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

Runaway train

There’s a man sitting across the way wearing a hat.

He’s a time traveler; situated among us casual commuters in our flip-flops, bare legs, jeans and polo shirts. A gray-haired anachronism sporting a semi-rumpled suit, tie and overcoat.

And the hat.

Similar to the hats my Grandpa Kammer wore. Unbelievably soft yet durable. Inside: a shiny pale rosy satin, featuring the faint scent of that semi-gloss pomade used liberally to avoid what we call hat-head.

He looks like a reporter. Or a private investigator. Or a ghost.

There’s another old man sitting below, twiddling his thumbs. Who does this anymore? Twiddling.

Then for a time we run parallel to a freight train – car after giant car loaded with mounds of coal. Coal. A regular, yet oddly old-fashioned occurrence on these early morning trips to the city.

And then I realize that we, the casual commuters, are the time travelers who’ve somehow caught a throwback train instead of the 7:07.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Runaway Train – Soul Asylum
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Chicago Sun-Times
And I am: Sleepy

Outta gas

So I'm at the gas station last night getting ready to bend over and grab my ankles at $4.15 a gallon, and this happens:

That's right.

The hose that's supposed to be connected at the top of the pump just fell to the ground.

Unbelievable.

With what we're paying for gas here in Chicago, the damn thing should be made out of gold, detect when I'm thirsty, and serve Jack & Cokes out of crystal glassware (FREE, with every purchase over $100!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The air conditioner in the office
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Disgusted

I passed

From Hedy, to Jim via e-mail on June 20:

Check this out – the results of my personality test. Apparently I’m an ‘ambivert’.


From Jim to Hedy via e-mail 20 minutes later:

“Your behavior may be offensive to those who are socially proper.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yep. A personality test.

It was part of the screening process at this new place.

I had to sit at a computer for 40 minutes sweating out whether “I prefer praise or presents.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Read your report with an open mind, without prematurely judging its accuracy. Some statements may not be complimentary; however, it is essential that you not become defensive. Remember, the information presented in this report is based solely on the answers you gave to the questionnaire. We suggest that you read your report several times, and allow yourself to thoroughly analyze and integrate the information. It is imperative that you understand the relationship between each individual trait description and your overall behavior.

The purpose of this report is not to compliment or criticize you, but rather to bring into focus areas that may need attention.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Presents, of course. Definitely presents.

Praise is nice, but it doesn’t teach you anything.

That’s one of my favorite quotes. No idea who said it.

But I'm sure she liked presents, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The whole point is to answer honestly, rather than trying to make yourself look good. And they put these silly “control” questions in to keep you in line.

For example: “I am the queen of the universe.”

You really have to pay attention to the wording and punctuation in each question.

Had it said “I am the Queen of the Universe” then I would’ve said yes, of course.

Tricky, these brain invaders.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The accuracy of the test was immediately called into question when I came upon this silly statement:

You have little, if any, desire to be the center of attention, and dislike having an audience. You are very unlikely to say or do anything that would cause others to focus their attention on you.

This test clearly wasn’t on the beach in Longboat Key last year when, juiced up on tequila, I whipped off my bathing suit top to ‘let the girls have a swim’ in the ocean. In the middle of the afternoon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You also do not go out of your way to gain the respect of others, or do things simply because you think society expects it. Consequently, you are very casual about social rules and tend to set your own standards of behavior. This can cause you to do some things which others may consider to be eccentric or anti-social.

Then again, maybe this test was on the beach in Longboat Key. Hmmmm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under the “flexibility” trait: You are rather slow to accept changes in your environment, and would prefer that most things stay as they are. In your career, home, and social life, you are content with the routine of patterned activities and rarely seek out new and different experiences.

Under the “boldness” trait (two sections down): As a rather adventurous person, you are receptive to trying new and different experiences. You rarely hesitate to venture into new and unfamiliar environments.

I could blame these inconsistencies on the test.

But I’m clearly whacked.

And just really happy they hired me in spite of my anti-social, hermit-like tendencies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I'm Yours - Jason Mraz
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Obviously conflicted

No rest for the wicked

"I've gotta go to a meeting at Playboy next week," I say to Jim.

"COOL...maybe you'll be discovered," he says. "The Girls of Technology."

"Girls?"

"Right. Broads of Technology."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, I'm back to work. It's a long story.

My time off was too short but I did meet some cool people and went on some cool adventures.

Speaking of cool adventures, I met Dave from Rather Than Working during my time in Atlanta. He was just as I imagined - the perfect Southern gentleman - treating me to a fabulous dinner and giving me the Grand Tour of Atlanta, which was cool because I wouldn't have seen even 1/10 of it otherwise. I am looking forward to returning the favor when (not if, Dave) he comes to Chicago.

But yeah, back to work. It's good.

What I mean is, if I could've imagined the perfect reason to return to corporate life, it would be this place. Nice people, a normal non-turdly boss, and plenty of opportunities to make a difference. There's no smoking, no screaming and no reason to believe I can't keep this job for the foreseeable future.

Here's my only regret: I would've liked to give a go to the freelance thing a little longer. It was refreshing and interesting and I want to thank my friends Mary, Alison, Cheryl and Dennis for making it unbelievably easy and wonderful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So yes, Playboy.

Discovered, Hedy? Yes.

Number 8,321 why I love my poor, delusional husband.

Anyhoo, here's my primary concern: What does one wear to the Mecca of Masturbation?

Perhaps this? Or maybe this?

These outfits just scream 'professional', don't they?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well, it was nice meeting you Hedy," says Playboy dude. "Nice outfit. By the way, we're doing a feature for the September issue called the Chubby Girls of Technology, you in?"

"Are you kidding? Of course!"

Oh, to be considered with the likes of the current Miss July, whose ambitions include "To be a 'bad girl' on The Young and the Restless, a housewife or a weather girl."

Why not all three, honey? You're on a roll. At least that's what it looks like you're sitting on these days.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mecca of Masturbation, Hedy? How about showing a little respect?

Right.

What does one wear to the Bethlehem of Beating Off?

Is that better? No? I didn't think so.

Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And in honor of George Carlin, the Seven Words You Can't Say on TV: Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker and Tits.

Rest in peace, you cranky, brilliant dude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Tobor the Great
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Bunny-riffic

Sexy garden

"Your clitoris is really blooming nicely," says Judy yesterday.

"You mean the chlamydia? Yeah, it's gorgeous, isn't it?" says me.

Explanation: Jim can't remember the name of the purple clematis out back, so he's been calling it 'chlamydia' for years.

Now all our friends and neighbors do it, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Meet the Press without Tim Russert (sad)
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Looking forward to another great day

The ‘b’ word

She mentioned it during dinner, thinking I’d be preoccupied with He’s famous grilled chicken burritos.

But I heard it.

The ‘b’ word.

B – A – T – H.

That spells NO WAY I SMELL JUST FINE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I have been a bit smelly lately.

She complains about it – “Gromit’s smelly!” – all the time.

As if I can’t hear. As if I can’t smell what’s going on here. As if I can help it.

She pretends to be Miss Compassionate Love Everyone Liberal but She can be downright insensitive sometimes.

And She says I’m the Best Dog Ever. Ha.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She’s still unemployed, so yesterday She took me to the Place Where I Get My Pooper Poked.

Sure enough, first thing they do? Poke me in the Pooper.

Then She’s all “Have a treat, Gromit!” as if that’s going to make up for being traumatized yet again by the chubby dude in the white coat who smells like cats and claims I could stand to lose 10 lbs. every time he pokes me in the pooper.

The least he could do is scratch the sack where my nuts used to be. The least.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“C’mon, Gromit,” She says.

I hightail it to the kitchen, pretending to search for leftovers in my bowl.

She’s on to me.

“C’mon, Gromit, let’s GO!” She says, proving yet again that She thinks I’m deaf.

Then She pulls the “C’mon, Grommie, let’s go, Grommie, c’mon, we’re going, let’s go, c’mon c’mon c’mon, LET’S GO” and She sounds SO EXCITED that I lose my mind for a moment and chase She upstairs.

Damn She. I quickly come to my senses and Sit.

She pulls on my collar. I lean back.

She pulls harder. I lean harder.

This is kinda fun.

She pushes my butt. I spin around and go through She’s legs and Sit again.

Finally She corners me, strips me naked, and throws me into the bathtub.

Humiliating.

While I’d never admit it, the warm water feels pretty good, post-pooper poke.

I Shake-Shake-Shake several times, making sure She gets as soaking wet as me.

I let She dry me off (it’s the least She can do) and proceed to run around in Crazy Dog mode until my ears are finally dry.

Then She's all "Grommie, you SMELL so GOOD, you're a GOOD DOG and you SMELL so GOOD blah de freakin' blah."

Right. I know another 'b' word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jim’s girlfriend Ginger the weather girl on NBC5
I am reading: Nothing, I’m a DOG
And I am: Clean

Father's Day

Since I couldn't be with my father in Michigan, I spent the day hauling brush and pulling weeds.

He said "If you can't do it right, Hedy, don't do it."

I did it right, Da. Because of you.

All my love today and always.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Into the Wild (movie)
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Grateful

Adding to Pos' Pet Peeve Series

Pet Peeve #56: Talking heads who stutter at the beginning of every sentence.

It's an unbelievably ridiculous trend I noticed about three months ago while listening to some self-important retard on NPR.

The following was captured tonight in less than 10 minutes of watching three separate broadcasters on MSNBC covering the sad news about Tim Russert:

Of of of the moment...

It it it is stunning...

And and and maybe deeper...

That that that's good journalism...

Or or or NAFTA or other agreements...

I I I could give him the state of...

He he he was able to do that...

And and and even if I didn’t have a personal friendship with him...

When when when anyone heard he was on the phone...

Attention Broadcast Journalists: STOP STUTTERING.

It's worse than saying "um" or "uh" repeatedly because it's obvious you know what you want to say, you're just trying to be trendy. This affected stuttering doesn't make you sound thoughtful and it doesn't make what you say more interesting, it just makes you sound irritating and stupid.

Spit it out. Or shut the fuck up and let someone else speak.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dirty Laundry - Don Henley
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Still sad

Tim Russert dead at 58

He was more excited than any of us about this year's presidential election. He was my Sunday morning ritual. A truly great American journalist.

And a truly great American, period.

Unbelievably sad.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: News
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Sad

Oops

Look up 'oops' in the dictionary and you'll probably find this story:

Stalker's sex video sent to police

Here's a summary for you lazy, unemployed types like me:

A stalker filmed himself masturbating and sent it to his victim's mobile phone while she was at a police station making a complaint about him.

Reason #6,321 why I love technology.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question: We're all mobile phone users. Am I the only one trying to get my mind around the logistics of beating off with a camera phone?

It just seems like the whole thing would end up rather jerky. Maybe that's the point.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Trends in Ethics Training at Georgia State University
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott
And I am: Thrilled

Greetings from the Land of Dave

I'm in Atlanta this week, home of Dave from Rather Than Working.

Atlanta? Yep.

It's a long story involving an official HedyBlog Job Search Update (cue ominous music: dun, dun, DUN!) that I'm not ready to write yet, but let's just say I'm here for a cool reason with cool people doing cool things.

Cool is great right now, because it's fucking hot here. To our friend, Dave, I suppose this is as clever as saying water is wet but it had to be said.

I've never been to Atlanta officially - drove through once on a trip with DewMama to Florida - but that's it. So I have that 'excited to be in a new place' feeling again.

Which is cool. More soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Air conditioner in my room
I am reading: Sin in the Second City by Karen Abbott (Fabulous non-fiction book about a famous brothel in Chicago)
And I am: Smiley

The classic backpedal - parts 1 & 2

"I thought you got a haircut," says Jim. "It looks the same."

. . .

"I mean, it's as cute as ever. Really."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I had a dream last night we were doing it and you stuck it in my butt," says Heather.

. . .

"I mean, it was just a dream. Really."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Pipe - Shovelmouth
I am reading: The Best American Short Stories 2007 - Edited by Stephen King
And I am: Cute as ever, really

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Crap

Spoiler alert on the new Indiana Jones movie; don't read this if you plan on seeing it soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am now convinced that if Steven Spielberg could've figured out a way to include aliens in Schindler's List, he would've done it.

"But Mr. Schindler, you can't save anymore people, the list is full," says Ben Kingsley.

"DAMN YOU, tiny Hebrew list man! There's always more room on the MOTHER SHIP!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The upside: Because I'm unemployed, we were able to catch the early bird special, so we're only out $10 for this ridiculous time waster of a movie.

I remember seeing the original Indiana Jones movie for the first time. It was fresh and funny and exciting and so different from all the other crap movies out back then.

This time around, everyone - including Shia LaBeouf and the silly aliens - looks tired and bored and ready to cry.

Which is kinda how I felt leaving the theater.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Space Between - Dave Matthews
I am reading: Literally, The Best Language Book Ever by Paul Yeager
And I am: Disappointed

Beware the wanglers

This unemployment thing has me trying all manner of marvelous new things.

Scrubbing our toilets with a toothbrush. Getting the mail.

And, since there's no particularly compelling reason to get out of bed in the morning, I've been staying up till all hours of the night playing Scrabulous. With Satan.

Have you heard of this? Scrabulous is the on-line, un-Hasbro sanctioned version of Scrabble.

You can play with others or by yourself. Or against the robot, who I'm convinced is Satan, the Dark Scrabulous Lord, lurking in Cyberspace and screwing with all of us lazy, unemployed idiots to amuse himself until the day his only son, Barack Obama, is finally elected president and he can rule the planet as foretold in Chapter 12, Verse 9 from the Book of Batshit Crazy Republicans.

Shaddap, settle down.

So I'm holding my own against the robot with 'ANGLER' for a double letter/double word score and I'm all SCREW YOU SATAN until the robot responds with the incomprehensible 'WANGLER' and suddenly I'm stuck with I I E Y I A Y, which, I'm pretty sure is the sound I made after being outsmarted by that fucking bastard robot a third time in less than 10 minutes.

Wangler, Hedy? I KNOW. Wangler.

According to Scrabble's extremely helpful on-line dictionary, a wangler is 'one who wangles'.

Yep.

So I'm left guessing at wangler because, as an unemployed person, the motivational wind in my lazy little sails can be knocked out by the silliest things and the STRESS of looking up WANGLER in a REAL DICTIONARY is just TOO MUCH right now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After my afternoon nap, I attempt to look up wangler using the Microsoft Word dictionary.

You right clicky on wangler, clicky one more time on Look Up and VOILA! The cursor actually JUMPED from wangler to another random word on the page and flat out REFUSED TO DEFINE WANGLER.

This could be a sign from [insert the random god of your choice here; I suggest Cialis, God of Pork] that I'm simply not meant to know the way of the wangler, but I persist and find solace at dictionary.com:

wan·gle /ˈwæŋgəl/
1. to bring about, accomplish, or obtain by scheming or underhand methods: to wangle an invitation.
2. to falsify or manipulate for dishonest ends: to wangle business records.
3. to use contrivance, scheming, or underhand methods to obtain some goal or result.
4. to manipulate something for dishonest ends.
[And my personal favorite:]
5. an act or instance of wangling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I know wangle. Or knew and even used 'wangle an invitation' at some point in my ever-darkening past. But wangler threw me. Who actually admits to being a wangler?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
E O O O F A S.

That's what I draw on my first turn, on my fourth and final game of Spelling with Satan last night.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with E O O O F A S? It's late. I'm exhausted from wrestling with wangler, and I am thisclose to giving up. Then I remember there's this god-like feature on the Official Scrabble web site: The Scrabble Word Builder. Pop in your letters and it gives you available words.

It's cheating. But it's late. And there's no way I'm coming up with OS ('an orifice') or SOFA ('a long upholstered seat' - who knew?) on my own.

So, kiddies, to review: Beware the wanglers. Think of unemployment as one big ass shrapnel recovery expedition. And it's okay to cheat when you're playing with Satan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Wordplay - Jason Mraz
I am reading: Literally, The Best Language Book Ever by Paul Yeager
And I am: Satan's Scrabulous Little Bitch

Because they're assho...oh nevermind

This was just too obvious to pass up: Preparation H Finds Place in Club Circuit.

Feel free to insert your favorite punchline here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Almost Famous soundtrack
I am reading: Literally, The Best Language Book Ever by Paul Yeager
And I am: Not itching or burning, thank you very much

For the love of money

Ever get that feeling like your head is just going to explode all over the couch?

That's how it felt this morning after reading this asinine story from the New York Times: "It's Not So Easy Being Less Rich."

Yes, folks, in case you were concerned: "The economy is an issue even for people who don’t need the money.”

Their spouses could leave them when they discover that their net worth has collapsed to eight figures from nine. Friends and business associates could avoid them as they pass their lunchtime tables at Barney’s or the Four Seasons. And these snubs could trickle down to their children.

“They fear their kids won’t get invited to the right birthday parties,” said Michele Kleier, an Upper East Side-based real estate broker. “If they have to give up things that are invisible, they’re O.K. as long as they don’t have give up things visible to the outside world.”

Oh the humanity. Really.

I think this was the part when my head started feeling all kersplody:

Wives from Greenwich and Scarsdale are selling 2-carat to 35-carat single-stone diamond rings. One recent client explained that she was selling $2 million in diamonds she rarely wore, because her friends wouldn’t notice that they were gone. She said, ‘If I sold my Bentley or my important art, they would notice.'

Did you catch that people? This poor woman was forced to choose between selling her big bag of bling or her Bentley.

It's like Sophie's Choice. I could just cry.

Of course I know there's this other world of uber-wealthy fancy-pants folks out there relaxing in their Rolexes -- I grew up watching The Beverly Hillbillies so I've got a pretty good idea how they live.

But is right now really the right time to remind the rest of us how much the rich are suffering -- gainin' weight and goin' brunette -- because they can't afford their personal trainers and hair-doers?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: For The Love of Money - The O'Jays
I am reading: E-mail invitation to a user conference
And I am: Busy

The book of ethics

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

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

Done.

Back in the car, I tell Nelson.

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

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

He's right though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. Ice cream?

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

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

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

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

Anyhoo.

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

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

Feels like home

Your friend Nelson lives in Thailand?

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

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

"Home is where your shit is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncultured

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

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

Anyhoo.

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

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

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

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

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

Tornadic

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

Still searching

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

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

"Kneepads."

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

Odd stuff I do

I sort M&M's by color.

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

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

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

Next, the Ms get sorted into couples.

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

Anyway, couples.

Then they die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhh, science

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Um, guys?

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

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

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

Have you heard about this?

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

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

And then there's this:

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

Vegan potlucks? Are hotbeds of domestic terrorist activity?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh the humanity

Tragic news out of the Midwest, folks.

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

14 tons.

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

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

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

Research. Years and years of extensive research.

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

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

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

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

The show stopper

You're channel surfing.

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

And then, BAM. There it is.

The show stopper.

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

For me, it's Pillow Talk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#288

Reason #288 why I love Craig Ferguson:

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

God bless California

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

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

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

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

Think about it.

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

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

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

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

On the cutting edge over here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have 12 bags.

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

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

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

"$9.25?" I say.

She laughs.

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

"Excuse me?" I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I, however, do not feel sorry for them.

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

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

Yep.

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

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

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

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

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

The long-awaited job search update

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

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

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

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

Anyhoo.

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

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

I know.

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

Here’s why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s right.

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

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

Now that I'm unemployed

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

"Yes?"

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

He likes fresh sheets

It’s 9:51 Sunday night.

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

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

“What?" I say. "What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

Usually that someone is Jim.

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

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

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

Mum Song

Mum Mum Mum Mum
Mum Mum Mum Mum

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here

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

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

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

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

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

Florida Trucks Avoid Castration

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

Outstanding.

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

Final score: Balls 2, God 0.

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

Jesus H. Christ in a rocketship

They're at it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This ain't science, folks.

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

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

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

Ahhhh. Of course.

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

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

Your lifelong dream

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

What is your lifelong dream?

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

Have you heard about this?

Blaine broke the world record for holding his breath.

Yep.

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

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

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

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

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

I dunno. Endurance specialist?

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

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

I'm so glad you asked.

Hedy's To Do Before She Dies List

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

Ta-da! Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

See what I mean? Important, meaningful stuff.

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

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