Editorial note

I will be at a trade show so posts will be sporadic throughout the week with patches of sunshine and varying degrees of stupidity.

In the mean time, here's a classic Denny Crane quote to ponder today: "It is better to want what you don't have than have what you don't want."

I say it's all a matter of perspective.

Of course he's right, though. He's Denny Crane.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Tracy Chapman - Give Me One Reason
I am reading: Wired Magazine
And I am: Anxious

Maybe I'm getting old

I was offended about five minutes ago.

With a choice between the inexplicable Amazing Race 12, loud and boring Sunday Night Football, or the overwrought and weepy Extreme Makeover, I switch to The Simpsons.

I'm not big into TV.

If it ain't Boston Legal or Dexter, it's pretty much a waste of time.

But I know Jim will be home soon and we'll be emptying the DVR of all the shows he missed in Greece, so I leave the TV on as background noise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Plot summary: Milhouse's parents remarry and go on a cruise. They fall overboard. In what we can only assume was meant to be a parody of a Saving Private Ryan moment, two men dressed in uniforms from the cruise line (to melancholy music) come to the door and inform Milhouse his parents are believed dead.
Not funny.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm not easily offended, but c'mon. We're at war, people.

On Veteran's day, nonetheless.

I suppose it isn't enough that our military spouses and parents have endured the lies about WMDs and the shameless war profiteering. And for some - 3,860 families to be exact - the very real and unimaginable day when, without a soundtrack and certainly not a laugh track, they're notified by strangers in uniforms of their loved one's ultimate sacrifice.

Not funny. Not at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dexter
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: Disgusted

Fabulous

Fabulous. It's my word. I use it for everything. Everything that's fabulous, of course.

My fabulous friend Susie knows this. And even though we talk just 2-3 times a year (excluding her annual summer visit), I think of her often and smile.

So it was fabulous coming home late last night after a long, hard day at work to a card from Susie with this keychain inside.

"Just wanted to let you know it's so good having a friend like you."

What a fabulous friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to: Barry White - Can't Get Enough of Your Love

I am reading: Trade show cheat sheet

I am: You know it

The Pretty Woman mistake

Jim and I are slobs most of the time. We’re sweatshirt/t-shirt/jeans/sweats people. And if we’re not going out for dinner or whathaveyou later in the day, I’m all about the ponytail/baseball hat on the weekends.

And that’s pretty much how we looked for furniture shopping one Saturday several weeks ago.

You should know that after nine years of marriage, I am still trying to rid our house of the what-the-hell-were-they-thinking furniture Jim bought with his lovely starter wife back in the late 80’s.

With another Thanksgiving full house on the horizon, it was time for the swingin’ modern pseudo-oak dining room set to go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“We want something that’s gonna last 50 years,” I say to the dour-looking woman at Dow Furniture in North Aurora.

It's a pretty snazzy place. We'd shopped there before - in fact, we bought our First Piece of Furniture as a Married Couple there: Our all-time favoritest, comfiest couch that was immediately chewed up by Gromit the Danger Puppy, He Who Shall Not Be Left Alone.

But we've also done our time with the falls-apart-in-two-years furniture – a kitchen table that looked great but has wobbled since the day it was delivered and an entertainment center that chips if you look at it the wrong way.

No more. We worked hard and saved up for something that will really last this time.

But the snooty-falutey woman at Dow Furniture doesn’t know this. All she sees is two ragamuffins in her pristine store wasting her time.

She takes us around to a set that looks like it was sold and then returned after three years of use.

I give Jim the nose crinkle and he tells her no, that’s not quite what we’re after.

The next set is probably a step down from our existing pseudo-oak shit.

She’s not getting it, so I say it again.

“We really want something solid that’s going to last and not be out of style 10 years from now.”

She frowns, looks us up and down and proceeds to the next room.

That’s when we spot it: A table that could be The One.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As with most couples, Jim and I have wildly different taste.

He has Lost in Space taste. If it looks like it coulda been used by the Robinsons and that dastardly Dr. Smith on the Jupiter 2, he wants it. Someday I'll tell ya about the robot situation.

Me, I tend to go the more classic, traditional route, but not too formal/antique-y.

So when we finally find something that we both like it is a veritable Furniture Miracle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“What about this one?” Jim says, pointing to The One.

“Well, that set is more expensive,” she says, frowning.

It was at that point we both felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

I pictured us walking in there a few weeks later with a dining room set on both arms to ask her if she works on commission.

"Big mistake," we'll say triumphantly, dressed as beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted prostitutes. "BIG. HUGE. We have to go shopping now."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: City sounds
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Lost in space

There's devastating and then there's Oprah

It was "one of most devastating experiences of my life."

That’s Oprah. Talking about the sex abuse allegations at her school in South Africa.

An amazing woman, isn’t she?

She can turn the utter tragedy of more than a dozen girls being sexually assaulted into her own personal devastation.

Amazing.
~~~~~~~~~
I know. It is her personal tragedy. It’s no secret that she was sexually abused as a child.

Which somehow makes it even worse, this evil thing happening in her school.

Here’s a quote from the story: “because of the high rates of rape and sexual abuse in South Africa, she had worked to ensure outsiders would not be able to reach students at the school.”

Given Oprah's personal history, given what she went through when she was a little girl, and knowing what she knew about sex abuse in South Africa, doesn't it seem like she should've done a better job screening her employees?
~~~~~~~~~
I probably should cut Oprah a little slack.

She made a huge difference in my life a long, long time ago.

In fact, her show was the catalyst for a real turning point in my life – a story for another time.

But I can’t help feeling that all the good she’s done is somewhat diminished by her overbearing ego – her penchant for injecting Oprah in Great Big Capital Letters into everything she does.

Acts of charity are by their nature supposed to be selfless. Not selfish opportunities to boost your own ego.
~~~~~~~~~
More from the story: On Oct. 20, Winfrey said Monday, she flew to South Africa again to meet with parents: "I apologized for the unfortunate circumstance and promised changes."

Unfortunate circumstances?

Hey Oprah, here's what you should've said:

“This is a terrible, heartbreaking tragedy for these girls. I am personally responsible for not taking better care in screening my school’s staff. I will do everything in my power to ensure that the individuals responsible for this abuse are punished and that this never, ever happens again.”

This isn’t about you. It’s about those girls. It’s their tragedy. Their devastation.

Not yours.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Love Actually
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Hed-achey

Troubling news

Yes, Musharraf has imposed emergency rule, suspended the Constitution, and arrested hundreds of Pakistani protesters.

Oil is heading for $100 a barrel.

But let’s take a moment to talk about troubling news from the wondrous world of snack cakes: The death of the Ding Dong.

Yes, folks, the Hostess Ding Dong is dead.

It’s dead to me anyway. Dead, I say.

Ever since Saturday and the discovery that they’re no longer wrapped in foil.
~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s the deal: When Jim is outta town I’m like a combination of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, that irritating child from Home Alone, and your worst college roommate.

Without the prostitutes.

I basically dance around in my underwear and eat really bad food the whole time he's gone.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ding Dongs, Hedy? Why Ding Dongs?

I can’t remember why – it was two or three weeks ago – Ding Dongs came up at lunch with a friend.

Since then, I’ve had Ding Dongs on the brain.

Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ding Dongs used to be called King Dongs. I remember this.

Then someone with a very dirty mind decided dong sounded too much like dick. So they re-named that delicious flat orb of chocolaty goodness King Don.

I remember thinking Who the Hell is King Don? And where did his Dong go?

So then they switched over to Ding Dong, which is fairly innocuous and only occasionally confused with Ding-a-Ling.

Still, it’s all very confusing because the Ding Dong is shaped like a hockey puck.

Twinkies. Twinkies – those diminutive yellow phallic cakes – shoulda been Ding Dongs.

Seriously.
~~~~~~~~~~
I open the box. Slowly.

Like Charlie Bucket in Willy Wonka (the original, not the creepy Johnny Depp as Michael Jackson pedophile remake), expecting to see a friendly and familiar flash of silver.

I’m met with nothing but travesty. Little white plastic-wrapped travesties.

This makes me sad. Who knows what’s in that puffed out white plastic? It could be anything. And they look just like these.

I am traumatized and seriously consider boycotting the box, leaving it in the cupboard Forever.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Ding Dongs?! What are you going to do with them?" Jim asks all the way from Greece.

"Not much - they're no longer wrapped in foil," I say, trying not to cry.

"Well I was always a Hostess Cupcake fan myself. You'd pull the frosting off and eat that first..."

Yep. He's on the other side of the world and we're talking snack cakes. This is what love does.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ding Dongs are wrapped in foil so you can eat two or three of them – enough to create a large ball of foil to flick at your younger brother’s forehead.

That’s the only reason they’re wrapped in foil.

You can’t crinkle up a white plastic wrapper and flick it at your younger brother’s forehead.

First of all, it won’t flick. It will just fall to the floor. Or if the wind is right, it might glance his shoulder without doing any serious damage.
~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I consider unwrapping the Ding Dong and re-wrapping it in foil for nostalgia’s sake. Of course Reynolds "Quality Aluminum Foil" Wrap is a completely different grade of foil altogether and simply will not work.
~~~~~~~~~~
After a few hours of pouting, I succumb to the Ding Dong.

“You always do.”

Shaddap.

It was curiosity more than anything – a burning need to know if foil-free Ding Dongs taste different. Like Coke in plastic versus glass bottles.

Since I haven’t had a Ding Dong in Forever (obviously, since I was oblivious to the missing foil situation), I can only go on memory.

I take a semi-reluctant bite. It’s the same chocolaty hard frosted outside I remember from my childhood. The same creamy, cakey inside.

But it just doesn’t taste as good without the foil.

It tasted . . .flat. And un-fun.
~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, I realize the world is in some serious shit right now and devoting an entire entry to Ding Dongs borders on insanity.

But we can’t depend on much in this ever-changing world. And after all we’ve been through since 9/11 I don’t think it’s too much, goddammit, too much to ask for a fucking foil-wrapped Ding Dong.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: King Harvest – Dancing in the Moonlight
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Traumatized

The Libertarian conundrum, bongs, etc.

“Good morning, I’m Joe S_____ and I’m running for State Representative, do you have a minute?”

Happily, I have more than a minute due to being dropped at the train station so I proceed to grill this clean-cut and clipboard carrying candidate.

“You’re a Democrat?” I ask.

“Yes, what are you?” he fires back.

“I’m agnostic,” I say. “Well, Libertarian.”

“I’d be a Libertarian, too, if it would get me elected.”

And that’s the trouble with Libertarians.

Practically every person I know says they’d be Libertarian if they thought it would make a difference.

Hello, people.

If all of us voted Libertarian, then. . .oh Jesus tits.

It's way too early in the morning and way too late in life for a civics lesson from the likes of me.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Pro-choice?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Where are you on taxes?”

He knows where I sit on that so he pulls out the rather tiresome 'fiscal conservative' line.

Joe's pandering is impressive. Then he pops out this zinger:

“You won’t hear me talking about this during the campaign because it would be the kiss of death in my district,” he says, his voice just above a whisper.

Intriguing. I lean in.

“I’m for the legalization of marijuana.”

Yikes. Slow down, it’s not even 7:30 a.m.

Way too early to be pulling out your bong, dude.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m for the legalization of marijuana.”

What I thought: "Do I look like a total stoner? Where the hell is this coming from?"

What I wanted to say: "Dude! You holding? 'Cause I could make the next train if you wanna fire that shit up."

What I said: "Your secret is safe with me."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Libertarians. We're the real silent majority. We're a fairly self sufficient bunch. We work hard. We know how to have fun. We don't expect anyone to pay for our mistakes and we don't expect to pay for yours. We want to be left alone most of the time. And treated like adults all of the time.

Where's our candidate?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm sure Joe is sincere. Not well-informed enough on certain issues but a nice person overall. And for that reason I signed his little petition.

But he is the personification of the problem with politics and politicians today - pandering to the last person they meet and saying whatever they assume you wanna hear to win your vote.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – Half Your Age
I am reading: Atlas Shrugged – Ayn Rand
And I am: A card-carrying Libertarian

Try this muff

Bears noon Sunday :(

That was the text message I sent to Jim after realizing we’d committed to taking his mom to lunch followed by the Sycamore High School Craft & Treasure Bonanza Hoo-Ha during the Bears-Lions game on Sunday.

A craft fair, Hedy?

I know. But it was her birthday. And she loves the crap fairs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Nobody’s here,” says the mother-in-law as we pull into a parking spot Right Out Front. “The economy is so bad nobody’s buying anything.”

Sure things are bad.

But I’m guessing people are spending what’s left of their hard-earned paychecks on cool stuff like iPhones or Halo 3000 or Leopard OS X Hoo-Ha and not on crocheted toilet paper covers or homemade potpourri that smells like your grandma’s 82-year old asshole.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Try this muff.”

“Heh?”

“Try this muff,” says Jim, pointing to a small sign sitting amidst a pile of fake fur.

“Don’t mind if I do!”

As if sidling through a gymnasium full of shit during the Bears game weren’t enough, I had to endure the decidedly unpleasant mental image of Jim ‘trying out’ the muff of the round, sour-faced woman sitting behind the table playing Sudoku.

“Worth the price of admission,” says Jim still laughing.

$2? Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The majority of vendors at craft fairs are people with too much time and too little taste trying to sell stuff that no one, anywhere on the planet will ever want let alone need.

Don’t get me wrong. I love supporting local artists.

During what I consider the Craft Fair Heyday (mid to late 90’s) you could find a few nice things - a piece of handmade pottery or jewelry or folk art.

Unfortunately the really good local artists don’t go to craft fairs any more. They go to juried art fairs.

So all that’s left are the crafters – untalented postmenopausal matrons wearing ‘fun’ appliquéd sweatshirts and driving mini-vans with 'Crafty Lady' bumper stickers.

Remember my definition of hell? We’re adding crap fairs to that mix.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do tell, Hedy.

What does my grandma’s 82-year old asshole smell like, exactly?

I’m guessing a snazzy combination of lavender, pine and Preparation H.

Unless her husband’s still alive, in which case we’re going with 80-something grandpa sack and PolyGrip.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Black Snake Moan soundtrack
I am reading: Atlas Shrugged – Ayn Rand
And I am: Full of crap

Scary vs. Stupid

“C’mon, watch Halloween with me,” says Jim. “I know you will like it.”

“Can’t we just watch Young Frankenstein?” I say, knowing that I won’t.

My Suspension of Disbelief is sitting in the corner shaking his ragged little head in warning – still pissed off from the last time Jim convinced us to watch one of his ‘classic’ movies.

I love Jim and all his quirkiness. He is one of the most sweetly nostalgic souls I know – always remembering people and places and things way better than they actually were.

This is particularly true when it comes to movies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Michael?” the parents say as the cherubic boy removes his mask, a dripping dagger in one tiny fist.

Barely ten minutes into this and I glance over to see my Suspension of Disbelief cussing up a blue streak and banging his bloody little head against the wall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can count on one disembodied hand how many times a movie actually scared me.

Nightmare Elm Street. More stupid than scary, yes. But the scene where Freddy’s arms stretch wayyyyy out in an alley and scrape against the walls? That got me. Couldn’t sleep.

Silence of the Lambs. Hannibal's voice haunted my dreams weeks after.

And more recently Ju-on, which is the original (and way better) Japanese version of The Grudge. This movie taught me that there is nothing more frightening than a cold, dead Asian chick under your covers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stupid walks into a neighbor’s dark house after being stalked by a creepy masked stranger all day.

Stupid doesn’t turn on any of the lights.

Stupid assumes that the creepy masked stranger - who has already killed three of your stupid horny friends - is dead after poking him in the forehead with a knitting needle.

Stupid leaves children alone to barricade herself in a closet.

Stupid assumes that the creepy masked stranger is dead after poking him in the forehead with a bent wire hanger.

Stupid turns her back on creepy masked stranger, who is on the floor pretending to be not dead. Or something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can't remember.

It was after the second or third time Michael is 'dead' when I glance over to see my defeated little Suspension of Disbelief kick the tiny stool out from under his tiny feet, a tiny noose around his tiny snapped neck.

I turn to sweet, nostalgic Jim - oblivious to his complicity in this sad crime - and fight the urge to stab him in the forehead with a knitting needle. Or a wire hanger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scary isn’t about a well-timed “BOO!” from behind the couch, oh no.

Scary is smart. Scary is psychological.

Scary gets in your head and whispers your worst fear.

Scary never shows you the Really Scary Thing, only its shadow.

Scary slips its cold dead hand around your ankle as you’re crawling into bed alone in the middle of the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The movie ends. Michael is gone.

We’ve been asked to believe that he’s dead from knitting needles and wire hangers, but not dead from falling out of a second story window after taking multiple gunshot wounds to his torso.

Not scary. Stupid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Office noises
I am reading: Winning by Jack Welch
And I am: Irritated

Overheard on the train this morning

"Of course I'll have to put a poncho on the One-Eyed Ranger," he says.

"You're making your penis sound like a super hero," she says.

"He is - he's MY hero!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock - Half Your Age
I am reading: Winning by Jack Welch
And I am: Exhausted

Here's to you, butt sock surfer

There’s this thingy loaded on the blog that tells the search words people use to get here.

And yes, smartass, thingy is in fact the technical term.

To be more specific, it is Thingy Version 3.1 now with Retsin.

The highly anticipated Tourmaline Bionic functionality will be available when I upgrade to Thingy OS Leopard Vista Hoo-Ha X.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For those depraved souls Googling for butt socks, HedyBlog is the #1 site.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

I just wanna know what these people are really looking for when they’re searching on butt sock.

It’s gotta be some hip new anal exploration tactic that I, a middle-aged married type, will only learn about by watching re-runs of HBO’s Real Sex five years from now.

“Oh lookie there, she’s gonna take that sock and whoa jeez louise I’d a gone with a cotton-poly, that argyle’s gotta burn a bit.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Someone at Enterprise Car Sales in St. Louis did the butt sock search thing yesterday.

So you’re sitting there at work and you think: “Hmmm, butt sock.”

Because that’s what you do when you’re selling used cars in St. Louis.

Of course.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HedyBlog also gets tons of hits from searches for The Rhythm of Your Shoes by O.A.R. – that song I mentioned a while back. These are people from Canada, Ohio and Michigan – all listening to 93.9 The River.

It’s still one of my current favorite songs. If you haven’t downloaded it yet, go here: OARSA.org.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, there is the inexplicable “Britney’s piss flaps” search.

We here at HedyBlog are proud to say we’re #4 when it comes to piss flap searches the world over.

From what I can gather piss flaps are big in Britain. Well, not literally. One can only speculate of course.

But most of the piss flap related hits come from the U.K.

So, for those of you keeping score at home, it’s Butt Socks in the States and Piss Flaps across the pond.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – All Summer Long
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: The Baroness of Butt Socks

So hott

You don’t like him. That’s okay.

He's all mine.

And Kid Rock’s new CD Rock N Roll Jesus has turned me into his dirty little disciple.
~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, the first song Rock N Roll Jesus is probably a bit forced but the song grows on you.

Trust me.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s hard rock. It’s rap. It’s blues. It’s country.

It makes you wanna party hard and fuck harder and forget about everything for a little while.

It's trashy and truthful.

It’s so Michigan and so 70’s and so every single thing I grew up loving about life.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sippin’ whiskey out the bottle
Not thinkin’ bout tomorrow
Singin’ Sweet Home Alabama all summer long
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s an album - yes an album, goddammit - that you’ll listen to all the way through without skipping one song.

And in this sad era of pussy-ass ‘artists’ releasing one or two songs to MySpace or iTunes, Kid Rock is doing it the hard way, the old fashioned way. The right way.
~~~~~~~~~~
You’re so hot
I wanna get you alone
I wanna get you stoned
I don’t wanna be your friend
I wanna fuck you like I’m never gonna see you again
~~~~~~~~~~
Half Your Age is one of the finest, funnest country songs I’ve heard in forever – and I’m a Willie/Waylon/Merle girl goin' way back.
~~~~~~~~~~
I found someone new who treats me better
She don’t bitch about what we ain’t got
When I sing this tune it don’t up set her
She’s half your age; and twice as hot
~~~~~~~~~~
12 songs.

12 disciples.

Jesus Christ this is good.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – Rock N Roll Jesus
I am reading: Not a goddamn thing
And I am: Hot and thirsty

The phrase of the day

Someone said 'balls deep' as I was walking down Jackson to my office this morning.

Of course it has to be The Phrase of the Day.

Try working it into your normal conversations today. And let me know how that goes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Everlast - What It's Like
I am reading: Neil Steinberg
And I am: Quiet

Lose my link

It happens every so often. More lately.

“So and so would like to link to you. Click here to read the message.”

Occasionally it’s someone I actually know/like/respect. Most often it’s folks just looking to make themselves feel better by collecting links.

Linkedin.com.

It’s MySpace for adults.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last week it was different.

Someone from way back. A guy I hadn’t thought about since those crazy college days in Mt. Pleasant.

Apparently he remembers me way more fondly than I remember him.

“Well of course he does.”

Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How many links do you have, Hedy?

87.

I feel very good about myself.

It used to be 103 but I purged a buncha fuck-asses from my previous employer.

That felt very good, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After a veritable novel of blah blah about traveling the world and having adventures and surviving a particularly nasty divorce, he wrote: “Write back and tell me how the past 20 years have treated you.”

What is it about these situations that make me want to totally fuck with people?

“Life is great since I replaced all my bad habits with one good one. I am married to Christ. Call me Sister Hedy Francis Whatnot.”

“Life is great now that I’m off smack and outta prison. Call me!”

“Life is great now that Hillary is on the road campaigning all the time – gives me and Bill more quality time together, ya know?”

“Life is great now that all my baby daddies are finally caught up on support. It sure was hard tracking down all six of 'em. Except o’ course the one that’s still on smack in prison. Call me!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, life is great.

It's great because it's boring and unstressful (except for the occasional fuck-ass) and mostly uneventful.

And as much as I like writing, I'm not about to put 20 years of my blah blah into an e-mail so that someone I barely knew way back when can feel good about himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Modest Mouse - Missed the Boat
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Holy

Outing Dumbledore

Oil hit $90 a barrel.

Cheney’s telling everyone that Iran won’t be allowed to have nuculer capabilities.

And now Dumbledore’s gay.

I dunno about you but after the weekend, it sure feels like a good time to break out the ol’ tin foil hat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you heard about this?

Dumbledore, the main Yoda-type wizard in the HP series was outed by author J.K. Rowling over the weekend.

Because it’s so important that we know the sexual proclivities of a fictional - not to mention dead - character from the most popular children’s books of all time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do we care that Dumbledore was gay? Of course not.

It’s like saying someone is black or right-handed or Irish. It just doesn’t matter. It doesn't make the story any better.

Worse, the dude never told anyone he was gay. He never mentioned it in any of the books.

Because IT WASN’T IMPORTANT.

And it isn’t important now, except that the buzz around book seven has died and maybe J.K. Rowling is feeling a little lost because her media juggernaut is finally winding down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – So Hott
I am reading: Wired magazine
And I am: Disappointed

Misery: Exhibit A

Woman A gets on the train and climbs up to the second level.

She greets woman B – someone she obviously knows from work – and then sits down several seats away from her. She opens a book and begins reading.

Woman B begins talking to woman A about woman C who “talked my ear off all day.”

Woman A acknowledges woman B with a smile and a nod, but doesn’t say anything.

Woman A begins reading again.

Woman B gets up and moves to the seat next to woman A and proceeds to talk her ear off all the way home.

Woman A nods and smiles but doesn’t say much, holding her book hopefully in her lap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Metallica - My Friend of Misery
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Not an empty can

Nuculer-ler-ler

Heading to the potty, I pass the TV in the traders' lounge in my office. Bush is yapping about Iran's nuculer something-or-other.

I return from the loo and he's still yapping.

Nuculer. Nuculer. Nuculer.

Twenty minutes later, I pick up something off the printer down the hall.

He's still yapping; his tinny voice echoing through the office because of all the TVs (these traders sure love their CNBC.)

Nuculer. Ler. Nucu. Ler. Ler. Ler.

It's 45 minutes of nuculer.

Bush's inability to pronounce nuclear is just timeless funny.

But the fact that this man is talking World War III scares the living shit out of me.

Bush is a born again Christian. A certain silly set of born agains believe that Israel will be at the center of events that bring about the end of the world as we know it and the return of Christ, our Cuddly Wuddly King.

Here's the money quote that ties all of this together:

"We've got a leader in Iran who has announced that he wants to destroy Israel. So I've told people that, if you're interested in avoiding World War III, it seems like you ought to be interested in preventing them from having the knowledge necessary to make a nuculer weapon."

Not funny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: R.E.M. - The End of the World as We Know It
I am reading: Stephen Colbert in the New York Times
And I am: Cuddly wuddly

The first guy I slept with

So yesterday I was just a little black rain cloud.

Then I arrive in the office.

“This is BRILLIANT,” says the very first e-mail I open.

It was in response to a small bit of e-mail fluff I wrote targeting a specific group of people already in our database.

Brilliant, Hedy?

Um, no. That was a bit of hyperbole on the part of my co-worker. Of course I’m no Al Gore Nobel Prize winner or anything.

But it made me feel good. It said shaddap to the small part of me that suspects I’m a sham.

That’s the bounce.

Us Pooh types can be feeling rather down and all it takes is a p-p-p-Piglet to stop by and say one nice thing to lift us right back up again.
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Extra HedyBlog bonus points if you got the ‘little black rain cloud’ reference from yesterday.
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Confession: I’ve had a life long love affair with that silly old bear.

Back in the early seventies, there was a large fake tree in the children’s clothing section of the Sears at Lakeside Mall. It ran from the floor all the way up to the tiled ceiling. It had large fake branches with little fake leaves. And it had a tree house that was not fake. Not fake at all. Maybe you remember it.

Sitting on a little platform outside that tree house was a certain bear of very little brain.

I called him “The Big Winnie the Pooh” because that’s exactly what he was – a huge, stuffed Winnie the Pooh. Three feet tall. A bright red vest stretched over his portly, honey-pot shaped belly. Black shiny eyes and that tiny knowing smile.

I wanted him. Oh, how I wanted him.
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Extra HedyBlog bonus points if you can tell me Winnie-the-Pooh's real name.
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We’d be shopping for Garanimals or Toughskins and that beautiful bear would beckon me from the top of that tree.

“Come, Hedy. Climb up into my tree house. Listen to my stories. Eat my honey.”

Our love affair was meant to be. I knew it.
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Pooh taught me how to deal with bossy know-it-alls like Rabbit and Owl.

Pooh taught me that eating a little smackeral of something sweet always makes you feel better.
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“What do you want Santa Claus to bring you for Christmas, Hedy?” everyone would ask.

“The Big Winnie the Pooh at Sears.”

I remember being more than a little worried that Santa Claus wasn’t aware of the exact location of The Big Winnie the Pooh. Of course Santa doesn’t need Sears. He has elves. Elves would have no idea how to make a Big Winnie the Pooh. Even if they could, they couldn’t. Of course not.

Because the Big Winnie the Pooh is one of a kind.

And he’s at Sears, goddammit.
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So Christmas morning comes, and unbelievably, so does The Big Winnie the Pooh.

I hug him thinking God I can’t wait to get you alone.

Well, not really. I was six.

But I did sleep with him. Yes.

He slept in my bed under the covers. With me.

Our affair was short-lived, sadly.

Several reasons: A) His yellow fur had a mildly unpleasant chemical smell to it which made me itch; B) Pooh under the covers created a tent-like effect making it impossible for me to stay warm; and C) At six, I was still wetting the bed on a regular basis so before too long Pooh smelled like pee.

He's still the first guy I ever slept with though.
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I am listening to: Little Black Rain Cloud
I am reading: Press kit materials
And I am: In the mood for food

Eeyore moments

Blognonymous is leaving us. He’s giving it up.

It will be a melancholy moment removing his link from the blog list to your right.

But I understand why he’s doing it.

You write practically every day for a year or two and it wears you down a bit. Especially if you’re Blognonymous, always writing about the Really Important Stuff like the economy or Iraq or [insert your favorite governmental cock-up here].

Of course life isn’t all sunshine and honey pots.

But why is it part of the human condition to focus on the negative? Why is it easier to write about everything that’s wrong with our world?

And why, even when things are going exceptionally well, do we seem to anticipate losing it all in some fiery explosion of underpants and embarrassment?
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Confession #1: A very small part of me was actually relieved at being let go last month.

Heh?

Yep. Picture my tiniest toe yelping “Whew! So GLAD that FINALLY happened!”

Because – and this is twisted – I was overdue for something bad to happen.
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Most of the time I try to be like Pooh: Wandering through life, eating a little more than I should, visiting friends and having adventures. Pooh-like people tend to be happier although we are more than occasionally clueless when it comes to serious matters such as warding off heffalumps or getting caught in rabbit holes.

Eeyore people always anticipate the worst. They actually believe that nothing good will ever ever happen again. Ever. And on that rare occasion went something actually goes their way, Eeyore types invariably find the One Thing Wrong With It and focus on that until every last bit of joy is sucked out of the occasion.
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Confession #2: In spite of the fact that things seem to be going exceptionally well at my new job, I am anxious. There are small, weak moments when my tiny toe feels like a big fat fraud and is screaming WHY THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE TRUST ME WITH ALL THIS REALLY IMPORTANT STUFF?
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The thing is, I do believe the world treats you how you expect to be treated. If you’re always anticipating the worst, it colors your view of everything – including the good stuff.
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So we’re Poohs with occasional Eeyore moments. Or we’re Eeyores through and through.

Which one are you?
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I am listening to: Sia – Breathe Me
I am reading: Nothing
And I’m: Just a little black rain cloud

Getting the best of me

First, big thanks to Dave from Rather Than Working for giving me yet another reason to publish this, my all time favorite picture of Our Cuddly Wuddly Savior.

Here's the idea: I read through my previous posts and pick three that I like best. Then I publish them at the bottom of the list of what other bloggers picked as their best. And then I tell two friends. And so on. And so on.

Except I've never been good at passing this stuff along. So here are some posts that Dave published that I liked, with my favorite three at the very bottom:

Cosmic Cat - Just An Ordinary Thursday Night..., Not Gone With The Wind. Just Gone., The "Weekly Thoughtful Reminder" And Other Hazards Of Working

Field Lines - Even MIT Girls Get the Blues, Bye Bye, Friend, Bad Hair Day

Rather Than Working: Tryptophan and Thanksgiving Walls and History The More Things Change

HedyBlog:
A Passel of Jesus - December 20, 2006
I love this country - January 24, 2007
Conversation 101 - August 31, 2006
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If someone asked Jesus to describe his best work, what do you think it would be?

That bit with the fishes and loaves? Walking on water?

Nah.

I'm guessing if that rascal ever makes his Big Comeback, that's when we're gonna see the real serious shit.
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Not to overburden anyone, part 1: If Pos, Mrs. Pos and Crusty wanna play along, by all means please share your best. And don't feel guilty if you don't have time to do this.

Not to overburden anyone, part 2: You might not agree with the favorites I've chosen for myself. If you'd like to share what topics or entries you liked best, we here at HedyBlog would sure appreciate it.
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I am listening to: Foo Fighters - Best of You
I am reading: Nothing yet
And I am: Sleepy