilst they’re barfing on your Blahniks.

It’s become a cliché, but the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again expecting different results. So why do these people keep getting hammered all the time?

Neil Steinberg’s book Drunkard helped me finally – finally! – understand alcoholism.

If you’ve known me for more than 10 minutes, you’re aware of my unhealthy yet purely intellectual crush on Neil Steinberg – brilliant, balding columnist at the Chicago Sun-Times.

But here’s what you probably don’t know: Neil is an alcoholic who got drunk and smacked his wife a few years back and spent a night in jail because of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I sent this email immediately after reading about the incident in, of all places, the Chicago Sun-Times:

Hi Neil,

Just thought I'd tell you: You are who I wanted to be when I grew up. Hang in there.

Heather S.

This reply came five minutes later:

Heather,

A drunk who assaults his wife? Still, thank you for the kind words.

Neil
~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey Hedy. You drink. Probably more than average.

Hell yeah, I do. I’ve had three Jack and Cokes as I’m writing this.

And I’ve been known to get hammered and whip my top off in the Gulf of Mexico in broad daylight. But that happens MAYBE once a year, tops.

We’re social drinkers. We rarely drink during the week other than special dinners out and NEVER to excess. And we tend to tip a few on Fridays and/or Saturdays but RARELY to excess.

We drink to relax – and if you’ve ever been really, really, really drunk – you know it is perhaps one of the least relaxing things you can do. So we know how to manage it and keep it fun and most importantly, safe.

Here’s the difference between us and alcoholics: We never NEED to drink. We WANT to drink.

And that is precisely what puts us at the most risk for eventually becoming alcoholics.

It creeps up on you. Alcoholism.

This is one of the big lessons from Neil’s book.

One day you’re a happy go-lucky social drinker, the next day you’re snorting vodka fumes from an empty mini-bar bottle and abandoning your 9-year-old son at the library to hit the liquor store up the block. Or you’re hitting Billy Goat on Washington for a boozy little breakfast to take the edge off before walking to work.

Somehow your typical one or two glasses of wine on weeknights is no longer Nearly Enough and once you start drinking, you can't stop until you pass out in bed, waking up hung over as hell and dreading work, yet somehow itching to do it again As Soon As Possible.

It’s frightening. Disturbing. And it’s genetic.

It happened to Jim’s dad. He was a social drinker. Then he retired and started drinking every day and pretty much didn’t stop until he died. He started to need it. It changed who he was.

That was Neil. He examined his life and realized that at some point he went from wanting drinks to needing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Tell me I’ll never have another drop of alcohol my whole life and it’s fine. Tell me I’ll never have Ruffles Sour Cream & Cheddar potato chips again and we’ll have a major fucking problem.”

That’s me. Still.

Yet I wonder if someday I’ll reach the point where whiskey replaces chips on Hedy’s hierarchy of needs. I wonder.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Three Jack & Cokes, Hedy? What’s up with that?

I wrote this several Wednesdays ago on the train ride home after meeting a group of former co-workers for celebratory drinks. The last time we were together the three of us were miserable and searching for new jobs.

Miraculously, we’ve all landed in delightfully pleasant places and THIS is cause for great celebration.

A three Jack & Coke celebration to be exact.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt from Drunkard:

“Have you ever looked back on a period in your life – a year, a week, an hour – and said, ‘I wish I drank more? Have you ever looked back at an event and said, ‘You know, that was fun, but I just didn’t drink enough?”

Jonathan laughs, shaking his head. “Never.”

“Exactly. So why look forward and despair at all the drinks we’re not going to have in the future when the truth is, once we’ve lived through it, we won’t miss them at all?”
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Cancer is a disease. Parkinson’s is a disease,” I’d say. “Alcoholism is NOT a disease.”

I was wrong.

Reading Neil’s book helped me understand the way an alcoholic’s brain works. The compulsion to drink is a physical, genetic condition involving the CREB gene. You can read about it here.

This is going to sound insane – and you cancer survivors can beat me up about it – but I’ve come to believe alcoholics have a tougher path than people with ‘traditional’ diseases like cancer or Alzheimer’s or ALS. Perhaps it isn't fair to compare. Suffering is suffering, right? But still.

What the fuck, Hedy? Worse than a three-year-old with a brain tumor?

Yep.

Here’s why: Cancer patients get treatment. They get drugs. And most importantly, they get compassion.

Alcoholics have AA. And will power. And they are essentially alone in their battle to stay sober.

Try telling a cancer patient to ‘rely on your Higher Power’ and ‘take it one day at a time’ to get healthy and they’ll tell you to Fuck Right Off.

But that’s what we tell alcoholics. And if you’re an agnostic, well, it especially sucks.

“Let me get this straight. My only hope for staying sober is to rely on some religious bullshit I stopped believing when I was 12? You’ve gotta be kidding. I need a drink.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course, a lot of what’s involved with battling alcoholism is mental.

I’ve recently had the pleasure of getting to know someone who hasn’t had a drink in 15 years.

Not because he had a problem. No.

Because his father was an alcoholic. And he realized if he didn’t stop drinking completely, eventually he would have a problem, too.

So he stopped. Isn’t that cool?
~~~~~~~~~~~
Read Neil’s book if you’d like a better understanding of why alcoholics do the batshit crazy things they do. Read it if you’ve always been skeptical about Alcoholics Anonymous and the whole higher power thing.

Don’t read it if you want a juicy, emotionally charged account of Neil’s battle back to sobriety. He’s a journalist. Plus, he just ain’t that kinda guy.

And the jury’s still out if Neil is the sort of guy to stay sober.

I don’t know and I get the feeling from his book that he doesn’t know either. I do know his book helped me have a better understanding of alcoholism.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Rehab – Amy Winehouse
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Glad I read Drunkard by Neil Steinberg

Vote Moe

Dear Moe,

With all the whining you do, it sure seems like you’re not satisfied with your work/life these days.

I have a solution.

If there’s any justice in the world, Detroit will be needing a new mayor very soon.

You are perfect for this job.

You’re frugal. You’re a hockey fan. You certainly have the pedigree.

And you’ve been itching for an excuse to get back home to the ‘hood.

I know at least three people who’d vote for you right now. By the way you owe me $9.

Just think: You’d be able to stop all of this incessant complaining AND finally put some of your brilliant political ideas into action.

I’m sure the people of Detroit would find it refreshing to have a compassionate, generous soul like you leading their beleaguered city out of its current shit storm.

Plus, you’re always complaining about how much it costs sending your kids to that fancy-schmancy school – Detroit schools are notoriously cheap. In fact I’m pretty sure it’s the only district in the nation where wiping your ass with an outdated textbook is not only encouraged, but required.

Of course there’s the whole power/sex thing, too.

Mrs. Moe won’t be able to keep her tiny hands off you once you’re in office. (Just had an a-ha moment here: I figured out why you married a small woman – it makes Little Moe look ginormous. Nice going.)
~~~~~~~~~~
A few thoughts on campaign slogans:

Be a ho, vote Moe!
Shaddap and vote for Moe
Moe: He ain’t black but he’s willing to learn
Vote for Moe or my buddy Degrande will kick yer ass
Moe: Cheap. Horny. White.
Moe: Not nearly as bad as that last douchebag
Moe: Too cheap for texting
Quit yer whining. That’s my job. Vote Moe.
~~~~~~~~~~
A word of warning, though. Politics can get ugly.

Keep in mind that even seemingly small things – like leaving the American flag off your hybrid go-cart, for example – can and will be used against you. But I’m sure you know this, being such a huge fan of Fox News and Rush Limbaugh.

So whaddaya say, Moe? Mayor of Detroit.

Do it for the citizens of that sorry-ass city. Do it for your family.

But most of all do it for your faithful fans who’d love to see you quit belly-aching and actually do something for a change.

Hey.

Moe: Do Something For a Change. Perfect!
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Star Spangled Banner
I am reading: Neil in the Sun-Times
And I am: a Moe ho

Wonderful

For you wake one day, look around and say: "Somebody wonderful married me."
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Married - Cabaret soundtrack
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Blessed

Mine goes to 11

Just when you think the world can't surprise you, there's this from -- ironically enough -- the Land Down Under:

Australian doctors warn against 'designer vagina' craze

I refuse to actually read the article for fear of being caught up in this muff-related mania.

Seriously.

Isn't keeping up on skirt lengths and hairstyles worrisome enough for us fashion-impaired types?

Now I have to think about couture for my cootchie? C'mon.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, I had to read it.

And I'm all "WHEW!" and then "THAT'S CRAZY!" and then "OUCH!"

Apparently this latest craze is about surgery for 'vaginal rejuvenation, revirgination, designer vaginoplasty and G-spot amplification.'

G-spot amplification? Amplification?

Is there a knob somewhere? Does this mean there's a mute button, too? Who knew?
~~~~~~~~~~~
But Hedy, you had a boob job. Would you deny women the opportunity to improve their quality of life through surgery?

Tits are one thing. You just don't mess with the muff.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Pink - Who Knew
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Having t-shirts made

The Wizard of Oz rule of sushi

"Japonais?"

"Sure."

That was me and Jim, sending our standard pre-date text messages as he made his way into the city for our weekly date last night.

Summers in Chicago are just...amazing. So we try to make the most of them by spending at least one week night in the city during the warmer months.

Japonais is a snooty-falooty sushi restaurant that we've been hearing about forever.

"Sushi in the city? You MUST try Japonais!"

I should've known better. Any time anything is a 'MUST' it's usually a bust.

Like the play Cats.

Arguably the worst play on the fucking planet, but everyone and their mother was saying you MUST see it in the 80's. Fuck Cats. Seriously. Three hours of whiny, caterwauling...well, cats.
~~~~~~~~~~~
So back at Japonais.

It's in the River North area of Chicago about three blocks from my office. And it's one of them neato-skeeto trendy upscale hoo-ha places where everyone is skinny and beautiful - except you.

And the world famous, must-have sushi? Average. And expensive.

The only upside? The service was fantastic.

But great service didn't help the 'Let's go to McDonald's' hungry feeling in our stomachs and the 'I've just been raped' feeling on our credit card when we walked outta there.

"I've decided we're going to use the Wizard of Oz rule when it comes to sushi from now on," I say as we're leaving the parking garage.

"What's that?"

"We're never looking farther than our own backyard."

The thing is, we've got a world-class sushi place just a mile from our house.

It's called Jurin. It's cheap, friendly and awesome.

And it's not a place you MUST try, it's the place you go back to time and again after trying all those silly MUST try places.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Air rushing through the ducts in the office
I am reading: Drunkard by Neil Steinberg
And I am: Still hungry

The #2 situation

How’s work goin’, Hed?

It is unbelievably good. I am actually joyful about work. It’s totally twisted.

And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but as my co-workers remind me daily: “There is no other shoe here.”

There’s really only one thing I’d change (besides the Super Sized commute), and that’s the #2 situation.

The #2 situation?

Yes. The #2 situation.

We moved to new office space a few weeks ago (same building, one floor up) and it’s a fabulous open loft with gorgeous, panoramic views of the city, high ceilings, and amazing artwork.

And the crappers. Are smack dab in the middle of everything.

Yep.

No more pretending to take a walk while sneaking away for bowel-related breaks.

Nope.

Every time you go to the bathroom in my office, you're sending a memo to the world: YOUR CO-WORKER IS CRAPPING.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A long time ago I went on a weekend road trip to northern Michigan with a guy from work.

We’d just left the office when he said: “Did you go to the bathroom? Because I’d like to drive straight through if possible.”

I’ve always been a trooper when it comes to extended car rides. In my pre-Jim/Gromit days, I could do five hours straight from Chicago to eastern Michigan on one tank of gas while drinking a Big Gulp. No stops.

But because this butt-munch essentially banned bathroom breaks, my brain broke and I had to pee pretty much every 20 minutes all the way to Petoskey.

We weren’t dating or even screwing yet (although I think he wanted to), and if the incessant pissing wasn’t enough to kill his ardor, farting on him later that weekend certainly did.

But that’s a story for another day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyhow. The road trip. With the Potty Nazi.

That’s how it was the first week in the new office. The bathroom situation caused another brain breakdown.

“DON’T PEE DON’T PEE DON’T PEE” I kept saying, but my cursed kidneys weren’t listening.

So every 20 minutes, I’m in there. Peeing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The real bummer is that the women’s restroom in my office is Exceptionally Nice.

Candles. Potpourri. Lotion. Hairspray. And plenty of room spray, too.

But I can’t enjoy it.

Every time I’m in there, I imagine my co-workers gathered outside, setting their stopwatches to see How Long She’s in There This Time.

They’re taking bets. Playing Mule/No Mule. While I struggle to squeeze one out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As you can imagine, the #2 situation is worse.

The irony is, I’m a fairly regular bathroom person. Mornings are my time. I’m a pre-shower pooper. Or I used to be.

Now, nothing.

I consider this the ultimate betrayal by my body. That’s saying a lot after 40+ years of hard living.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hey, Heather, would you like to try some of this?”

I look behind me and it’s co-worker Katie brandishing a bottle of Pink Lemonade Metamucil.

Dead serious.

“It’s new!” she says enthusiastically. “I love it.”

I stop short of saying that simply being in an office with stage-like shitters is enough to ensure my system stays streamlined, thanks so much, but I’m new here and don’t want to be rude so I partake in the poop juice.

The paranoid part of me thinks the Metamucil break was a big jokey jab at the New Person, but later the same day, good-hearted (and obviously bountifully-boweled) Katie offers some to an interview candidate.

Can you imagine? You’re interviewing for an executive assistant position and someone offers you laxative laden refreshments.

"Um, thanks, but I'm already nervous enough without worrying about crapping my pants. Don't you have some Tropicana?"

Although now that I think of it - it's ingenious. Prepares the new people for public pooping.

Perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – All Summer Long
I am reading: Drunkard by Neil Steinberg
And I am: Holding it in

7

It happens throughout the day. Every weekday.

2.

7.

1.

13. Yikes.

ZERO!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's me and my friend Jim, the IT guy. IM'ing our inbox status to each other.

A while back, when we worked together, we decided to clean out our e-mail in boxes for good and vowed to keep them neat, well-managed and nearly empty at all times.

These daily status reports? The E-mailers Anonymous equivalent of checking in with my sponsor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you tried this?

Organizational experts recommend it. But you don't need some high-priced anal retentive freak when you have yours truly, bargain basement anal retentive freak.

If you're like me, you use your e-mail in box as a to do list. Which is great, until you accumulate about a shmillion e-mails and the shit hits the fan.

Here are the rules. When you get an e-mail, read it and then:

1) Reply
2) Delete, or
3) Move to sub folder

If you can't act on it right away, keep it in your in box. But no longer than three days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
You've done it. Grown old searching for that one elusive e-mail. Could be in trash. Could be in your in box.

Sort by sender. Nope. Did I reply? I replied. Check sent items. What was the subject? Sort by subject. Nope, not there either.

And of course Microsoft's e-mail search is about as useful as a three inch cock on a cold day. Or any day, for that matter.

Sub folders are the key.

You're not deleting important e-mails, you're just filing them away, like you would important documents.

I have sub folders for practically everyone at work, plus alliances, competitors, public relations, research, speaking opportunities, and vendors. I create sub folders for every campaign, promotion or event.

And when someone asks for that e-mail about that one thing from that one person, I'm ready.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
One dude actually declared e-mail bankruptcy.

If you have more than 500 unread e-mails in your in box, it's a good idea.

Who I am being rude to today? What did I forget to do? Who's gonna throw me under the bus because I never responded?

It sucks. It's stressful. And so unnecessary.

Ever since I cleaned out my in box and started proactively managing my e-mails, I'm less stressed. More organized. More focused.

And it's so satisfying, the days when I can say "ZERO!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit sleeping
I am reading: Blink by Malcolm Gladwell
And I am: Up to 7, but working on it

I'm no journalist, but

Original post is below.

Furthermore, from Global Food Crisis series at the Washington Post:

"Beef or goat meat is now so expensive -- about $1.20 for a tiny portion -- that the family has given up meat completely, eating cheap dried fish instead. Rather than seasoning their sauces with vegetables and peanuts, they now use the tough leaves of baobab trees, the gnarly giants that flourish here in the dry lands south of the Sahara.

To soften the sour taste of the leaves, Lingani mixes in potash, a paste made by boiling down water strained through ashes from wood fires."

That's right. They're seasoning their food with ashes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you're gonna write about people struggling to buy groceries, you might not want to make these two stars the focus of your story:

For Some Ohians, Even Meat is Out of Reach
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, Hedy, Hedy.

It's not fair to judge these people. And they can't drive, so they don't have easy access to healthy, inexpensive food.

Right.

Here. Read this: Africa's Hungry Horn

Especially this part:

"In recent months, aid workers have seen a 400 percent rise in the number of young children slipping through the stages of malnutrition: first becoming listless and withdrawn, their arms and legs growing thinner, their skin peeling off as it dies, and finally their bodies swelling, a condition caused by severe protein deficiency."

Then look at these two fat fucks again and tell me who is really suffering?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The washing machine
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Disgusted

Sometimes

Sometimes you're just reading the news tra-la-la:

Sewage Plant Named after Bush

Pelosi Calls Bush a 'Total Failure'

Hotel of Doom Wakes from Coma

And you see this:

"The firm has put glass panels into the concrete shell, installed telecommunications antennas -- even though North Korea forbids its citizens to own mobile phones -- and put up an artist's impression of what it will look like."

Wait.

North Korea forbids its citizens from owning mobile phones?

Really?

I'll admit most of what I know about North Korea comes from Team America, but damn.

No mobile phones?

U.S. citizens are suffering grief and aggravation over the ongoing iPhone crisis, and North Koreans can't have cell phones?

Okay.

By all means, name sewage plants after our president.

But also. Also.

Also show appreciation for what we have and where we live.

Because George Bush is a First Magnitude Fucktard, but Kim Jong-il, he ain't.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Galileo - Indigo Girls
I am reading: Neil Steinberg, Sun-Times
And I am: Still waiting for my iPhone

Rites of passage

There’s a letter on the desktop
I dug out of a drawer
The last truce we ever came to
From our adolescent war
And I start to feel the fever
From the warm air through the screen
You come regular like seasons, shadowing my dreams
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was in the shower this morning when that song popped into my head for no reason.

Ghost. By the Indigo Girls.

It’s a sweet, melancholy song that reminds me of my friend Nelson for no other reason than I loved it and included it on a mix tape for him a long, long time ago.

I haven’t been listening to music much lately because all my songs are trapped on the Home Mac and – with the new job and all – I’m spending a lotta time with the Work Mac these days. Plus, my iPod was stuffed in a drawer – out of sight and out of mind.

But this morning I dug it out and quickly found Ghost, singing it at the top of my lungs all the way to the train station.

It’s one of those songs that you actually can belt out pretty good even if you’re like me and couldn’t sing if Cuddly Wuddly Christ came back today and announced he’s saving only the True Singers of Show Tunes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Mississippi’s mighty
It starts in Minnesota
At a place that you could walk across
With five steps down
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rites of Passage is the album.

Yeah, it’s chick music. But it’s one of those rare CDs you can listen to all the way through. It’s in my top five for sure.

There’s something about it – whenever I’m feeling disconnected from everything that is important, it puts me back in my place.

Do you have an album like this? Music that runs like a thread through your entire adult life?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And I guess that’s how you started
Like a pin prick to my heart
But at this point you rush right through me
And I start to drown
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You didn’t talk to Mom this morning on your way to the train?

Nope. Mom and Da are here from Michigan. It’s been a fabulous week and I don’t want them to leave. Ever. Ever.

It’s funny, though. She’s here, sleeping in because she’s on vacation.

And I miss her because we’re not on the phone in the mornings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is the part where I really give it all I’ve got for Cuddly Wuddly Christ:

And there’s not enough room in this world for my pain
Signals cross and love gets lost and time past makes it plain
Of all my demon spirits I need you the most
I’m in love with your ghost
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, your turn. Tell me the one song that you just have to sing at the top of your lungs whenever it’s on. And why.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Rites of Passage – The Indigo Girls
I am reading: New web copy
And I am: Unbelievably happy

What they won’t do for a laugh

I’m walking from the Quincy El station towards Union during my daily planes, trains and automobiles trek from the office when I see them again: The Abortion Nuts.

They’re standing on the sidewalk along Adams holding huge signs featuring grotesque photos of supposed ‘First Term Abortions.’

Again, I’m all for free speech.

But you’d think the gory signs would lend a somewhat somber mood to the occasion.

No.

A more animated Abortion Nut holds another sign: ‘Honk if You Love Cuddly Wuddly Jesus’ or something like that and she’s yelling and laughing like it’s a veritable celebration of dead fetuses on the side of the road.

Yes. She’s laughing.

Probably not the impression you want to leave on all of us crabby, tired commuters.

At least not if you want us to take your ignorant, misguided protest seriously.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ignorant, Hedy? Misguided? So you’re pro-choice?

Hell yeah, I am.

But be careful here.

I’m saying their protest is ignorant and misguided, not their opinions.

Because if you really want to reach people with a message you feel strongly about, it’s not a great idea to stand in our way holding offensive, disgusting signs.

If they wanted to engage us in an intelligent, meaningful conversation about abortion, I’d be all for it.

But the shock value – coupled with the despicable laughter – does nothing to help their cause.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Blasphemous Rumors – Depeche Mode
I am reading: Neil Steinberg in the Sun-Times
And I am: Astonished

Everyone thank Cheryl today

From my new friend Cheryl via e-mail:

I have 3 suggestions I would love to see you cover in your blog:

What are the top 10 movies that are going with you on your deserted island?

The Wizard of Oz
Heidi (Shirley Temple)
Moonstruck
The Color Purple
The Big Chill
Pulp Fiction
Pride & Prejudice (the A&E series, not the crap with that skinny bitch Keira Knightley)
Shawshank Redemption
Monty Python's Holy Grail
American Beauty
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love the idea of a deserted island with electricity. Love it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who are the members of your hot tub 5?

I don't know about this one.

I've heard of the five people you'd have over for dinner (Queen Elizabeth I, Jesus Christ, Mark Twain, Leonardo DaVinci, and Albert Einstein) but not the hot tub.

So I'm going with people I wouldn't mind seeing naked or semi naked:
Russell Crowe
Brad Pitt
Joseph Fiennes
Denzel Washington
And of course: Craig Ferguson

Plus one back up in case Brad is a no-show because of that skank Angelina: Steven Tyler from Aerosmith.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, how come Moe didn't make your hot tub list?

Well just look at him. C'mon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is your death row meal?

If I'm on death row, I'm assuming I've lost my appetite. Along with all my friends.

So the only one who'd still love me for-sure no-matter-what I-don't-care-if-you-killed-your-husband-because-he smacks-his-lips-when-he-eats-Popsicles is Mom.

So it would have to be Mom's roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy, baked butternut squash, rolls, and her famous chocolate Navy cake (with vanilla ice cream) for dessert. And a big glass of ice cold milk.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Big thanks to Cheryl for helping me out during this dry spell.

Feel free to share your own lists and variations on the lists.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Quiet house
I am reading: Not much
And I am: Hopefully dieing on a deserted island with five famous actors

Frederick Smalls from Massachusetts: Get a Life

Oh. The humanity.

It's all "grief and aggravation" for people like Smalls who tried to buy the new iPhone today.

Grief? Over a mobile phone?

Un-fucking-believable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The cries of countless disappointed iPhone users
I am reading: Web copy
And I am: Disgusted

Escaping the idiots

It started shortly after I boarded.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

Oh. God.

Someone is clipping their nails on the train again.

Yes. It happens more than you’d think. It’s incredibly gross.

And I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll take gross over extended periods of irritating any day.

Because the silly twat wasn’t clipping her nails, but snapping her gum.

Every two seconds.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

Plus, the train was delayed several times due to freight traffic so all of us in the seventh car on the 5:26 to Aurora last night endured more than an hour of this infernal snapping.

Better still?

She stopped snapping her gum only to TALK ON HER PHONE IN A VOICE LIKE THIS.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, why didn’t you just move to another car?

I thought about it. My blood pressure would’ve gone down considerably.

But this is America, folks.

I shouldn’t have to move because someone is irritating me. I shouldn’t be the one inconvenienced by idiots. Right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, it’s barely 7 a.m. on Friday.

And idiocy abounds.

I pass a beer distributor on my way to the train station.

Every morning big, beautiful land barges of beer make their way out into the world so slobs like us can get blasted and bloated.

It’s fabulous.

Except this morning, the dude driving the huge Heineken truck (and I fucking hate Heineken) didn’t see me, pulled out and nearly ran me off the road.

To his credit, he gave me the little ‘Sorry, I’m an asshole’ wave, but this did nothing to dislodge my heart from my throat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then, more idiocy at the parking ticket machines.

A dorky corporate chooch cuts in front of me to the only open machine and PROCEEDS TO DIG THROUGH HIS POCKETS, THEN HIS WALLET FOR MONEY.

While I stand there, park card in hand. Like always. Waiting. Ready.

Better still, this particular idiot had to go back to his car (we know he didn’t forget his head, because that was clearly lodged up his ass) and I ended up winning the Race for the Train anyhow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s the thing. With that gum-snapping twat, I could’ve moved to another car. I should have.

But there was no avoiding the Heineken dude or the ticket chooch this morning.

I was forced to move out of their way so they could do what they needed to do, even though I clearly had the right of way in both cases.

So here’s the lesson of the today, kiddies: Be grateful for the days when you can escape the idiots, because most of the time they’re completely unavoidable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Train sounds
I am reading: My guy Steinberg at the Sun-Times
And I am: Grateful

Reasons I'd like to be a man (or husband)

My Dilfy friend Moe was whining like a little bitch about how he's all outta fresh ideas for his blog. So I made a deal with the fascist free marketeer that I'd help him out with a bit of blog fodder today.

20 reasons why I’d like to be a man (or husband)

1. No bleeding, bloating, or bitching every month
2. No underwire bras
3. No shaving your legs/under your arms
4. You rule the world, albeit badly
5. You can screw around all you want and you’re a stud (not a slut)
6. The world is your toilet
7. The dog respects you
8. No panty hose
9. You never have to concern yourself with finding any of your stuff because your wife will always locate it for you
9.5 On that same note, you never have to concern yourself with putting away any of your stuff because again, your wife does that for you
10. You get gray hair and look 'distinguished'
11. You have no hair and you look 'sexy'
12. As the primary breadwinner, you get to lord it over the rest of us
13. You NEVER fake an orgasm
14. You get old and you win a 'trophy' wife, while we get old and are labeled after pathetic, predatory felines
15. You receive a blowjob in the White House and get away with it
16. You’re physically stronger – handy for unscrewing lids and carrying luggage
17. You seem to have been born knowing the difference between a Phillips and a regular screw driver
18. You make more money for doing the same (and often less) work
19. You can wear the same thing every day and no one notices
20. You never seem to be troubled by clutter or dust or crumbs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Enjoy the Silence - Depeche Mode
I am reading: Nothing but work stuff lately
And I am: Actually pretty happy being a chick, mostly because of Moe's reason #9

A Susan-worthy sidewalk snippet

Dashing through Union Station last night to catch the 5:49 and I am stuck next to this guy, who is wearing a blue suit and walking very slowly:

“Derivatives!”

[BELCH]

“Derivatives!”

[BELCH]

“Derivatives!”

[BELCH]
~~~~~~~~~~~~
derivative |diˈrivətiv|
adjective
(typically of an artist or work of art) imitative of the work of another person, and usually disapproved of for that reason : an artist who is not in the slightest bit derivative.
• originating from, based on, or influenced by : Darwin's work is derivative of the moral philosophers.
• [ attrib. ] (of a financial product) having a value deriving from an underlying variable asset : equity-based derivative products.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somehow I don’t think this guy got hammered out of hatred for some Warhol wanna-be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jay Leno muted
I am reading: Not much lately
And I am: Tired but happy

All I need is u

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing Compares 2 U - Sinead O'Connor
I am reading: Neil at the Sun-Times
And I am: Waiting for u

Good morning

There are times when I must…resist…writing about the day’s events out of respect for the folks involved. Highlights:

“Christ wasn’t a smoker so he didn’t have that problem.”

“Just breathe and try to answer the question.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to look it up in the employee handbook.”

And my personal favorite:

“Maybe you’ll learn this in your third year of law school…”

I really wish I could say more, but it just wouldn’t be right.

But you know those rare, deep belly laughs that come from unexpected yet truly hilarious moments?

That was my morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: A quiet office
I am reading: New web site content
And I am: Great