Sometimes There Aren't Any Words

On Tuesday, September 1st, a friend of mine from high school was shot and killed. He was a police officer in our small home town in southern Delaware, killed in the line of duty. He was 29. He was a single dad. His little girl is 3.

This nightmare started with a shooting at the McDonald's in town. The McDonald's that is within sight of my childhood home. The McDonald's we rode our bikes to as children. Chad Spicer and his partner were trying to pull over a vehicle seen leaving the scene of that shooting. The officers chased the vehicle, eventually ramming their patrol car into the car to stop it. The driver got out and ran. A man in the back seat fired a single shot into the patrol car, shooting Chad in the face. The gunman ran, and Chad got out of the car to chase him, before collapsing on the ground. He died at the hospital. The other officer in the car --another friend, a total class clown -- Corporal Shawn Brittingham, was wounded by the bullet that killed Chad. The shooter was arrested and faces the death penalty for murder. Another man in the car was also arrested, while a third turned himself in today.

You cannot imagine the shock and devastation this horror has left in its wake. In a town of less than 5,000 people, the sorrow is palpable in the air. The entire town is in mourning; flags are at half staff, every official building in town (and some homes) are draped in black. More than 700 people attended a memorial service for Chad, and the townspeople have organized their own candlelight vigil tonight in Chad's honor. The first day of school is canceled for his funeral. The entire police department is on leave, for mandatory counseling. I won't lie, Chad and I were not close. We didn't hang out. He was 2 grades behind me in school. But I can guarantee if he saw me out somewhere he would recognize me. But this isn't just about him.

You may not know Chad, but you know 3-year old Aubrey. Yes, you do. In your mind's eye, can you see her inquisitive toddler eyes, so big and round? Her whispy little girl hair -- what color is your Aubrey's hair? -- tied up in a ponytail on top of her head. Can you see that beautiful little girl? I can. And my heart breaks into a million pieces. Her Daddy was her whole world. He was all she had, and some stupid motherfucker with a gun took him from her. That fucker robbed her. And the real tragedy, is that she doesn't understand. How do you tell a 3-year old that Daddy isn't coming home? She thinks he is still at work. Her grandmother has tried to explain he's not coming back, but she can't understand. How could she? She told a reporter, "My Daddy is with Jesus, but I still want to see him." How do you explain it to her? My heart aches every time I think of her. I have cried -- and will cry again -- for her.

Have you hugged your child today? When was the last time you spoke to your niece or nephew? Why don't you make that call now. Make plans to take your son or daughter to the park this weekend. Maybe a nice picnic or bike ride. Hell, just talk a walk after dinner. The time we spend with our children is precious, not only for us as parents, but for them. The memories you make with them now will carry them through. Memories are all that Aubrey has left now. I hope they are enough to help her through. (And I hope that motherfucker burns in hell )

Chad Spicer, August 23, 1980 - September 1, 2009

Because I Need All the Help I Can Get

Bring it!!

Things That Suck

This.

Don't see it? Look closer.

There, see that? The naked stalks, the brown, shriveled leaves. It's ghastly. And no, I am not a black-thumbed flora killer. I can grow anything. I grew Gerbera daisies without even trying. When I was 10, I cross-bred wild violets to create lovely white and purple flowers. Last year I ended up with about 50 pounds of tomatoes (or more). But I have met my match.

It's called late blight . Or as I affectionately refer to it, the mother effing black plague. It is the same fungus that caused the potato famine in Ireland in the 1800's, and forced all my Mic ancestors to leave the bonnie isle for the new world, where they would subsequently invent illegal sports betting and pub crawls. The black plague is highly contagious, and has spread virulently throughout the Northeast thanks to the shitty rainy weather all friggin summer, killing off tomato crops by the hundreds of thousands, including my 10 plants. Once it takes hold, nothing can stop it.  So the question is, do we immigrate to Mexico and become jumping bean granjero, or trek to Canada to become, uh, maple syrup farmers?

What is it With Jam Bands? Or, My Night at the Allman Brothers Concert

OK, before you get all up ins about taking it for granted, I had a good time. It was an excellent concert. I know I will never see 2 more talented guitarists than Warren Haynes and Derek Trucks on stage together (thanks to The Saint for pointing that out). I know I am lucky to have seen them. I am happy to say I have seen the Allman Brothers in concert. But, it's not me. I've learned, since meeting The Saint, that I don't like jam bands. Those are bands that play endlessly, just jamming with each other as if no one else was around, even though there are other people around, people that paid good money to hear the shit that's on the radio, dammit. Lyrics? Eh, maybe, if they feel like it. Mostly it's just guitarists playing with each other. Like Phish, or the Grateful Dead. (Although my real problem with the Dead is that they sound like a cat being sucked into a turbine engine)

I know it's about the music, man; it's about the feeling and the soul, man; it's about the way the music speaks to me, man...but it only says 'bathroom break' to me. I don't want to hear a bunch of guys jerk each other off on stage, musically speaking. (Or literally. Ew) I don't want to hear the 33-minute instrumental The Saint listens to at the gym as an encore. It's not even about the style of music. I've seen Government Mule a bunch of times, and I like a few songs I've heard from The Derek Trucks Band. I just don't like the endless guitar, the long, drawn out chords that go on forever and rarely ever resolve and sound like the musicians are conducting weird experiments and using the audience as guinea pigs. And most of the audience is so stoned they go along for the ride, even if it's long and repetitious.

There is music that speaks to me, music that can bring me to tears and fill me with absolute joy, but it ain't jam music. I'd rather go see Victor Calderone. (That's a trick. He's a DJ. I'd have to go to a club to see him, and I stand a better chance of dragging The Saint to see "Jersey Boys" than a nightclub) I'd rather see U2, who I hear are playing Giants Stadium in September. (hint hint!!) Snake River Conspiracy, The Crystal Method, Scorpio Rising, The Cure, Jimmy Buffett, George Strait, to name a few. That music speaks to me. (Wow, is that not the most bizarre combination of musical styles?)

I'm sorry  Skydog. I hear you, but I just can't understand what you're trying to say.

Random Thought of the Day #4

Why do cars have parking lights? You know, those yellow lights between the brake lights and backup lights. You're supposed to put them on when you're parked on the road. But it's illegal to park on the road. And if you are parking on the road, you put your hazards on. So why are parking lights even an option? It's a dangerous place, that limbo between on and off. You think you've got your lights on, but really you're stuck in parking light purgatory, and you can't tell because the dashboard lights are lit, and people are flashing their lights at you, and you're thinking "what the hell is your problem, you asshole!!", and you finally figure out your lights aren't on when you're turning into your driveway, and experience the burning embarrassment of knowing that you are the asshole.


For the record, I am not the asshole; I passed said asshole on the FDR drive last night.

Crying Over Spilled Milk

Just finished watching "Milk". (And in the comfort of my own home, no less. Being a card-carrying member of the WGA finally paid off)
Anyway...great film. Really powerful. And Sean Penn? Crazy good. Very glad he won best actor. He totally deserved it. By the way;  is it me, or was this year's flock of films a lot better than previous years? For the first time in a long time, I cared about who won, and I believed everyone who was nominated (and won) actually deserved it. None of that bullshit Russell Crowe winning best actor in 2000 for "The Gladiator", then being shut out in 2001 for a brilliant performance in "A Beautiful Mind" because the Academy wasn't cool with a repeat, so they gave it to Denzel Washington for an eh performance in "Training Day", when everybody knew Crowe deserved to win. That's the kind of shit that makes me want to find the members of the Academy and knock some heads together. And what is "the Academy", anyway? Are they like the freemasons? How do you get in? Do you have to run naked through Grauman's Chinese Theatre on opening night at the Gay Porn Film Festival? Seriously. Love to know.


Shit, I got way off track. Normally I don't post about politics or religion or social issues, because it just starts a shitstorm and I never have an umbrella. And talking social issues with people you know is like bring a gas can to a good old-fashioned witch hunt. You can be sure there's gonna be a lot of screaming, and somebody's getting burned. So here I go breaking my rule. A woman I know also saw the film, and told me she really liked it. Said it really made you think, really opened your mind to the plight of gay people. Next words out of her mouth? "Now, I don't think they should be allowed to be married". I bit my tongue. Actually, I bit my lip to keep from saying anything. She went on to say God didn't approve, and civil unions were fine, but the movie really made you think about the hardships they've had to endure. I think my hair was on fire at that point. It made me so angry. She honestly didn't see her hypocrisy. To her credit, she said those were just her beliefs, so she's not a bigot. But damn, seriously?


Here's my thing about gay marriage. Ready? Who gives a flying fuck? And I mean that. Think about it.  Why the hell does anyone care who gets married? You didn't care when I got married, but all of a sudden you care that your neighbors are getting married? I sure as hell didn't care when you got married, or to whom. It's not my business. It's not your business. We shouldn't even be having this discussion, you shouldn't be reading this ridiculous waste of cyber space. It shouldn't be an issue. But it is. So, here's my alternate take on gay marriage: who gives a flying fuck what you think? I understand that for religious reasons, many people see the marriage of two people of the same sex as wrong. That's your prerogative. That's your belief, and no one is taking that from you, or trying to negate it. You have a right to believe what you want. But marriage isn't always a religious thing. People also get married at the courthouse, not by a man of the cloth, but by some guy in a bad suit. Did God give the bad suit guy the right to marry people? No, the state did. So now the state is God? 


Come on people. Really. If a gay couple tried to get married in your church, well, then, maybe you'd have an argument. But you're going to say people you don't know and have never met can't get married in somebody's house, by some crazy hippy lady with a license to wed? Gay couples just want the same legal rights as straight couples. And don't give me that civil unions crap. They don't work. They only invite discrimination. Take a look.


I just can't get past the bigotry that's out there. And I'm not saying I'm perfect, that I've never discriminated. Of course I have, everyone has. But I'm not a bigot. I have my beliefs, but I would never, ever tell you that you can't have yours. (Even if you're a moron) And I do my best to listen and see the validity of your views. (Even if you're a moron) I've heard your arguments, and I think you're a moron. But that's my belief, and you are welcome to disagree. Moron

Film School on TV: 31 Days of Oscar

For those of you who may not know, I was a film student in college. I spent my time studying both the art and theory of film, from directing and cinematography to producing and writing. It was fun, and it was expensive. So, if you don't happen to have an extra hundred grand lying around, turn on your T.V and flip to TCM. (That would be Turner Classic Movies, for those of you not in the know).


I have always enjoyed TCM's 31 DAYS OF OSCAR®, even before I started studying film (and before I agreed to do a review for it). They show Academy Award®-winning and nominated films for a month; what's not to love? Not a crappy film to be found. This year, the theme is "TCM University". Each day is devoted to a different academic field, like biology or world history. But it's not boring like biology or world history. We never studied "2001: A Space Odyssey" in Evolutionary Biology. Not that I actually took Evolutionary Biology, but whatever. There are more than 350 movies on tap, in 93 different courses.  And you don't have to get up at 8:00 a.m! Bless you, TiVo. 

31 DAYS OF OSCAR® runs through March 3, and you can get the "class schedule" (I'm so witty!) on TCM's website .

Oh, I'm supposed to say one more thing. The 81st Annual Academy Awards ceremony is Sunday, Feb. 22, at 8 p.m on ABC. I hope I don't get fired for making reference to a rival network.

Dear Ticketmaster: Suck It!

I have always hated Ticketmaster , but this just seals the deal. We (4 of us, with a total of 6 computers, in 2 different states) logged on to get Springsteen tickets the exact second they went on sale. None of us could get through. We got this message: "Our ticketing system is currently unavailable due to routine maintenance". Routine maintenance? At 9am when tickets for 20 different shows go on sale? What the fuck is that?? Needless to say, we didn't get tickets. I emailed to ask what the fuck happened. Here's what I got: 

Thank you for contacting us. We regret any inconvenience you may have experienced. When a popular event goes on sale, such as Bruce Springsteen, there are literally hundreds and sometimes thousands of customers simultaneously attempting to purchase tickets across all distribution channels. Like any limited commodity, tickets are sold as long as seats are available, and sometimes they go quickly. If 500 fans are simultaneously buying four tickets each, 2,000 tickets can be sold in a matter of seconds! It's the same reason why a typical 18,000-seat arena can sell out in a few minutes.

When a well-known and talented artist schedules live performances, invariably the demand for the finite number of tickets increases dramatically. This was clearly demonstrated in the case of your selected event. 

Thank you for using Ticketmaster, where we continually strive to provide World Class Service to every customer, every day! We very much appreciate your business, and hope we were able to resolve any problems or answer any questions you had. Please reply to this email if we may be of further assistance.

So you're telling me that 9 gazillion Springsteen fans logged on at the exact same time and crashed the system? OK, let's go with that. Then why didn't the entire system crash? Just for shits and giggles, I tried getting tickets for other Springsteen shows in the area: Nassau Coliseum, Hartford...I got the good old "can't find tickets sucka" message. (Duh. It was 9:10 at that point) So why did my particular concert venue crash and burn? BOTH shows. Trying to get tickets for either show gave you the same error message. Huh.


Wait, wait, it gets better! In my letter I made mention of the fact that there are tickets available on Ticketmaster's "sister sites", marked up to ridiculous prices. Check this bullshit:

Ticketmaster does not, as a matter of practice nor specifically in this instance, remove seats from general availability in order place them in resale on TicketsNow... The tickets you reference having been listed on TicketsNow may have been acquired in pre-sale or in the general on-sale by individual fans, as well as some tickets brokers. TicketsNow is a safe and secure digital domain that provides support for the secondary ticket marketplace. Neither Ticketmaster nor TicketsNow own the tickets listed. Tickets are sold at current market rates, meaning they are priced based on the demand for tickets. 

See that last part there, the "current market rates" part? So...let's assume Ticketmaster does not own the tickets on its sister sites. Say it really is just a safe domain for the "secondary ticket marketplace". Secondary tickets...that means someone has them and is trying to sell them. Market rates based on demand...that means tickets are sold at a higher rate because people are desperate for them. Let's see...that would be, uh, wait, it's on the tip of my tongue oh yeah SCALPING. Ticketmaster is, in effect, providing scalpers with a safe, anonymous, and legal way to bend unlucky fans over the barrel. How forward-thinking of them.


Sadly, the average fan has no recourse here. Ticketmaster is virtually the only way to buy tickets for concerts, sporting events, hell, even the circus. You can't even get tickets at stadium websites anymore. They direct you to Ticketmaster. The company has a monopoly on ticket sales, and we have no choice but to bend to its will...or the will of its "sister sites".


Of course, we could all screw scalpers and TicketsNow by refusing to buy secondary tickets. Those fuckers would lose money instead of turning a profit, since they've got tickets nobody's willing to buy. But that will never happen. Why? Because we're fans. We live for the game, the music, the show. That's what fans do.


You know the very very very best part? If you go to the website, Bruce Springsteen is right there on the front page "tickets on sale now!". Seriously? Suck it. Just suck it.

Resolved: One Resolution

I realize, dear readers reader, that it's the middle of January, and I have not yet made the obligatory New Years Resolution post. It's not that I hate resolutions and think poorly of those who make them; hell, I make one every year, the incredibly original, "I resolve never to make another New Years Resolution". (Which I obviously break, since I say the same damn thing every year) It's just that I don't get it.


What is it about January that makes everything all shiny and new? I don't see how January 1st is any better than December 31st. In fact, it's probably a much shittier day since you've got your face in the toilet nursing the mother of all hangovers. Now that's the way to start the year, waking up on the bathroom floor with the distinct taste of ass and cigarettes in your mouth. Yay new beginnings! 


Why do we need an excuse to better ourselves? Why wait until January 1? Why not June 1? Or tomorrow? After all, it is the first day of the rest of your life. (By the way, I hate that fucking saying. It's also one day closer to your death. Ever think about that, Shiny Happy People? Piss off) I guess I understand the concept, you know, "new year, new you" and all that happy horse shit. But really, why set yourself up like that? You know damn well you're not going to lose weight or quit smoking or jog 5 miles a day or ooh what's that on T.V is that the new season of House ?? 


So, you start the new year with a big fat lie, knowingly setting yourself up for failure within minutes weeks, which then sets off a prolonged guilt trip -- not only for breaking your resolution, but for perpetrating that big fat lie in the first place -- that results in you gaining 15 pounds and going up to 2 packs a day. Gee, where do I sign up? Wait, I missed that boat, didn't I, it being the middle of January and all? Oh well. There's always next year.

O Cookie! My Cookie!

What is it about the holidays that makes us overeat? I weighed myself this morning, and I've gained 5 pounds since Christmas. And I mean since Christmas, because I gained a few pounds after Thanksgiving -- don't judge! I did have 2 different Thanksgiving meals you know -- and I made damn sure I lost them before December 25th. So what is it about the holidays that makes us indulge, that says "hey, it's ok if you eat like a fucking pig, it's Jesus' birthday! He would totally want you to have that 3rd helping of pecan pie. In fact, you oughta have thirds on the sweet potatoes, in His honor. I heard He was big on the green bean casserole, too". Seriously. Are we trying to keep Santa from being self-conscious about his jolly old spare tire by putting on a few extra pounds ourselves? You're supposed to be good for goodness sake, not fat for goodness sake.


On Thanksgiving you're supposed to give thanks for what you have, right? -- what, by shoveling it into your face? It's supposed to be a season of giving, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to give to others, not to your thighs. So why do we do it, then? Please, tell me why I'm carrying around an extra 5 pounds of Christmas cookies in my ass. And why exactly are there Christmas cookies? You can buy cookies in the store every damn day -- why do people choose Christmas to bake their own and have them at every fucking party and family function known to man? And then to add insult to injury, the assholes give them out as gifts! Bastards! Why must you give the cookie a bad name by turning it into a fundamental piece of Holiday Heft? What you're really saying is: "I don't like you enough to buy you a gift, but I don't hate you, and it would be rude not to have a present for you, so here's a little something that is really just a gift for me because in 2 weeks your ass won't fit into your office chair and I'm gonna laugh about it. Not to your face, though. Because that would be rude. Happy holidays!". There aren't any Independence Day cookies. No Martin Luther King, Jr. Day cookies. So what the fuck, people? Stop with the damn cookies! And the green bean casserole. Why do people only serve that nasty shit around the holidays? What makes it so special that we only whip out the Cream of Mushroom Soup and french friend onions around Christmas? Hell, maybe Jesus really did have a thing for it.


I'm tired of spending the entire year regretting giving so much thanks for what I have. I guess now I actually have an excuse to be an ungrateful bitch. Sweet.

It's All About Me. Somehow.

My friend's 30th birthday ended up being all about me. And I don't exactly remember if that's my fault swear it's not my fault. It didn't start out that way. It was a lovely surprise party, perfectly executed and held at an elegant, historic hotel in my hometown. (And I swear to God there is not a picture of me hammered anywhere on that site) But as the evening wore on, and several bottles of wine were mysteriously emptied, it became about me. I was sitting at a table with old friends from high school, gossiping talking about those glory days, and waxing drunk-o-sophical about how some people refuse to let it go and live in the now...when suddenly we're discussing how fabulous I am. I shit you not.


A woman I was, well, not exactly friends with, but was not rejected by in high school, told me when she walked in that she told her husband I was "the most brilliant girl in school". Am I at the right party? What just happened? And then she told me I've turned into a "beautiful woman" with something something something (the memory is a little vino tinto-colored there, if you know what I mean). Whatever. Point is, people think highly of me. I think they even respect me a little. Tee hee! How little they know! I am a moron, people. Complete and utter. I can barely string 2 words together to express basic human need -- 'I'm hungry', 'I'm thirsty', 'I'm poopie' -- let alone remember the things you are giving me accolades for. I was quoted in a newspaper at the age of 11? Really? You'd think I'd remember that shit. I won an Emmy? AHA! Gotcha there! I didn't win an Emmy, and I know that shit because the sting is just 3 years fresh. But thanks for ripping the scab off that one. Appreciate it.


Here's the thing. I was smart. I was creative. I was a total nerd. But brilliant? Well, brilliance would be taking what you have and running with it. Brilliance is overcoming your fears and insecurities to accomplish your dream. Brilliance is actually knowing what the hell your dream is, or at least doing everything humanly possible to figure it out. Brilliant, I am not. I've never been able to overcome my insecurities and fears to reach whatever possibility was out there for me. So I guess as we gossiped and griped about those people at the next table who need to grow up, we were talking about me, too.


See? Told ya. It is all about me.

An Open Letter to That Punk in the Red Suit

Dear Mr. Claus,

You suck. You are the center of every child's Christmas world. They adore you, dream of you, look to you for approval; then one day you up and vanish like a drunken father off to "the store" to get Pop Tarts. For a while the child waits at the window, nose pressed to the glass, waiting for those Pop Tarts. But they never come. And neither does Santa. Not anymore. For a while you're missed. But then we all come to grips with that fact that you're nothing but a deadbeat that owes a hell of a lot of back child support.

Come to think of it, you never were that great, even when I believed in you. Fortunately my parents stepped up to the plate when you forgot my Optimus Prime. And that Barbie corvette. Wait, did I even have a Barbie corvette? I chopped all the hair off my Barbies, so I'm thinking I wasn't the best Barbie mom. Maybe I just saw one on T.V. Do they even make Barbie corvettes anymore? Do they even make Barbies? Never mind. That's not the point. The point is, you always missed something. You were never perfect, despite all those sugarplum promises.

And so it is Christmas once again. I stopped looking for those Pop Tarts years ago. I've moved on. (Toaster Strudels are soooooo much better anyway)...and there you are, you shit. Strolling through the chimney door like you never left, cheeks so rosy and beard so snowy white, a box of vanilla frosted chocolate Pop Tarts in hand. Squeee! You remembered my favorite!! I see you in the eyes of my daughter. Just the way I remember you. Piles of presents under the tree that seem to go on for miles. Bing Crosby on the stereo. And that damn stupid burning log on T.V. You're in the way her eyes light up at the sight of all that wrapping paper she can eat. The squeal of laughter when she pulls ornaments off the tree, and her silly gibberish as she dances around the room with them.

I have just one question. Where the hell have you been for the past 20 years, you asshole?? I'm sorry, but if it took you that long to go to the goddamn store it must have been an uber-awesome Wegman's or something, and I expect a hell of a lot more than a box of crappy breakfast pastries. There better be a tennis bracelet in that bag. And maybe another box of vanilla frosted chocolate Pop Tarts. I've been a very good girl.

Love, Me

Thanks. I Think

You can't be thankful for what you have if you forget what you have lost. That's why this time of year is so hard for me. My miswired brain focuses more on what was lost. Don't get me wrong; I love Christmas. Ok no, not really. I hate Christmas. I love the idea of Christmas. I love the ribbons and bows, the shiny paper, the Christmas carols, twinkling lights in windows, baking cookies and drinking spiced eggnog while decorating the tree (oh come on, like you've never decorated drunk). I love the feeling of wonder that fills the air, the wide-eyed children, the "comfort and joy" of the season. It makes me feel comfortable and joyous.


Then Christmas comes. And I hate it. Family and friends come together for a big Christmas meal, and I hate it. Because it's over. The wonder of the season vanishes, just like that, and I'm left uncomfortable and...uh, unjoyous?


I remember sitting in the living room as a child, in the dark of the morning -- yet another reason why school sucks, getting up before the sun -- and squinting at the tree. Just so the lights blurred and the edges softened. I remember thinking I never wanted to forget that moment, the soft light and the sound of the fireplace. Well, I do remember it. So why do I feel so sad?

Catch Me on TV! Sortof. Internetz TV. That's TV, Right?

To my dear, sweet readers (hi Mom!), tonight, I am expanding my horizons and participating in Ladies Night on Taphandle-TV. What is this Taphandle-TV, you ask, and how can I get my hands on one? Well, my friend, just you wait. First things first. Taphandle-TV is a weekly show on the Internetz. What we in the biz call a "webcast". This "webcast" is about "making drinks" and "drinking". It's shot in a basement bar, the Taphandle. The bartender, Lordo, shows viewers how to make drinks, many of his own concoctions. Oh yea, and he drinks while doing it, so the later it gets, the better the show gets. Tonight's show will be on, LIVE, at 9pm ET. Check it out, yo:  http://www.ustream.tv/channel/taphandle-tv 


But wait, there's more! Here's how you -- yes, YOU right there in the weird sweater thingie, can actually be a part of the show. The site has a chat room function, so you can actually interact with Lordo and whomever happens to be in the bar that night. Tonight, it will be myself and 6 other lovely ladies. Should be a lot of fun. Stop by, make fun of the drunkies, join us in a few shots, whatever. We're easy.

His, Hers, and The National Weather Service

This is Hurricane Ike. He looks bad. Technically it's incorrect to call a named storm "him" or "her". So why the hell do they give them gender-specific names? Tropical storms and hurricanes are even (erroneously) given human attributes; they look "mean" or "target" a city. Why then, is it wrong to give those personifications personal pronouns? I think the National Weather Service should give storms sexless names, like last names. Smith, or Johnson, or Malkovich, for example. What do you think?

If It Weren't For Bad Luck, I Wouldn't Have Any Luck At All

I swear to God, my life is one big laugh riot. Just hilarious. Check out my latest adventure in stupidity:


First, a teensy bit of backstory. My family plans two day trips to New York each year to see a show and go out to dinner. There are about 25 people who make this trip. My uncle rents a bus. Like, a rock star tour bus, complete with a potty. The Saint and I live just outside the city, so I took the train in to meet them. The Saint could give two shits about Broadway, so he abstained, courteously. But, he agreed to bring Monster and join us for dinner after the show.


This year the trip was September 6th, the show, 'Mary Poppins', the restaurant, Tavern on the Green. September 6th just so happened to be the day tropical storm Hanna passed over the northeast. But with a rented tour bus, 25 show tickets and reservations at T on the G, you don't cancel. And thus begins my tale of woe...


I was supposed to meet them for lunch in Times Square before the show. But I missed the train because I am a moron, and went to the wrong station. (Why do there have to be two train stations in my town? Why?) So I had to take the next train an hour later, and just meet them at the theater. Catch that train, and as we're coming up on the tunnel heading into the city, the train lurches to a halt. The conductor informs us that they are one-tracking into and out of Penn Station, so we have to sit and wait for several west-bound trains to pass. Brilliant. 5 minutes later, we get going again. I arrive at Penn Station with about 17 minutes til showtime. No sweat, it's just one subway stop to 42nd. So I run into the Hudson News and buy newspapers for my brother, who needs them for a school project, and a binky for my nephew, who apparently left his at my uncle's house and had been screaming all the way up the Jersey turnpike.


14 minutes til showtime. Still no problem, it's one subway stop, like I said. Except I had to wait 5 minutes in a 109 degree subway station for the uptown 1, holding my purse, a bag full of newspapers, and a sweater for my sister, who is stick-thin and always cold. So now, I'm sweating like a pig in a skirt and heels. 9 minutes til showtime. Still ok. Get on the nice, air conditioned train, we're on our way, and for the second time today, my train lurches to a stop. The driver informs us that there is a train in front of us at the 42nd street station with "a door problem". Fanfuckingtastic. So we sit for what feels like forever, except it was really only 5 minutes or so. It is now 4 minutes til showtime, and I am getting panicy, because they won't let you in after the show starts. Finally get moving, haul ass through the 42nd street station, which is ginormous, and make it just in time.


Oh but it doesn't stop there! After the show, it is raining sideways and The Saint is messaging me and cursing my name for making him drive into the city in that weather with Monster. I come out of the restaurant with my mother's raincoat on to help him, and he's trying to get the baby out of her car seat while holding her bag, the umbrella, and a folder full of pictures for my mom. He hands me the folder with the pictures, shoots daggers with his eyes, and we get into the restaurant, sit down, and proceed to have a lovely dinner with minimal inturruption from Monster, even though we pushed her bedtime. Dinner eaten, we say adieu to everyone, and drive home in blinding rain, flooded highways, and buffeting winds.


Yea, so I left my cell phone in my mother's raincoat. And I forgot to get my sweater back from my sister, who is moving to bumfuck Minnesota.


Seriously, what is wrong with me??

**late add: So while typing up this post, I nearly burned the house down. I completely forgot I was steaming carrots on the stove, and all the water boiled out. I only realized this when I smelled something burning. The pan was all black and bubbly, and smoking. I had to take it outside to keep from setting off the smoke alarm. Had to toss the carrots, too, because they tasted like smoke. Would you like to be my friend? Never a dull moment!

He's Still Just Joey From the Block

First, I'm not a real political gal, and this is not a real political post. But I'm from Delaware. Southern Delaware, rural Delaware. Or slower lower Delaware, as we so affectionately refer to it. It's where people I grew up with aspired to be "farmen" or "purmedics", and "up to" and "down to" are the only direction in which you can travel, i.e. "I'm goin up t' the farhouse for the Oyster Eat" (which is still men only, btw). So I love Joe Biden, like my fellow Delawarean Mr. Lady whom I stole the idea for this post from. Lovelovelove him. Have ever since I was a child. Here's why.


Every year, I think in early fall, my parents took my sister and I to this party at somebody's house way back in the woods outside our town. I think there was a river or creek right behind it. It may have been an orchard, because I remember perfectly spaced trees lining the looooooong driveway. Hell, let's just call a spade a spade. It was a farm. Way back in the middle of nowhere. And this party was a Democratic party, one of those private "events" you hear about politicians attending. There was a buffet line outside under a big white event tent, folding chairs set out in rows. It was a styrofoam plate and plastic fork kinda event. (Compare this to the parties my best friend's parents threw for the other powerful and influential Delaware Senator, the late Senator Bill Roth. Those were catered, good china, cocktails by the fireplace kinda shindigs, if ya know what I'm sayin)


So I remember this man, standing at a podium set out in front of those folding chairs under the tent, talking. And people listened. They sat in the chairs and put down their barbeque-y plates and listened to him talk. They all called him 'Joe'. He was just Joe. I don't know what just Joe was saying; I was more interested in the hay rides on the back of a flatbed pulled by a horse down that looooooong driveway. But I know people listened. And they loved him, really loved him. I remember my mom saying with real affection, "I love Joe Biden. He should have been president". 


You probably don't know just Joe. You only know Senator Joe Biden from Delaware, the man who can't stop talking. He's done so much for Delaware that people don't even realize. And he's done a lot for the country, too, besides just talking himself hoarse on Meet the Press. He's a good man, an incredibly smart man, a real man, the kind that would have been a farman and been damned proud of it. 


Sitting in the car last night, listening to his acceptance speech on the radio, I realized what he was saying to the people all those years ago. "Hi, I'm Joe". He's still just Joe. And I love him for it.

Addiction is Brutal

Today I gave in to my addiction, and bought Coke. I'm really ashamed, too, but I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten, this addiction. It's been a few days since there's been any in the house, and I thought I'd be okay for a while. I mean, it can be really expensive unless you find a deal somewhere. So I figured I could wait until that happened, but I was starting to get shaky. And the headaches! So I gave in, bought it the first place I could find it. I paid a lot more than I wanted to, but man, it was so good! Perked me right up. How I missed that tickle in my nose when I first put the can to my lips. And zero calories! Oh, Coke Zero, how I love thee. I can't go 3 days without you. I think I need help.

My Friday Night. Sad, Huh?

Video chat rooms at Ustream

Help Wanted

I lost my muse. Bitch is gone. Done walked out, just up and left. No "this isn't working out", no "Dear John", nuthin. Granted, we were still getting to know each other, only been out for coffee a few times, but still. It's common effen courtesy! The Saint calls her "flighty". Bitchy is more like it. Either way, I am currently accepting applications for Muse. Applicants must be sarcastic and possess a sharp wit, as well as exceptional spelling skilz. Oh, and smart. Must be intelligent. I'm tired of sounding like a dumbass. The successful candidate must be compliant and eager to please a real go-getter. Experience with Macs required. Big boobays a plus. Forward resume, references, and portfolio of recent work to Human Resources. EOE. No phone calls, please. Dear God somebody send help soon!