Sunday, February 29, 2004

Bennie And The Jet

Part 1 -- Bennie

As most of you already know, I have a 'thing' for Benicio del Toro. Of course, I had to watch the Oscar pre-show to catch a glimpse of the man. No, I wasn't trying to catch a glimpse of him for the reason you may be thinking -- I was trying to catch a glimpse because, as of late, the man has looked like walking death. Seriously. I think he has a drug and/or alcohol problem, along with a hell of a lot of stress or something. He is only two years older than I am, and he must look at least 10 years older than I do. And, you don't go from looking like this to looking like this from just aging two years. The second picture isn't even as bad as I've seen him look lately. I couldn't find a photo on the web that truly showed his changes for the worse.

I will admit, however, that the man has always had those dark circles under his eyes. While perusing another old issue of the Onion, I looked at the personal message section in the back. There I found this:

"Benicio del Toro is still Benicio del Sketcho whether he is in
People (The 2002 Most Beautiful People issue) or not. The
fact remains that someone must have repeatedly punched
him in the eyes for oh ... the first ten years of his life or

Okay, 'tis true, 'tis true, I will admit, but it's all been part of his bad-ass charm to me. Until now. I bet he'll be the next celebrity taking a rest at the ole Betty Ford Spa/Hospital. You wait and see.

Part 2 -- The Jet

Okay. You all remember the "Send Annie To Jood Fund" that not a single one of you even put a dime into? Sure you do. That was the fund to send me over to see my soulmate friend Jood in the UK.

We've known each other for quite a while now and, even though we email and talk on the phone and send pictures and stuff, we've never been able to spend time together face to face. I was trying to raise money to go see her. Well, she and her partner have generously paid for me to come see them. I leave on Monday, March 8. The fact that I swallowed my pride enough to accept such a generous offer shows just how badly I wanted to meet her.

I am so excited, I can hardly stand it. We were both 'punks' in school, have very similar spiritual beliefs, and it is rare for me to meet someone whose spirituality is similar to mine, especially living here in the Christian-dominated Bible Belt, and we have very similar tastes in music, art, and just about everything else. Oh, and she's a raw foodist like I am, and she also suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. So, you can see why I'd be so happy to be going.

The name of the fund, if you'll notice, has changed to the "Send Jood To Annie Fund" because I believe I should reciprocate the generosity she has shown me. We are trying to plan a trip for her to come to the US in the autumn. Won't you please dig into your pockets and throw a dime or two our way? It's the least you can do for all of the hours of ceaselessly amusing and enlightening entertainment I've thrown your way, now, isn't it?

Thursday, February 26, 2004

This One's For Ed

Okay, we all know that SUV's are a problem -- they suck gas, waste energy, pollute our environment , and kill people when they crash into other vehicles -- but the latest SUV stories I have to tell really take the proverbial cake.

1) The Sweet, Deaf, Little Old Lady

For years and years there has been a customer, Frances, at my in-law's natural food store, who's deaf and very, very little. She probably weighs 80 lbs. soaking wet and is only about 5 ft. tall. The other day a Yuppie woman in her SUV, backed right into her because she couldn't see Frances walking behind her vehicle. How safe are SUV's to have around children if you can't even see a short adult? Frances was injured and will now have to go live in a nursing facility for the rest of her life. Poor Frances.

2) The Trip In The Snow

Like a dumbass, I decided to do the right thing and go to work today, even though it had really started snowing and the snow was laying 15 minutes before even I left the house. I'm going to be losing some time at work due to an upcoming trip (more on this tomorrow), so I decided I'd better go in.

Well, leaving my first office to go to my second office at 11:00, I knew conditions were bad when I had trouble getting out of the parking lot, and I decided to head on home. Luckily, I had my heavy scanner in the trunk for extra weight.

I managed to make it down 51 to Sardis Road and made a left. Traffic was backed up on Sardis, probably due to the many small hills on that road. I was directly behind an SUV, a Ford Expedition, one of the really big ones, you know? Well, on the way up a hill, she starts losing control and ends up facing my car. She's gunning the engine and going in circles for a while, effectively blocking both lanes. She almost hits me twice, and I was blocked in -- I couldn't go anywhere. Now, that heavy-ass SUV should do better in the snow than my little, light, 5-speed (Jood: Read 'stick shift') Saturn, which was having some difficulty getting up the hill but managed to stay straight on the road. The main thing I don't understand is: If you're going to spend that kinda money on an Expedition, why the hell don't you spring for the friggin' 4-wheel drive?!!? This woman cost me a lot of time and safety on my trip home. Needless to say, I was not surprised when she turned into the parking lot of the Charlotte Christian School. Stupid bitch.

Sorry, but I'm a little stressed and angry.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Glad To See I'm Not The Only Insane Soul Living Here

Perhaps I've been wrong all along. Maybe Charlotte is a World Class City after all. If the number of insane people wandering our streets is any indication, we truly may be on our way to WCC status.

I have seen the insane have a tremendous growth spurt here in the last few months. Most of the insane are of the harmless variety -- the type who stand on street corners and shout "Hello!" or "Have a nice day!" or just walk long smiling and mumbling to themselves -- but today I saw one of the other, more dangerous, variety. I saw a man repeatedly throw himself against a pole supporting his porch while singing outloud. At least I think it was his porch, but who knows? It certainly looked awfully painful, much too painful for a sane person.

All of the other WCC's I've either lived in or visited were home to many, many of the insane of both varieties. The phenomenon has been chalked up to the underfunding of major mental hospitals that were forced to close. Cities do provide a lot more opportunities than the boondocks for the insane or the homeless/insane. Cities have shelters and clinics and a lot more people to panhandle from. Or yell "Hello!" to, anyway.

Charlotte, I guess you have arrived.

Monday, February 23, 2004

Knife & Fork Story #2, Aaron's Story

When Aaron was a teenager, he frequented the K&F. God only knows why, but he did. Anyway, on one particular evening, Aaron was having a meal with a friend and realized he needed to go to the bathroom. He told his friend, "I'll be right back. I gotta pee."

The owner, whom Aaron actually knew, overhead what he'd just said, even though it was said quietly just to Aaron's friend. The owner proceeded to tell Aaron that he couldn't use that kind of language in his restaurant. To best imagine the story, it's best to think of the thick, Greek accent, the greasy, balding pate, and the tacky, polyester shirt, circa 1975 even though it was 1991, the owner was wearing at the time.

Aaron was confused. The only thing he could say was, "What?!!?"

Which followed with the owner saying with his accent, "You. You and your nasty language. You cannot use language like that in here!"

"What bad language? Do you mean the word 'pee'?"

The owner, then, as he was wont to do, started yelling. "See, there you go again with that nasty language! You must leave. Leave now. Leave. Get out of my restaurant!"

Aaron being a surly 17 just said, "No, I'm not going to leave. I'm going to go to the bathroom, come back, and eat my meal."

Maybe because he knew Aaron or maybe because Aaron had spoken to him like his wife probably did at home, the owner gave in. Somewhat. "Okay, then. You go to the bathroom, and then you eat. Then, you leave!"

One must also keep in mind that this place was so incredibly nasty, I would think the owner would consider it a good day if any customer actually decided to get up and go to the men's room before taking a piss.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

Knife & Fork Story #1, Ann's Story

I have to admit, every time I set foot into the dive that was Knife & Fork, it was someone else's doing. I hated the place. Everything was filthy, even the waitstaff, and the owner was extremely surly, and not in the old-grumpy-man good way, either.

It was usually the fault of a guy I knew named Scott, who like the K&F because he could get his favorite dish there and nowhere else. His favorite dish was brains. Yes, brains, and I don't even know what they were the brains of, and I don't want to know. The only things I remember about him eating them are: 1) They were served in a little white bowl, with all their gleaming, pink glory; 2) They looked just as disgusting as you might think they'd look; 3) I always felt that Scott ate them to impress/disgust the people around him and not because he actually thought they tasted good.

I am sure that Scott was with my group on that dayback in about 1995, or we wouldn't have been eating breakfast there in the first place. I was with a group of about four men, all clean, shaven and dressed decently. We had the nastiest server of them all that day -- a woman, 50ish, with salt-and-pepper, greasy, stringy hair to match her greasy, stringy, drug and/or alcohol-ravaged body. I believe she once had her hair dyed black and now the gray was popping up in random and inappropriate places. The grease made the black parts seem even blacker in contrast to the yellow/white strands.

We ordered our breakfast and waited. It was served shortly thereafter by the same server. Finally, she placed pancakes down in front of my boyfriend, and walked away. There, on his plate of pancakes, was the hugest human hairball we'd ever seen. It was a clump of hair like one might imagine falling out of the scalp of a chemo patient, and it was right there on his plate. On his food.

To make a long story short, my boyfriend called her back over and asked for another plate of pancakes. When she asked why, he pointed to the hairball -- the hairball that so obviously came out of her head because it was black as midnight with some tinges of yellow-y silver. She said she'd remove the hairball, but he wouldn't get a new plate of pancakes. He said he didn't want anything, if that was the case, and for her to take the pancakes off the bill. She declined, accusing him of placing that hairball on the plate to get the meal for free.

Now, Todd's hair was a sandy brown, and three others at the table had light-brown to blond hair, none of which matched the description of said hairball. The owner agreed with her, even though it was so obvious that the tangled mass had dropped straight from her slimey pate, and kicked us out for trying to get free food. He screamed at us out into the parking lot.

That actually made me happy. Now, we could go to Landmark, a real diner with real food and real cleaning products that are actually used, and eat like I wanted to all along.

Friday, February 20, 2004

A Good Restaurant in Charlotte? Not For Long

After reading the review in Creative Loafing and on James' blog about the new and much improved Knife & Fork restaurant, the husband and I decided to go check it out for ourselves. What a delightful surprise, I must say. Aaron had a Potato Pizza, which had a shredded, roasted potato crust instead of a wheat crust, topped with tomato sauce, Gorgonzola cheese, fresh basil and other yummy things I can't remember right now. I just had a bite of that trying to be a good raw foodist. He also had a side salad with homemade bleu cheese dressing, which was simple but delicious -- not a piece of lowly iceberg in sight.

I had a salad (of course) with roasted corn and a Carolina crab cake (okay the cooked stuff is cheating, I'll admit). As where I grew up isn't very far from Maryland, I grew up eating tons of crabcakes, but never have I had one so tasty, crispy and so light with just a hint of lemon peel and brimming over with blue crab. Not even the crabcake at Morton's is better; it's bigger but not better. What a treat, if you skip the dressing to go on top. It's served with 1000 Island, but I asked for balsamic vinaigrette, which I used only for the greens. To use any type of dressing on a crabcake that fine and light would have ruined the taste -- I would not have been able to pick up the subtle lemon flavor. We had good, if inexperienced, service to boot.

So, I am begging all who live in this area to visit the Knife & Fork, please. Good restaurants like this don't last long in Charlotte. The meal was so incredibly fresh, I told Aaron it reminded me of salads I had in Paris. Really. Without your support, I give this place 6 months, tops, if that.

Tomorrow I will blog about the Knife & Fork of the past -- Aaron and I have two incredible stories about the previously horrendous food and ownership.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Okay, This Is The Last Bowie Post (Until May, Anyway)

I just found out that I'm going to Bowie on May 13 in Hershey, PA! I have 5th row center seats, no less. I am so excited, I can hardly stand it. I haven't seen him since like 1989 or 1990.

I couldn't find anyone to go with, as we couldn't afford for Aaron to go if I'm going and another friend will just be getting back after 2 weeks in Japan and yet another can't get off work, and my other friends just aren't interested in spending the big bucks to see Bowie, God love 'em. And the ticket service would only let me buy tickets in even numbers, so I couldn't go by myself. I was stuck. So, I called my sister, who's seen Bowie at least 20 times before and is going to see him in Atlantic City already this year, just hoping she might concede to go, and she did. How apropos, as she's the person who started my love of the man back in 1974.

Not only that, but she's offered to pay for the tickets for my upcoming birthday. I feel like I won the lottery or something. The only downside is that I really wanted to dress like Bowie from the Life on Mars video, and now I won't be able to do that. My sister would just have a fit, I know it. I'm willing to give that up, though, to be 5th row friggin' center at a Bowie show. At least I'll have cool hair because I'm getting it dyed like this next month for something different. Although, I'd probably stand out from the crowd a bit more in that outfit, which he would definitely notice. Then, he'd invite me backstage and ask Aaron and I to oversee his house/studio in Mustique, and I could give him fashion advice. Or, maybe I'd become an au pair for his daughter and helm his art collection and studio and live in NYC. Or, he'd see me, realize what's been missing from his life all these years, dump Iman and whisk me off to his house in Bermuda, although it's a little chilly this time of the year or...
I'm A Liberal With A Sense Of Humor. No, Really. I Am.

As a typical NPR-listening American Liberal, there are many social issues in the public eye I take seriously, like gay marriage, equality of the sexes and the races, etc. These and many other issues should be fought for and taken seriously in our everyday lives. All of this seriousness, though, doesn't mean I've lost my sense of humor.

My new favorite show on my barely-watched TV is Chappelle's Show. He takes no issue seriously, even though he has many issues and struggles he believes in. Just watching ten minutes of that show will help you to understand. The show rarely fails to make me laugh outloud, and more often than not makes me almost thank God I have cable. It's that good.

Chappelle states that growing up his family was "the broke Huxtables," but there was always plenty of political and intellectual conversation taking place in his home, and his home, run by his mother, a Unitarian minister, was never lacking magazines and books to read. Dave started his foray into comedy at the tender age of 14, with his mother's blessing. When asked what his mother thought of him performing standup at such a young age he states, "D.C. was the murder capital of the year. Selling crack was the No. 1 after-school job. In contrast to all the bad things I could have been doing, how benign does telling jokes sound?"

People who misunderstandingly attack his show need to realize that the most serious issues facing the world today also make the most humorous send-ups. He's on Wednesday nights at 10:30 on Comedy Central. So, tune in, stop being so damn serious, and have a good time.

(The Chappelle link above takes you to a great article from the New York Times. Read and enjoy.)

Sunday, February 15, 2004


On Tuesday evenings, I go to a friend's house to take her dog outside and play with him a while because she works late that night. I love that dog. His name is Rocky, and he's a little black Pomeranian. Usually, I'd just as soon boot lapdogs in the butt than to play with them, but not this boy. He's special.

First of all, he's a trip. He's hilarious and fun. He loves for me to pretend I'm going to attack him and chase him all around the house. He also loves to snuggle up to my neck and jump into my lap and roll around. He gets so excited when I come over that it's like he's saying, "Oh, yay! There's that lady who plays with me and fools around with me. We have so much fun," just like my husband.

Imagine my utter joy when I received a letter, written in rhyme no less, from Rocky in the mail on Friday. I knew some dogs were smart, but jeez. I won't quote the whole thing here, as it's too personal, but here's an excerpt:

I've been inside all day just waiting to go out,
and seeing your smiling face just makes me bark and shout.

So, thanks so much for all you do,
Can't wait till the next time I can see you.

It's closed with a "Lots of love, Rocky," and he drew a picture of himself that resembles more of a hairy tapeworm than a Pomeranian, but I'll cut him some slack since he's just a dog and all.

Friday, February 13, 2004

Valentine's Day Onion Special

I just happened to be looking through some back copies of The Onion, which my husband conveniently left in the bathroom. That paper is pure genius. It was especially good earlier on. Before we had a computer, we had a subscription. I miss reading the paper on my hand instead of online, but it's a whole lot cheaper to read it on the computer.

This edition was from August 2000. On the side bar, there is always a USAToday-type statistics block. It's called the 'STATshot. A look at the numbers that shape your world.' I thought this one was definitely not appropriate for Valentine's Day. That's exactly why I decided to post it. I hope, though, that you and yours have a special one.

How Are We Saying, "I Don't Love You Anymore"?

14% Sleeping in separate states
16% Yankee Stadium jumbotron
22% Coming in mouth despite entreaties
11% Ich liebe dich nicht mehr!
18% Dropping dinner plate from two inches above the table while serving
9% With a song
10% Staying married to each other for the next 45 years

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Love Story

His hands were hardened from work and weather. His knuckles took on the appearance of rough-hewn leather. In the sunlight, the skin appeared to have a faint black hue seeping out of a crease here and a crevice there. His hands were the first thing she noticed that day, the day he said, "We met each other once before, you and I, a long time ago. I was standing in the far corner of the joint, nearest the juke box, and you'd come in with some boy for a malted. Later, you whispered hello to me politely while putting your nickel in the slot, to hear Elvis, I think. I asked you to dance, but you glanced over at the boy and slowly shook your head."

She told him the 'the boy' later became her husband, Jack. Jack to whom she was married 45 years, most of them dull and mean. The same Jack who built this house and who worked the land on which they were standing. It should be said that Jack had someone work the land for him, as he never was one to get his hands dirty. With actual earth, that is. Jack made a good living as a doctor, and he took pride in the couple's Queen's Road address, this same address the man came to this morning. He was there to oversee the landscapers who are pulling out Jack's cherub statues from the back garden. "Thank God," she thought, "there isn't anything I hate more than a perky, cement cherub."

She did remember the man standing before her, too, when his hands were much younger and softer, tapping out the song's rhythm on the chrome ledge of the juke box. She also remembered his eyes, the exact color of a robin's egg and very clear and bright, the eyes that looked right into her, into her soul for a brief minute, until she walked back to the booth to be with Jack. Jack wanted to know what the redneck had said to her, if had he been rude. She told him that he was polite, that he'd just asked her to dance. Jack flew into one of his rages, which later in life became typical and common, and tried to strangle the man as he stood by the juke box. But the man saw him coming and laid Jack flat out on the floor in front of the Saturday night crowd that had gathered. She and Jack never did go back to that place again. Jack was too embarrassed, as he'd had a little to drink that night. Later on, there were many places Jack wouldn't go due to the embarrassment of being seen again because he'd 'had a little' on too many nights. Too many places and drinks to count, actually.

The man and the woman took up where they'd never had a chance to start almost 50 years before. She no longer would have to contend with what her parents might think, as they had passed on years before, and she was too old to care what her so-called friends might say about her new relationship. She was at that perfect point in life, a point we should all hope to reach someday, where she's too old and wise to care about the things that just don't matter, the things you can't feel deep in your heart and soul. She wished she'd lived her whole life that way, but she was grateful for the chance to start now.

This is the scenario I've imagined that preceded the Google queries that somehow lead someone to my blog. Those queries were "Christmas gifts for blue-collar dads" and "tickling a tough blue-collar," things she'd probably need some help learning since stepping out of her little, Myers-Parkian world.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Enough About Bowie Already, I Know

Just when you thought I couldn't possibly have anything left to Bowie-blog about, along comes Margaret Cho's blog entries from last week. I'm a little behind reading some of my favorite blogs, so I just read it this morning.

I thought I liked Margaret Cho a bunch before, but now ... now, I loooove her. I love anyone who actually takes the time before a Bowie concert to wear something special as an homage to the man. She wore a lavender suit and blue eyeshadow, just like he did in the video for Life On Mars, a song she actually wants played at her funeral. That is one of my all-time favorite songs because it's just incredibly beautiful, but the get-up in its entirety is just sheer genius -- an all-white background, white make up, light blue or teal suit, platform shoes, incredible tie, shockingly orange hair and liquid, metallic blue eyeshadow. Bowie's style of performance art is my kind of performance art. I have to give credit to Mick Rock, too, for the design.

Quote of the Day:

I hope that when he goes on stage, he knows that he feeds us all with a kind of sustenance that cannot be given by anyone else, anywhere else, and that some of us are so hungry that sometimes we don't know if we are a boy or a girl, that we are stepping though the door, and it's time to leave the capsule if we dare, that we wish we were sipping milkshakes cold and long, not knowing we were part of his song, all us, the pretty things that drive our mothers and fathers insane, us mellow thighed chicks, the fat skinny people, the queers throwing up at the sight of everything, all us Americans who are afraid of Americans. We leave his table for the first time, content, no longer starving from the malnutrition of identity. We leave his table with a name.

Margaret Cho

Sunday, February 08, 2004

DVD -- Finally

I am so happy to post that we have finally entered the current decade -- we got a DVD player with the money we received for our anniversary. It was a difficult decision, as all of the cash we've gotten recently has gone to pay bills, but we decided since I got a new job and renting DVD's was a cheap form of entertainment, we would go ahead with the purchase.

Because we got our player at such a reasonable price, we also decided to buy a few DVD's. We bought an very inexpensive compilation set of great, cheesy horror movies. We also bought a limited edition of The Evil Dead, Sam Raimi's first and deliciously fun masterpiece of cheese. It comes bound in a latex version of the Necronomicon, or Book of the Dead, from the film. It's awesome.

We rented a few movies, too. The first one was The Man Who Fell To Earth with David Bowie, at his all-time cutest, I might add, except for the cocaine-induced malnutrition. I am completely willing to overlook that, though, because all rock stars used cocaine in the '70s, didn't they? Anyway, I enjoyed it's pretentious artsy-fartsyness even if Aaron didn't. Besides, how can you hate a movie that has both Bowie and Rip Torn in it? You just can't.

Keeping with the Bowie theme, we also got his DVD of all of his videos and TV appearances, the Best of Bowie. I've watched it twice in two days. I think that says it all.

The next one was The Third Man, the classic foreign film noir, starring Joseph Cotten and Orson Welles. This was truly one of the best films I have ever seen, and so says Peter Bogdanovich in the intro to the film.

And lastly we rented Kurosawa's Rashomon. I'm embarrassed to admit I haven't yet seen the film. It's referenced so frequently, we figured we'd better watch it so we could understand the references. We haven't watched this one yet, but we know it's going to be great.

Friday, February 06, 2004

Call Me Meatball

There's an old saying that basically warns that people and their dogs will eventually start to look alike. If I ever own the dog of my dreams, an English bulldog, I really hope that saying's not true. Bulldogs snort and snore and are playful and adorable. Unfortunately, they also fart up a stinky storm. That's a small price to pay to have such a companion. I mean, I wouldn't desert you, my dear friends, just because you had a farting problem. Well, I haven't so far, anyway, have I?

What made me think of Bulldogs today, not that I don't think of them just about everyday --wait a minute. I don't, really. Not everyday -- was that I was saddened to hear that Adam Sandler's dog, Meatball, passed on today of a heart attack at age four. Meatball was an English Bulldog. He was also a fine example of what happens when you overfeed squatty, fat dogs with congenital breathing difficulties.

All the pets I have ever owned have come from shelters or were given to me by their owners. As much as I want a Bulldog or a mostly hairless Sphinx cat, I will never be able to purchase one in good conscience. Most purebreed animals are bred so purely that they have a lot of mental and physical problems, like the Bulldog whose nasal passage is so stunted, any extreme exertion can be harmful to the dog. My current dogs, a Border Collie and yellow lab mix absolutely thrive on extreme physical exertion -- they live for it. But it'll kill dogs like Bulldogs and Pugs.

I am sad for Adam. That dog went everywhere with him. Oh, how I want a Bulldog to go everywhere with me, too.

Thursday, February 05, 2004


I was recently talking with a woman who's staying in Charlotte to do some training for work, 6 weeks worth of training. She lives elsewhere in the state, where I have some friends, and a friend of hers gave this woman my number and told her to look me up, so she'd not be so lonely during her stay. We had dinner the other night and coffee. She's an extremely professional, beautiful, thin, well-educated, well-traveled, well-dressed woman of 36, which makes what I'm about to say even more unbelievable, trust me.

We were talking about marriage and relationships, especially my marriage and her 5-year, self-imposed celibacy. She happened to mention that until just recently she was under the impression that people who were married were never attracted to anyone else ever again unless they were 'bad' people. Obviously, she's never been married, which is a good thing for any man she might have been married to and a good thing for her fragile sense of reality. Even though she know understands that it's possible, and maybe even normal to a certain extent, she doesn't want her or her mate to be attracted to anyone else if she gets married. All of the other good assets I've listed aside, she probably won't ever get married.

This woman, along with little girls who get read too much Mother Goose and watch too many Disney movies and teenagers with dozens of pin-ups of people like Justin Timbersnake on their bedroom walls, suffer from FTS or the dreaded Fairy Tale Syndrome. They believe that Prince Charming will come along -- of course he'll be rich, famous, handsome and straight -- and will sweep her off her feet, marry her, make beautiful and perfect children with her and never, ever look at another woman. Even his farts will smell like roses, if he ever farted, which he won't.

I just don't understand this kind of delusion. She lives in the same world as I. How could she be this out of touch with reality? I think the thing that really bothered me was her age. I mean, this isn't some 22-year-old I'm having this conversation with. She's a year older than me, for God's sake.

I'm not saying I never had the hope that someone would ride in on a white stallion, 'rescue' me from my life, and be the perfect man, but I was really young and immature. That phase didn't last long for me because I'm a born realist, and I was able to see my parents marriage as it actually was. Not that it was horrible by any means, just completely human. Reality is so much greater than any delusion I've ever lived under or any denial I've ever been in. Truth isn't just stranger than fiction -- it's also a hell of a lot more fun, with no reality-facing hangovers to deal with in the morning.

I think she'll be one of the millions of women who will eventually need to be put on Prozac. When reality hits, she'll need it. Maybe she's already on it. That might explain some of her beliefs and her 5-year lack of libido.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Nothing Deep Or Political Or Well-Written

Yesterday, I had the day from hell. I worked 8 hours instead of 4 due to the charts piling up because of the ice storm. I realize that 8 is the norm for most people, but 8 to a person with CFS feels like a double shift to you normies. What made it worse was I wasn't expecting this at all because this particular office had told me not to come by last week, as they didn't have anything for me to do. They lied. Liars!

I then had to come home and call about ten people on a list for the volunteer thing. Shortly thereafter, I had to leave and take care of a friends dog, Rockie, a tan and black Pomeranian. That put me in a great mood. I'm serious. Even though I am not normally very fond of lap-type dogs, this one is so much fun, loving and insane, I love to spend time with him. I then had to leave to be somewhere at 7:00 and didn't get home/eat until 10:00.

This morning while hastily slicing tomatoes to put in the dehydrator to make sun-dried ones for a recipe I'm making later, I sliced a chunk out of my finger. I do mean 'a chunk.' I am not really wanting to take the paper towel off and look at it, for fear that I'll feel all woosy and it'll start bleeding all over the place again. It's weird -- as a certified EMT, I could handle treating you if you leg or arm were hanging on by just a thread, but something as small as a razor cut on my person really freaks me out.

I guess the tomatoes aren't actually 'sun-dried,' okay? I guess they are 'dehydrator-dried,' but they taste the same, so there.

I have typed this with just one hand. Feel some pity for me. Or else.

Monday, February 02, 2004

Guess What??? More Searches, That's What.

The Freaks Come Out at Night and Day and Evening ...

1) Chicago blog tits swell
2) Let it grow armpit hair
3) Woman (sic) who gouge eyes
4) Eye poking
5) Cutting the male pee hole (Ouch! ed)
6) Tampons in yus (?)
7) Booblettes
8) Lauren Hutton fights (This I gotta see, ed)

More All Things Bam

People want to know about Bam's parents, phone number, vomiting, childhood, next move, items, stories, life, human bowling, real name, car, age, dad, bad habits, middle name, real middle name, and they want pictures of his house. He's a popular guy, that Bam. It's like God said, "Bam! You're popular!" Huh, huh. Get it? See Bam's his name and 'bam' is something you say when you make something suddenly happen. So, do you get ... oh, never mind.

These People Need Doctors or Counselors of Some Sort or Another

1) Raw oats, why am I craving (speak backwards, why do you? ed)
2) I made a huge mistake, new job
3) Floor caving in, fat

People Who Will Need a Doctor's Assistance

1) Johnny Knoxville eat salt
2) Purchase fake PADI scuba card (If you manage to get one, don't come crying to me if you get the bends and wake up dead, Dumbass. ed)

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