Nothing too scary going on over here. Well, the catbox is pretty frightening.
Because I don't have any excellent ghost stories to write (I tell them much better), I shall introduce you to some of my favorite musicians.

What can the dead do? The Dead can Dance.
These lovely folks (Lisa Gerard and Brendan Perry) have incredible voices, blending age-old European vocals with modern nuances. They have attracted quite the 'Goth' crowd, merely because the music is haunting and reminds us of older, more magical times. If you like: Loreena McKennitt, you'll enjoy Dead can Dance.

Victory not vengeance! Let's start a new VnV Nation!

Here are two British chaps that have taken 'industrial' to the next level. Now being called 'synth-pop' by true fans of the industrial music scene (ie: My Boyfriend), Ronan and Clint make hard-hitting electronica with poppy beats. Ronan's vocal abilities are astounding...Michael and I went to see them in concert at Earthlink Live in Atlanta, and were duly impressed. The show is more energetic and fun than many other concerts I've attended. Additionally, the crowd is eclectic: Normal Joes, Goths, Punks, and all sorts of electronica fans can be spotted. VnV Nation is an excellent bridge from the die hard KMFDM fans to the more poppy beats of today's Happy Hardcore Electronica. If you like: Covenant, you will like VnV Nation.

Okay, other groups worth checking out:

Switchblade Symphony, Icon of Coil, Stromkern, The Cruxshadows, The Retrosic, Assemblage 23, and God Module.

When something exciting happens today, I'll let you know all about it. I have a second interview with a pretty awesome agency, so let's all keep our fingers crossed!

Oh? Who's this? GASP! It's a Starbuck's bear in costume for Halloween! And he's brought me a present! It's a new wallet! With a little girl monkey on it! I think I know a little Simian out there who would like to meet my little monkey wallet friend. However, she will not let go of the credit card. Everytime I reach for it, she yanks it back.

I can't believe I'm admitting this...I love crossword puzzle books.

WARNING: YOU MAY NEED SUNGLASSES! We had a rather drab looking comforter in here, so off to Ikea for a new comforter and wonderful duvet cover. Mmm! Bright!

Getting the new cabinet meant we could move some stuff around and put up more of Michael's artwork, Jackson Pollock style. What a nice little nook.

What happens at Ikea stays at Ikea. Except for the new furniture. You get to take that home with you. Here is the new entertainment cabinet, housing DVD's and videos. I forgot about all those movies. DAMN that Ikea!

1. What time did you get up this morning? 8:30 am
2. Diamonds or pearls? Either one. Or any other precious jewel thingy
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Uh. Hmmm. Is it bad if you can't remember at all?
4. What is your favorite TV show? X-Files, My Name is Earl, Wonderfalls, The Office
5. What did you have for breakfast this morning? Toast with honey
6. What's your favorite cuisine? Is junk food a category?
7. What foods do you dislike? mushrooms, avacado, and this weird soup Michael makes with tortellini shells and tomato juice.
8. What is your favorite chip flavor? Nacho.
9. What's your favorite CD at the moment? VnV Nation
10. What kind of car do you drive? 2005 Scion Xa
11. Favorite sandwich? Pizza grinder
12. What characteristics do you despise? Liars. Immoral folks. Sourpusses. Sore losers. Republicanism. Cheaters. Vanity. VANITY!!
13. What is your favorite type of clothing? Hmm. Black skirt, fishnets, boots, black lace shirt, black corset, black coat, and (of course) polka dot comfy pants.
14. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? Prague
15. What color is your bedroom? Beige...last room touched in apartment
16. Favorite brand of clothing? Torrid, Consignment Shops, Boutiques...
7. Where would you retire to? Belize
8. Favorite time of the day? 10pm. I've got coffee going and my man next to me on the sofa.
19. What was your most memorable birthday? When I turned 26 (this year). Michael whisked me off to Asheville, NC. He bought me Tiffany jewelry. He wooed me. He dined me. He spoiled me. But you know? He STILL does that stuff to this day.
20. Where were you born? Chicago, Illinois
21. Favorite sport to watch? I don't watch any sports.
22. Who do you least expect to send this back to you? I'm not forwarding or tagging anyone.
24. What fabric detergent do you use? Whatever the hell is on sale
25. Were you named after anyone? Nope. But it turns out an evil, crazy dead relative had the same exact name.
26. Do you wish on stars? No. I wonder at stars. I am awed by them. But I don't wish on them.
27. When did you last cry? Uh...like...Wednesday.
28. Do you like your handwriting? Yes. It's neat, pretty, but not too girly.
29. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? What the hell question is THAT? I think I'd be like "Whoa. That chick is kinda scary but funny. She'd be fun at a party." Except I'm not any fun at a party. And if I were a guy? Oh, Hell, NO, I wouldn't hang out with me.
30. Are you a daredevil? Yes.
31. Do looks matter? That's dumb. Of course!
32. How do you release anger? I cry. And do boxing moves on the porch. It scares the neighbors
33. Where is your second home? Hm. The library. I go about four times a week. No, wait, coffee shops! No, wait, gas stations!
34. What were your favorite toys as a child? I didn't HAVE any toys. Well, except for the Slinky that poked me in the eye.
35. What class in High School was totally useless? AP Economics. When a male teacher cries at a class' stupidity, that's a sign of uselessness.
36. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Yes--too much.
37. Favorite movies? I hate these questions. I'm skipping that one.
38. What are your nicknames? Fritz, Lizard, Lizzardbreath, Betsy (hate it), Hey You, Idiot, Bitch
39. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? If I wear shoes with ties, I take the shoelaces out
40. Do you think that you are strong? Yes. See past HNTs.
41. What's your favorite ice cream flavor? Anything involving chocolate, coffee, or heath bar
42. What are your favorite colors? Black, deep red, hot pink
43. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? I'm fat
44. Who do you miss the most? Miss? Hmm. No one. People who are important never leave, even if physically they are no longer present. When Michael is gone for a few days, I miss him, I guess. But I know he'll never really leave my side. Not even after death.
45. Do you want everyone you sent this to send it back? I'm NOT sending it to ANYONE
46. What color pants are you wearing? black
47. What are you listening to right now? Michael on the phone
48. Last thing you ate? uh, some noodles
49. If you were a CRAYON what color would you be? Black--you need it for every drawing
50. Last person you talked to on the phone? My ex-boss
51. What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Shoulders. Ass. Eyes.
52. Favorite Drink? Coffee
53. Do you wear contacts? No
54. Favorite Day of the Year? Tomorrow
55. Scary Movies or Happy Endings? Scary movies ARE happy endings.
56. Summer or winter? Winter
57. Hugs OR Kisses? Hugs
58. What Is Your Favorite Dessert? Being right
59. What Book(s)Are You Reading? A Ship Made of Paper and I Capture the Castle
60. What's On Your Mouse Pad? Cartman: "It's a bunch of tree hugging hippie crap!"
61. What Did You Watch Last night on TV? I didn't watch TV
62. Favorite Smells? Coffee. Michael's neck, fresh lake water
63. Rolling Stones or Beatles? NEITHER
64. What's the furthest you've been from home? Manchester, England.

Well, that was dull for you to read, wasn't it?

How many injustices must be committed
By superfluous agencies and their
Deepened pore noses, ruined
with indulgence?

How many oiled and baited attorneys
Must be vomited forth to attack
The people, the everyday folks,
You and I?

How many liars does it take
To ruin a country?
A thousand? A hundred?

And how many citizens
Have to pay the price?

Here is the answer:
Each and every one of us
everyday folks.
You and I.

I'm on the warpath. I've got my paint on and my tribal headdress. I'm ready to start scalping. I've been humiliated, verbally badgered, and intimidated. I've been shipwrecked. And now?

I'm swearing revenge.

Oh, it's not going to stop with this blog, folks. I'm writing every newspaper in this town. I'm writing the governor, the Georgia Department of Corruption, and the Georgia Department of Labor. I'm calling up news channels. I may even picket. Michael said he'd be with me, and we're going to call the news for coverage. Lookout, Cindy Sheehan. I'm comin' up.

Yesterday was my 'administrative hearing' for unemployment benefits. As we all know, I've been 'denied' them, and set up an appeal. Prior to the hearing, I received documents directing me to be ready with evidence, etc. It was a telephone hearing. I could have a family or friend represent me. I could also hire an attorney, but that was not necessary. Okay. No big deal, right?

The 'phone interview' consisted of some 'admin. hearing officer' in downtown Atlanta. The GDC had an attorney and three witnesses against me. They were all in the room together. I was the only party (I think) on the phone. Thirty-four pages of evidence were entered on the GDC's behalf. I never got a copy of any of it. I didn't know there would be an attorney present for GDC. I didn't know how belittling this process is.

I was told by the attorney that I was 'irresponsible, malicious, immoral, and consciously someone who violated departmental policy'. The admin. hearing officer allowed this attorney to speak to me this way. He asked how old I was, I think to show how my 'youth' made my argument less valid. Evidence was allowed into the hearing that was NOT in the initial grounds of me getting fired. I was completely defenseless. Just the way those fascists wanted me. Ripe for a good ass-whipping.

I ended up crying, CRYING, during the interview. No one stepped in on my behalf--not this admin. hearing officer, not anyone. I hope that one day, each one of those individuals feels the shame and humiliation that I experienced. And unlike me, I hope someone will extend some mercy to them, so that they can wonder how I pulled myself up by my bootstraps.

Georgia, you pushed the WRONG opinionated woman over the edge. And now? Well, now, we're going to find out exactly how often this happens to workers. And just for good measure, I'm contacting the Teamsters. I'm going to ask them to step in on Georgia employees' behalf. This is the LAST time I will ever be treated so unfairly. This is the LAST time I will ever let a corrupt government run ripshod over me. I'm on the warpath, folks.

Of course, what is hilarious is that I got a call for a second interview the same day for another job I REALLY want, working with developmentally disabled adults. Sweet!

Go blow it out your ass, Georgia Department of Corruption.

This is a compilation list, like those tapes we made in seventh grade, holding the recorder up to the radio because we were so ghetto-poor. Or, was that just me? In any case, a few things have happened to me over the past few days that have spawned this list. Bear with me.

PET PEEVES
1. Dropping my razor in the shower.
2. Losing socks in the dryer (Thanks, Satan).
3. Dirty dishes left in the sink.
4. When my cigarette burns funky and goes out.
5. When I turn on music on the computer and nothing comes out because the volume was mysteriously turned off by SOMEONE else.
6. The sound of airplanes droning in the sky.
7. When the coffee burns
8. When people don't use coasters on nice tables
9. Dry hands
10. When the cat eats my plants
11. When people STOP in the exits of stores
12. Babydoll dresses
13. Beds that aren't made
14. The New York Yankees
15. Cameltoes.
16. The ridiculous fashions of Kirsten Dunst. Kirsten, please start wearing bras.
17. When my nails break
18. People who walk toe-heel, toe-heel
19. Beagles
20. These computer colloquialisms: "ROFL" "LMAO" "LOL" . And ANY emoticon.
21. The overuse of '!'. One will do the trick, I promise.
22. Orlando Bloom.
23. Oh, and in the same vein, Leonardo DeCrappio
24. These bands: Puddle of Crap and Nicklesuck (To get the idea, two kids played one Nicklesuck song through one speaker and a different song through the other speaker. It's the same F#*&ing song! BASTARDS!)
25. Running out of toilet paper while sitting on the throne
26. Late fines at the library
27. Call me narrow-minded on this one: When I am surrounded by any foreign/immigrant family that is speaking in their own language. I REALLY want to know what they are talking about. It's my problem, I know.
28. Hunger. I HATE feeling hungry.
29. Foot impressions on freshly vacuumed carpet
30. The new purse trend
31. When I take my foot off the clutch like an idiot and kill the car.
32. When upset, men saying "Oh, she's on her period, obviously"
33. When the pretty people always win. I mean, look at that show, "My Fair Brady". That woman, Adrianne Curry, is unclassed, uncouth, inexperienced, illiterate, ungracious, unfriendly, and a drunk. Yet, she's pretty. So, she gets to fly to foreign lands and wear overpriced dresses and get swept off her feet. All because she's got a pair of legs. I HATE THAT.

This shall conclude the list for now. However, it is a work in progress. I may have to re-vamp it from time to time.

Dear Mrs. Parks:
On behalf of all marginalized people, I write to wish you farewell. On behalf of all the sad, degenerate, and forgotten, I write to wish you thanks. For all the suffering and lost, I write to wish you Godspeed on your journey.
I am sure you will be able to sit wherever you would like.
In a time of great peril, such as this, when the politically immoral have risen to seats of power, I thank you for that day on the bus in Montgomery. I thank you for saying, simply, "No. I will not move from this seat." In those words, little did you know, you channeled Gandhi and sat peacefully until you were arrested.
When you were arrested, you asked the officer, "Why do you push us around?" He replied, "I don't know, except that it is the law." You had the heart to go against a law harmful to your people. You did not behave; no, you rebelled. Thank you.
A particular pastor caught wind of this rebellion, Mrs. Parks. He called it a movement. He brought the people down and said, "I have a dream that it won't be like this anymore. I have a dream that women will not have to sacrifice their seats, their children, their hopes because of their color. I have a dream that we all can look at one another without fear, and love each other." His dream, Mrs. Parks, is what we strive for, still. His dream was ignited by your simple statement. "No."
Throughout the years, you never spoke loudly. You never screamed or twisted your face with anger and rage. You never acted anything but like a lady. You claimed your dignity and wore it as a crown. You have taught me many lessons. Thank you.
In this next journey that you take, I know you will smile with peace and gratitude. I know you will always be a lady. I know you will be asked to commune with the saints. And you may, but you will be quiet, respectful. You will drink in the beauty of your world with all the silent pride you can muster, and you will be forever honored.
May you always be remembered to us, Mrs. Parks. May we teach our children of your message, and tell them when it is good and righteous to say, "No." May we hold your standards up as rule, and treat one another with kindness, respect, and dignity. That way, a Dream can be realized. And we can all sit exactly where we want.
Sincerely,
The World.

Rosa Parks February 4, 1913-October 25, 2005

Your Famous Blogger Twin is Moby

Creative, cosmopolitan, and a bit moody If something's on your mind, it's on your blog

Apparently, THEY have come into my computer and read my mind. And flipped through my CD's. How did they know I loved Moby? And WHAT could have indicated I was ranty, moody, and stream-of-consciousness oriented?

Oh, wait. Could it have been the incessant journalling?

No? Then, perhaps, the Philosophy and Religious Books?

No? I guess it was this. Over seventy Moby songs in iTunes alone.

Borrowing from Madge and Monkey, I have invited my readers to take a tour of my home.

The Dining Nook. Rarely used except for placing cat's drinking glass on table and catchall towards garage.
Fritz: Pumpkin Carver Extraordinare!
The Room Where the Magic Happens...no, not THAT magic. This is where I BLOG. Note spray bottle. That is for the cat, when she decides to walk in front of the screen every five minutes or so.
Ooo! The New Slo-Cooker, a la Michael's parents. Thanks so much! And the coffee pot. Mmmm, coffee. Oh, and what's under the tinfoil? Applecake, from Michael's mom. I've had three peices, today.

oof, silly Blogger is having issues...I must now resort to the Hello Program...

Edit: Because of Blogger's inadequacy to currently do anything right, I've had to continue the tour in separate posts. What is going on with this thing?

Additionally, I have been asked to 'word-ver' my own posts, because I seem to be a spam threat to Blogger. I am having a small conniption fit about this, and Maggie has been stomping about the bedroom. The neighbors are getting upset. BlogSpot, this must end NOW!

Here is the Smoking Room. Or, the deck. Or, the garden.


The Entertainment Area: we Love Ikea and the Womb Chair, another gift from my parents. Yes, I am spoiled.




And here is my way scary pumpkin that I carved. I wish I could do this for a living.

Proof that I ride. But not in the bathrobe. Stickers on my helmet read:
"If you see my bike on a trailer, dial 911"
"I still miss my ex, but my aim is improving"
"The beatings will continue until morale improves"
"DANGER!"
and assorted stickers of fairies. Kinda random.

The beautiful dresser my father made for me. It is made of ash, and is very heavy. It smells wonderful, and on the back is a plaque that reads "Made for Fritz by her father, 2005". Yeah, I teared up.

Delilah, GET OUT OF BED! It's time to wake up! Get up, get up!

And a picture of my mother, circa 1973. She is such a pretty lady. Mom, don't kill me for putting this up.

The picture my mother drew of me holding Lyle Patrick (deceased).

Maggie and I made this together.

Maggie and I had some down time on Sunday, what with NHL is Dead to Me gone. We decided to pool our resources and head to Atlanta's Ritz-Carlton for high tea.

By the way, it is very hard to dress an elephant appropriately for high tea. I was wearing my snazziest hat and pair of shoes with sweatpants and a shirt that read "Pu-Tang: For Real". They let me in without much fuss, but Maggie was a different story. She insisted in staying in her footie pajamas, but I did convince her to don a hat, earrings, and some gloves. After a minor fuss, we were seated.

During the consumption of scones, I noticed something was quite wrong with Maggie. She wasn't bleating in her normal way. In fact, she was plain giving me the cold shoulder. I knew I had done something wrong.
"What is it, Maggie?" I asked.
She harrumphed at me, and her sad elephant eyes looked teary. She pulled at my very heartstrings.

After some sweet tea with milk, she confided in me that I had hurt her feelings on the computer. I had put some posts up about a group of people who are very vulnerable and alone, and I had made fun of them. She said this was the very kind of thing that got feelings hurt. She likened it to her ancestors being preyed upon for ivory and such. I didn't quite see the correlation, but she managed to convince me that my words were quite hard to read and un-fair.

I tried to explain to Maggie that I have a really cynical sense of humor; that by way of protecting myself from getting too involved in painful situations, I tend to mock them. It is a defense manuever of a three-year-old, yet I persist in using it.

Maggie bleated a little and said it was time for me to grow up and think about what I say before I say them. She was right, you know. Too many people talk without understanding the wieght of their words. It's started wars, in the past.

I apologized to Maggie, and I apologize to the rest of my readers. I hope that you will be able to see that I mock things in a cynical way rather than getting to the heart of the matter. When I started tearing up at the Ritz with guilt, Maggie put her soft trunk around me and told me she forgave me. That was a relief. I can only hope the rest of you forgive me, as well.

It's true. Satan and I have had a long standing mutual respect. The Lord of Darkness put my Ode up on His website. You can read it here.

Look, I know famous people are a lot smarter than me. They lead far more interesting lives and also manage to be funny and beautiful all at once. Their stories are probably better constructed than mine, because famous people have led lives filled with editors and P.R. people and whatnot. I'm okay with that. However, these Blogs of Note are really ticking me off. They consist of famous musicians who deem it necessary to write blogs, and also of pencilneck movie reviewers. Rarely is there a Blog of Note by people like you and me.

Granted, I did not get into Blogging for admiration or popularity. I am sure Famous Musician X did not, either. It just so happened that dear Blogspot found his blog and not mine.

You know, in order to be reminded of what a peon I am, all I have to do is turn on the television, read a newspaper or celebrity mag, or listen to the radio. I don't need a Blogger rubbing it in my maw that during this whole on-line journaling thing, I can still be superseded by stories of Britney Spears and stream-of-consciousness babbling by old rock stars.

Dammit.

Well, I proclaim MY BLOG a Blog of Note. Please note.

Thanks to Madge and THIS POST, I had to remember something I really wanted to forget. I blame Madge.

The year: 2003.
The place: Rat-hole Canton Lofts.
Who: The Boyfriend Down the Hall (Yes, it's true. NHL is Dead to Me is not the first boyfriend I dated from 'down the hall'--but he's the BEST by far. Read on.)
What: Disgusting Towels.

It was December. I had packed on my usual extra twenty pounds of fat for the holidays and hibernation (What? I'm German!). I was lonely and bereft. I was ready for some kind of companion that did not include The Estrogen Fishbowl. Enter Stinky Towel Boy. He lived down the hall with his beagle named Sherman. Sherman stank and whined a lot. Stinky Towel Boy had crooked, yellow teeth and a receding hairline. He was twenty-three. He was short and skinny. He was obsessed with me.
I didn't like him immediately, and then, like a cancer, he just kept coming back. I pushed him away for awhile, so he told The Estrogen Fishbowl I was a 'freak', and started flirting with one of my lesbian friends. This did not go over well with The Estrogen Fishbowl. However, Stinky Towel Boy did provide me with a lot of free alcohol and a free cable hookup (he worked at the local cable station). So, for two months, I hung in there. The whole time, I tried to figure out how to break up with him and his whiny, stinky, farting beagle.

This is what did it:
Using his bathroom, I realized the smell of the entire apartment EMANATED from the bathroom. A towel was hung on the floor. It was damp and covered in dog fur. There was no toilet paper. There was no sign of a toothbrush. There was no soap. There was a ring around the tub dating back to the early Phoenicians. I came out quivering.
"Um," I said, "What's that smell in the bathroom?"
"What smell?" Stinky Towel Boy was playing video games.
"There is a smell, and no soap, and no toilet paper, and...how do you bathe?"
"Sherman sleeps in there. He likes to use my towels." This was perfectly reasonable, I guess.
"I imagine you use the same towel even though the dog sleeps on the towel?" I asked, tapping my fingers.
"Yeah. He's clean."

"What do you use for soap?" I asked.
"Soap bothers my skin," he said.
"All soap?"
"Yeah, pretty much." Video game has not been paused.
"What about brushing your teeth?" I asked.
"I forget a lot," he said.
"You forget?"

And it all came rushing back over me. The jeans that were too short. The 'punk' shirts smelling slightly. The towels. Oh, God, the towels.

"You realize," I said after a small gag, "that we must now break up."
"WHAT?" Finally, the video game was turned off. The dog farted ominously from the sofa.
"I don't like you anymore. I haven't liked you for awhile, but I didn't know how to tell you. And I can't date someone who forgets to brush his teeth. I can't," I am now making an inventory of the apartment and slowly backing towards the door.
"But...but I love you!" Ewww.
"No, you don't. You need a maid. And air freshner. And Lysol. And a toothbrush."
He began to cry. Bawling. Sobbing. He crawled toward me on hands and knees and wrapped his skinny, pale arms around my legs.
"YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME!"
"Actually, I can, and I am going to. Please let go of my legs," I instructed calmly.
"BUT WHO WILL TEACH ME HOW TO CLEAN?"

He did. He really did ask that. Over and over.
Somehow, I detangled myself from him that night. For weeks after, I found notes stuffed under my door, entailing the torture of loving a cold woman like me, suffering through the loss of love and a broken heart. Stinky Towel Boy wrote volumes of really horribly poetry and left them for me. I tried. I really did. I wanted to read them, if anything, for their entertainment value.

But I couldn't. Because each note smelled of Stinky Towels and the Farting Beagle.

Finally, he gave up and just bought some soap. I hope wherever he is, he smells better. And I hope that horrid dog yelps loudly in the bathroom everytime a towel starts to smell.

Maggie and I have been walking around the little 'parks' here in Georgia. We're sorely disappointed with the 'recreational' system in the South. It seems that 'recreation' must only consist of soccer and baseball. There are no wide swaths of land to rollick in. There are no ash-ridden barbeque pits. There are no lopsided picnic tables. There is a dirt path that goes from one soccer field to the next. Maggie and I made it to an unused soccer field and decided to sit down at the goal net. We were going to chew some grass and weave dandelions into the net when a short woman ran across the field. Maggie and I were impressed because the woman was wearing pumps--albeit sensible pumps--but running in a knee length tailored Brooks Brother suit and sensible pumps is a feat worth witnessing.

"You can't sit here!" the woman screamed at us.
Maggie harrumphed through her trunk.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because this is only for SOCCER, not for ne'erdowells, such as yourself and this elephant!"
"But no one is using the field," I protested.
"Doesn't matter. Only soccer players here," the woman said while tucking her perfectly coiffed old-lady cut behind an ear.
"We pay taxes," I said. Maggie has not budged; indeed she is leaving a rather large goal beneath the net while all of this is going on.
"I don't CARE at ALL about you or your taxes or your pachyderm! You have to move!" The woman whispered something about 'filthy hippy pro-choicers'.
That's when I recognized the woman.

"Hey, you're that chick that Bush is trying to get appointed to the Supreme Court!" I said. Maggie bleated. She didn't sound too happy.

"Miers. The name is Miers," Harriet Miers said.

"So, when you are on the Supreme Court, are you going to make sure no one EVER steps onto a soccer field unless they are a soccer player?" I asked. "No," she replied, fingering her pearls, "I'm going to make sure women will not be able to get abortions."

"Oh," I said. "Are you a judge?"

"No," she said. She looked peeved.

"So, are you going to get a crash course in objectivity?" I asked, patting Maggie's rough skin.

"No," she said, "What's objectivity?"

"It's this thing where...even though you personally feel that people who don't play soccer should not be on soccer fields, you won't make them get off the soccer fields, because it is your duty to not let personal choices get in the way of your political choices," I instructed.

"Ha!" she cackled. "Like THAT is ever gonna happen! Hell, no! I intend to use my seat as a Supreme Court Justice to malign and destroy the pro-choice movement! I intend to put GOD back into the schools and possible discuss prohibition of alcohol! I am going to make sure that every WHORE who considers abortion be burned at the stake! I am going to do all that I can to kill off wildlife species which are endangered, and I am also going to try to get Bush crowned King!"

That bitch was so ugly, Maggie 'accidentally' swung her rear into the woman's head. Needless to say, we're still sitting at the soccer field.

It's hard walking an elephant.

Holy Jehosephat. I've actually submitted a story to Creative Loafing, the local Atlanta leftish rag. I certainly don't expect to win, but at least I'm giving it a shot. Anyway, my father seemed to like the story, and what with his three or four masters' degrees in all things Literature, I can't imagine him blessing anything less than palatable. Why did it take so long to share a story with the rest of the world?

Because sometimes, you just need a push.

Have you heard about Maggie? This unfortunate pachyderm lives at the Anchorage, Alaska zoo. Obviously, subzero temperatures and a three month summer isn't really a typical surrounding for an African bush elephant. Apparently, dear Maggie has developed a case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (that's right, S.A.D.). She's put on a bunch of weight and can't seem to remember anything. So, someone has decided to give her a push.

They have built a treadmill for her. She's managed to drop one thousand pounds (Thank God for Jenny Craig) and squeeze back into that Little Black Dress from high school. However, she's got some more weight to lose (don't we all?--No, actually. The Olsen Twins don't really need to lose any weight). Hence: the treadmill.

Reports that the National Enquirer has simply mixed up photos of Kirstie Alley and Maggie have filed in, but I (for one) am stricken with shame for these so-called 'legitimate' sources. Kirstie Alley has a pair of legs that I would die for, personally. I've written Maggie, and she's been kind enough to extend treadmill
use to me in exchange for some counseling. We're gonna get through this long, dark winter together.

Me and the Pachyderm.

Michael left this morning for Kentucky. He will be visiting his parents and telling them about his intention to M-A-R-R-Y me. I miss him. That man is my heart.

Yesterday, I got into an altercation with another individual on Blogger, and it was all rather pathetic and silly, and I feel a small amount of remorse for permitting it to get out of hand. While the principle that I believe in about blogging is still intact (people should not put up things about their lives if they don't want to hear criticism), I should not have badgered as much as I did, nor be as upset with the individual's life choices.

This person (I thought and think) is making some choices that may lead to some issues with her children. She became really angry and started talking about how I don't have children and I shouldn't judge.

I didn't bring it into the 'fight', because it is rather moot, but the fact is: I may never be able to have children. I have some medical conditions that will make pregnancy VERY difficult, and I may not be able to carry a child full term. No, I haven't TRIED to get pregnant because I'm not ready for that, yet.

When people put their children at risk, I grow very angry. Children are the hopes of this world. They are the joys and precious gems of life that are often overlooked. Children have no advocates but their parents. When parents fail, they have abandoned children. I am highly sensitive to this; I've seen children abandoned for meth, children abused, children sexually stunted and harmed. This is not right. There are people in this world that do not deserve children.

One day, I may give my right arm and leg to have a baby, and it might not be possible. Of course, if I adopted, I would love that baby as much as my own biological child. But when people take their children for granted, they are hurting me. Our world is filled with babies who just need more love and hugs and kisses and good food and wonderful parents. A child is a present from God. A child can re-invent love.

So, to the individual who I directed such comments to, she may or may not come back by, but I have one thing to say to her: Don't tell me I can't imagine life with kids because I don't have them. I may never have them.

In other news, Michael bought me a toy! Even with me
being unemployed (well, that's about to change), I still get
really cool presents! We both now have Sirius Radio in our vehicles. How did I go on before? Last night, I heard Ministry,
Miles Davis, Paul Oakenfold, and the Dead Kennedys all within the span of twenty minutes. And of course, there is liberal talk radio and the comedy channels. If I'm missing in action, it's because I am sitting in the Scion, listening to my new, cool tunes.

Well, I went on my motorcycle ride and had a blast.
The weather was coolish, the sun was out, and the traffic was...well, typical.
So, I put about sixty miles on the Ole' Gal and then had a revelation:

I need to do a post about Motorcycle Peeves.
1. Falling leaves hurt when propelled at you at sixty miles per hour.
2. Trucks smell yucky.
3. You get a whole new appreciation for roadkill when you're swervingaround it. Or stopped over it.
4. People really don't look for you.
5. Your butt gets sore after awhile.
6. Freaky men stare at you if you are a female (or a male, maybe).
7. If you don't have highway pegs, your legs get crampy.
8. God help you if a bee flies into your helmet. I should know; this has happened to me.
9. Emotional reactions will kill you. I should remember this in everyday life, as well.
10. Stay Away from Cadillacs. Period.
And finally, the WORST pet peeve ever:
11. Sneezing in a helmet. Four times. While riding.
Enough said?

The time has come for me to bare my soul to the world. I've started a bit of a blog war with someone who is apparently a little on-edge. She doesn't want me going back to her blog, so the little devil in me is going, "GO! Go and tick her off some more!" while my moral radar is saying, "Enough, Fritz. Be a bit more mature". It's tough.

So, before I get all righteous on her ass and slice her with my razor-sharp wit (admittedly a bit dull from too many leg shavings), I think I shall make myself vulnerable, just as she did. She has threatened to beat me up if she ever sees me on the street. This is great, because we apparently live in the same neck of the woods.

It is amazing how juvenile people really are. Including myself.

Okay, so onward:
* I kind of like picking fights with people for the purpose of being a shit. It's true. I yell out the window at pick-up trucks with confederate flags and cowboy hats. NHL tells me to shut it, but I can't help myself. When I see those asshole Civil War reenactors, I yell, "WE WON. GET OVER IT!" Generally, NHL will squeal his tires and honk. Generally.

*I stole a keychain when I was fifteen from a Claire's Boutique.

*I doodle constantly in a big book, and sometimes, they are naughty doodles.

*I go to therapy, because I think everyone should. It's a great way of not only being aware of my own dysfunctions, but it is also a whole hour dedicated to me.

*I tend to be selfish.

* I really like to exaggerate, and every conflict in my life is generally a HUGE thing.

* I'm a total hypochondriac. When I have a cold, it's pneumonia. When I have a headache, it's cancer. When I have an achy joint, it's a torn tendon. I have so much unused prescription medication in my bathroom I could open up a pharmacy.

* I snore.

* I HAVE been to a loony bin after a long dark winter in Omaha and no family around. If you ever want to get a grip on life, go check yourself in. It's kind of fun.

* I try not to be influenced by the media, but I still find myself watching VH1

* I would rather go without underwear than with. I'm just sayin'.

* I think I was a bit of a drunk from age 20-22. I think.

* I smoked so much pot in college I forgot half of my sophmore year. Somehow, I still maintained a kick-ass grade point average.

* I got myself fired. I admit it. There were too many days when I told people I was 'trying to get fired'. Karma caught up with me, and she's a real witch.

* I drink about a pot of coffee a day and smoke almost a pack a day.

* I can honestly say my Boyfriend (NHL is dead to me) is The One, and he is amazing. He is generous, supportive, funny, smart, and he tickles me. I often feel that I don't deserve him. God graced me with that catch.

*I'm going for a bike ride today, and you might see me whirring by...give me a wave and for GOD'S SAKE USE YOUR SIGNAL.

*I have dreams of throwing eggs at Bush. Rotten eggs.

PLACE: Lower back, on spine
CHRONOLOGY: Symbol in the middle was the first tattoo I ever got at age 18. The rest came in the following year. The complete tattoo is the first entire tattoo on my flesh
MEANING: The symbol in the center is kanji, a Japanese character. The tattoo shop told me it meant 'Jesus', but a Korean friend in college who spoke Japanese said it means 'Happiness'. I can dig it. The bird is the dove, a symbol of the Holy Spirit. The olive branches represent peace and harmony.
TWO DO-DADS ON THE SIDE? Those were the last bits that came with this tattoo, and I'm not particularly happy with them. They are not centered and as I get older, I'm not really sure I like the design. After I am done with all the tattooing I want, I will probably figure out a way to cover these up under another design. Or not. Just goes to show you: you have to think about what you are doing before you go, "Hmm. Yeah, I want THAT on my body forever!" I don't regret getting these little doodads, but I think they could be better.
HOW BIG?: The entire tattoo is about four inches tall and five inches across. I think. I never really see it.

Okay, so that's my HNT. Not as sexy as the last one, but probably not as controversial, either (ie: I'm not lecturing anyone today).
Edit: (I'm not lecturing anyone today on MY blog, but I went and opined on someone else's, and now I'm in deep-Blog-doodoo. Oopsy!)

PLEASE SEEK HELP, CRUSH YOU.

Went on an interview today...was told that I am:

INTELLECTUALLY OVERQUALIFIED

This is the phrase of the week. You are not 'too smart for your own damn good', you are intellectually overqualified.

You are not 'liberal arts educated and in possession of worthless bachelor's degree when you could be typing for a lawyer and making oodles of money', you are intellectually overqualified.

I think the last waitress who served me was intellectually overqualified when she mistakenly forgot to bring me a diet coke while she was rattling on about the Proletarian forces behind the Russian Revolution.

This is a kind way of telling me I am really smart and would not make a good administrative/legal assistant.

Well, I've been accused by an Anonymous of being self-centered. How prophetic! I really am quite wrapped up in Me. Not because I'm anything special, but because I have to put up with myself everyday. If you had to do it, you'd get pretty centered around me, too. But I imagine you have yourselves to worry about.

Oh, that damn P.B.S.! Guess what was on? A documentary about the Amazon Women! A scientist had found bones around the Black Sea in Russia, and the bones were of a tall woman. An arrow was in her body cavity, obviously showing she was killed in battle. She was buried with arrowheads, the typical accoutrements of a warrior. Some DNA was extracted. Then, following Herodotus' writings, our scientist took off for Mongolia, where the Amazons resettled and eventually married into another tribe. And there, amongst a small tribe of nomadic Mongols, a blonde child was found. Blonde. Some DNA was extracted from her. Guess what? It matched the DNA from the skeleton found at the Black Sea. Amazons were real (Duh. See Spinning Girl).

However, let's bring this all back to me. Because I can. Anyway, here I am, blonde, thick boned, thick woman. Not necessarily TALL but certainly not short. Wide, flat feet. Big hips and chest, thick legs. Genetically, I'm attached to the Clan of Ursula. Women! Listen up! We carry DNA that is passed on to all of our children. Men cannot pass this DNA stuff along; only women can. That's how women can trace maternity lines back to Seven Daughters of Eve. Really interesting stuff. Turns out, I'm a she-bear (and I love bears, as you all probably are aware). 95% of European women can trace their roots back to this Clan of Ursula. It originated around the...Black Sea! Just like the Amazons.

The point? Folks, I am the descendant of a race of warrior women, fierce, dominating, strong, and warlike. So, the next time another Blogger starts picking a fight with me, be forewarned. I haven't lost my Ursaline like characteristics. I will gouge, rip, stab, or shoot (metaphorically) anyone who DARES intrude upon my BlogLand! I will not, however, be hacking off my breasts. That would be just be messy.

ooooooOOOOOoooooooo....go to My Story Page to read the newest fiction from yours truly...a creepy tale of an unearthly place.....

Thanks again J.J., for providing me with inspiration!

Well, folks, it's been a tough month. And I've decided to chalk it all up to my doppelganger. She's out there, and she's mean. Stay out of her way.
"Why would Fritz think such a thing?" you ask.
I think my tale will have to begin 26 years ago...when I was conceived.

I was conceived by a woman who desperately wanted a child and a man who wasn't too sure about the whole thing. Then, I emerged, and the woman was convinced that I was a gift and the man was...not too sure about the whole thing.

The years went swiftly by. We had fairly normal dysfunctional family. There was me, my mom, my dad, some alcohol, and four cats. Things were churning along in that sad, suburban, American lifestyle and then I went to college.

I went crazy but still kept a kick-ass grade point average. I did many a stupid thing. That's because I never had done ANYthing before college, so couldn't really gauge 'stupid' from 'coherent'. I was incoherently stupid. I caused my Mom a lot of grief and cost my Dad a lot of money. Don't worry. He had stopped drinking at this point, so he could afford it. It was just the principle...the doppelganger had made her entrance.

After college, I got a good government job and moved out into a tiny studio apartment. I drank regularly for a month and then decided the heartburn was killing me, so just upped my coffee and cut out the booze. I had a little tiny apartment in a little tiny town and I drove sixty miles everyday to work with convicted felons and I was poor and I had one friend and that was my stuffed animal. Then, I met the Estrogen Fishbowl (they came in pieces, back then), and had a good ole' time with them, including hanging out at their homes and eating all their food, because I don't cook.

I burned some bridges there, and thankfully, I'm making some of those up. Maybe that was when the doppelganger really got to work--when I was being such a shit to my friends and doing dumb things while drunk. I hated my job so much that I thought I'd transfer to the same job in an even more intolerant county. (Again, incoherently stupid). My other friend from work moved in next door to me, just as I burnt the last bridge with S&M Spinster. My other friend is gay, and we were inseparable, so my dating life was filled with blips because everyone thought we were a couple. And we were, in a really co-dependent way.

Through all this, I tried to be a good person. But that doppelganger was out there, wreaking havoc when I wasn't looking. Bitch.

And then I meet this guy who lives next door to me, and fast forward, I'm living in sin with him and loving every minute of it, and praising my tattoos and avoiding lectures from my father who still isn't too sure about having a kid but is absolutely certain that living with a man is right next to skinning a child alive. I hate my job because it's pointless and silly and degrading and dumb, and I talk about it on my blog and then I get fired.

The doppelganger is now ready for action, and she just threw up on me today.

Okay, so, let's see:
I woke up and realized my vacation time still had not been sent to me via check (with Georgia, if you get canned, your vacation time gets cashed out. I had about 110 hours coming my way). I called my old place of employment (always a pleasure) and asked my ex-boss if she'd seen it. She hadn't. It was suppossed to be here by now. So, I call downtown Atlanta, where payroll is. Ahmed or somebody tells me I should have the check. I say, "Gee. Maybe that is why I am calling. Because I don't have it when I should." He tells me to call back to old office. Old office says that the check got stopped up at a prison where the checks are cut. I call back to the downtown office and speak to a different person. She tells me that probation sends a letter to one prison which sends a letter to another prison which then sends a different letter to downtown, who then authorizes the check, passes the authorization to the middle prison which sends it back to the first prison which cuts the check and sends it to the probation office which sends it to me. Got all that? That's great, except ex-boss didn't get the paperwork done on time so now I have to wait until the end of October to get my check and I just bought a new car.

I call Mom. She calls the Guy Who Is Still Not Sure About my Existence and gets the okay for some money. He grumbles about it. As usual, I'm a big pain in the ass. The doppelganger must have gotten to him when I was in the womb. So, I have plans to meet Mom for lunch to get the check to pay the farmer in the dell. I decide to call the hopeful-employer and ask when I would know if I get a second interview and was told, "You have to come back in for more processing...we need a typing test. We'll call you." (Sigh). I get in my car to go to Mom's and a huge truck slams a small boulder into the windshield, leaving a nice little chip in the windsheild of the car I can no longer afford and is perfectly new.

I get to Mom's house, we talk, I cry, have some lunch, she writes out the check, I deposit it with great appreciation and relief...

I get in the car to go back home and get stuck in a three hour traffic jam (light for Fridays in Atlanta). Between shifting from first to second, second to first, I get on the phone to pay my cell phone bill.

It's one hundred and eighty seven dollars. For a cell phone bill.

Because while trying to get employed and fight GDC and fight the Department of Labor and calling everyone I know for a job and trying to keep myself sane, I've gone four hundred minutes over my calling plan.

Now, you can't possibly tell me that all of this happens by conincidence. It's not that. It's that doppelganger, and she's screwing up my karma. She's cursing me, and it's all coming out. NHL is Dead to Me swears up and down these things happen. I'm not convinced. That doppelganger is trying to kill me, somehow, and if I'm not posting for awhile, it's because she got her slippery little hands on me and demolished my very existence.

Welcome to the Fake Blonde South...

Go and click on the little icon when the new page springs up. Hope it works.

John, Clog Hater keeps worrying about clogs. I thought it was all in his little plastic-muddled head, but then I found this:

Sorry, dude, that blows.

I'm getting braver and braver. I had to Photoshop a certain part of my anatomy out. That just would not be kosher, especially since my mother sees this blog and probably thinks I go too far, as it is...



Anyhoo...Subject: Third tattoo
When I Got It: Valentine's Day, 2004
Why: Tired of heart being broken
What does it say: 'Deceived'.
Doesn't that bug your boyfriend?: No
What's in the center of the heart?: A keyhole
What's that supposed to mean?: There is a key to my heart
What's the next tattoo gonna be?: On the other ribcage, I am going to have a key done, with the words 'Faith Restored' embellished around it in the same manner of the heart...
Don't you worry about what it's going to look like at age 80?: 1. If I spent all of my time worrying about what I looked like at 80, then I would have some real insecurities. 2. I might not even be alive then.
Did it hurt?: This is probably the most intense tattoo I've gotten. It was directly on the ribcage, right over bone. Even on me, there isn't a lot of padding there. So, yes, this one hurt a lot. It is also a rite of passage for me; our culture doesn't embrace rites the way other cultures do. It meant a lot for me to endure the pain of this tattoo, especially since it is so beautiful.
General Info: This tattoo and most of my tattoos are done in the traditional style of tattoos, although I appreciate many forms. However, I intend to stick to traditional style as I go on filling up my back, because it is the style begun in America. Traditional style is heavy black outlining with shading of black and primary colors. Subjects are generally of loved ones, religious symbols and beliefs, and achievements. It's what the sailors and army men did on their arms and legs, and what the First Ladies of Tattooing did, as well.

HNT VENT: Because I Can...
While you're reading, I just want to say: I appreciate breasts just like everyone else does, especially mine. But I've been boinking around on other HNT sites and I AM REALLY SICK AND TIRED OF SEEING FAKE BOOBS AND GROSS NIPPLES. Stop it, ladies! It's not sexy...it's SMUTTY. Besides, some of these boob jobs just gross me out. Plus, there's that whole vein issue...ick. I know I've got 'em, but I don't want to see yours. I know, I know, I could stop looking, but really, I thought HNT was about fun and just a little bit of elegance. Besides, real breasts of any size are MUCH more attractive than fake ones...so if you're a fake boobie HNTer and want to leave a comment, go for it. All I'm sayin' is: Be a Lady, not a Stripper-Wannabe.
End Rant.

Well, I'm feeling pokey and sorry for myself.

Calzone has never fully appreciated my womanliness. (That amalgamate zit never hit on me).
Monkey hasn't been throwing anything at me lately.

I feel it necessary to break the news: Those Two Are In Cahoots.

(Sigh) Southernspeak and Monica have been swapping ghosties, B.O.B.I. and Spinning Girl are re-telling As the World Turns, Heather is cleaning up some vomit, and Bobby just keeps drinking.

Dane is busy dodging cars and Justin is reciting poetry to women while flexing his abs. Rowan is trying to evade her mother-in-law and Crush You has all but disappeared from view.

The Unmitigated Troglodyte has been spending unaccountable hours at Denny's and there's this Clog Hater out there that is mercilessly abusing cloggers; oddly enough, Katie and Anna are both cloggers.

The Estrogen Fishbowl is swimming in female hormones, and everyone over there is gainfully employed.

Stuntmother has forgotten all about my request for a Booga Bag and I secretly think Madge is a spy, because she's too damn nice. Sleep Goblin is scurrying up walls when she's not chilling out with Moral Clay and I can't seem to get a decent night's sleep. Also, the Omaha chick keeps reminding me of simpler times in college.

Somehow, this is all Pizzaface's fault, and my only comfort has been the latent purrs of Tomm Catt. I don't think I'll be drawing any pictures for awhile.

I'm going to go to Church and think about physics.

EDIT: Harry Yak is generally so kind and warm, I really can't pick on him. Thanks, Yakkity Yak, for talking back...

Firstly, I want to go back to that post I did about atoms and Moby and God. Two very smart individuals kind of tore down what I was saying because they know a lot more about atoms and science than I will ever hope to know. However, I felt I must revisit this post after some further enlightenment and a renewed interest in Karl Rahner, the transcendentalists who made it cool to be Catholic (Vatican II).

Someone was kind enough to point out that I wasn't really very specific in my argument about what humans are and how we are alike to stars. I didn't (and don't) know all the ins and outs of physics, so I couldn't quite articulate what I meant to say. But now I know what I mean to say, because I watched NOVA, and thanks to Einstein, I am on the right track again.

Einstein said Faraday's proposition of the speed of light was correct. If a human and light were going at the same speed, the human would still not be able to keep up with the light. So, if I was traveling at the speed of light with a hand mirror, I would look into the mirror but see nothing, because the light would not be reflecting back. I would become invisible. Right, okay, sure. That's fine and dandy. But when I am going to travel at the speed of light? It would make me a little nauseous.

Remember what I said about how we are all made of stars? Well, I was essentially correct in a manner of speaking. Look: Einstein says E=Mc^2, right? Energy =mass times the speed of light (squared). But remember what 'reverse' experiments do, as well. If we try to add more neutrons to a nucleus of one atom, that atom does not become heavier (necessarily). It breaks into two different atoms. AND WHEN IT BREAKS, ENERGY IS RELEASED. And that's the splitting of atoms. SO: when we break apart matter (very, very dense matter) we get energy. Right?

What's the point, Fritz? Well, I'll tell you. Science and religion can be reconciled. Humans and animals and the chair I'm sitting on could feasibly be SPLIT into energy. It is this kind of split that caused the Big Bang. It is the answer to God's mystery.

Now, going back to that silly German, Rahner:
Don't try to read any of his stuff unless you are fluent in German. The translation is quite poor, but I have been fortunate enough to go to a college taught by other German Jesuits who could re-interpret the translation for me. Otherwise, it sounds like a bunch of hoo-hah, and that has nothing to do with Monkey.

Here is the one of the profound Rahner statements I read in all of Foundations of Christian Faith: "All clear understanding is grounded in the darkness of God". Meditating, meditating, can't quite get it, can't quite get it: AHA!

We must begin in darkness (ie: Black Hole?). We must understand the world as a ball of blackness, in which we must decipher things inductively, beginning with the smallest and working forward, gaining slowly upon the existence of God, the transcendent mystery of the Holy. Religion often asks us to make a leap of faith, and the scientist queries, "How can I believe in something that cannot be substantiated?"

Let us examine the String Theory (as defined by PBS): string theory: unified theory of the universe postulating that fundamental ingredients of nature are not zero-dimensional point particles but tiny one-dimensional filaments called strings. String theory harmoniously unites quantum mechanics and general relativity, the previously known laws of the small and the large, that are otherwise incompatible. Often short for superstring theory.

The String Theory postulates (not seen, felt, heard, smelled) that tiny bits of dimensional matter get together and SOLVE the problem of two otherwise incompatible measures of the universe. I ask the scientist, "Prove it." And he says, "I'm working on that."

When someone asks me to prove God's existence, I tell them, "I'm working on that." But meanwhile, I am in the dark of the space, and I am coming to a clear inductive understanding of God. Rahner and Einstein are both right. It is a mystery, but it is a relational mystery. The universe, the stars, the tiny bits that make us up, the protons, neutrons, electrons, the uncorrelated matter and the magnetized matter, the tiny explosions of energy in our brains to the great nuclear explosion of the Sun is all proof of God and Science. The two can be completely reconciled to one another, as long as we start in the dark and work toward that perfectly clear understanding. And when the Scientist and the Faithful finally find that understanding, the light may be moving so fast, that it becomes invisible. And there will only be faith left. I think this is the nature of God and Existence.

Okay, this is really fun. I went to Monkey's page to see what Fuzzy Butt was up to. Apparently, Bobby introduced Monkey to a new game using Google, and now I would like to try.

Here's the deal. Go to Google, type in your name and 'needs' in the search field. Blog what you need, according to Google. Here's what I got:

1. Frank Answers: Why Frank, Bad Hair, Infinity, and Fritz Needs Your Help
Well, everyone knows I need help. That's why I take the Zoloft!

2. Apparently, there is a chess program out there named Deep Fritz 8. I don't know what this really means, because the program doesn't need much except guidelines to help it perform better as a chess player. I was never any good at that stupid game.

3. Wow! There's a Fritz Institute out there, and it needs donors for tsunami relief.

4. Apparently, a woman named Anne Fritz knows what local bars need. Legal local bars, I think. This is funny, because another Anne Gordon Fritz (a bit more dear to my heart--My Mom) knows a little bit about drinking bars and more about art.

5. Of course, there is a large amount of material about Fritz the Cat and his perverted needs. I've never been a big fan...so...

Also, if you would like, you can read my new story, which is rather pathetic.

To coin a phrase: "I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'." (Thanks, B.O.B.I.)
Some fuzzy-assed simian sleeps soundly, oblivious to the threat....

Well, once again, I've borrowed from Spinning Girl. She has posted a series of letters she's written to corporations stealing money from her, or not being honest, or being schmucks, etc.

I know many of you may be surprised, but I have had occasion to write letters, myself. But I don't really pick on consumer related businesses. Oh, no. I go straight for the Government. Please read on.

Dear GA Senator:
I've never voted for you, and I never shall. However, I do hope that some vestige of humanity remains in your soul, so I am appealing to this broader sense I hope you still nourish. I am a Georgia employee, and also a smoker. Recently, Georgia has begun to penalize its State employees by charging them an additional forty dollars a month for smoking on insurance that is already sorely expensive.
While I know that smoking is certainly not advantageous for my health, I must say I am appalled at the State of Georgia's reasoning behind this surcharge. I was given no opportunity to quit smoking, nor any warning of this surcharge. I was not offered a smoking-cessation course. Now, I must pay forty dollars on top of my usual insurance payments, but I have not received a raise in one year.
May I remind you that Georgia employees are responsible for the safety and well-being of other Georgia citizens? If the State cannot care for its employees, how can it care for its citizens?
Please respond as soon as possible.
Yours,
Fritz

[The response read: "Ms. Fritz: Please take this up with someone else. I'm not in charge of this kind of thing. Please vote for me. Thank you."]

I sent this same letter (in essence) to the Governer Sonny Perdue, a man who constantly says he 'cares' for State employees. His website confirmed a response within thirty days. No response came. I then heckled Human Resources, my insurance company, the legal department, and the Commissioner of the Georgia Department of Corrections. I wrote a letter to the Atlanta Journal and Constitution (they didn't really care). The man I contacted in the legal department of GDC told me to quit emailing him. I told him I wanted an answer. I never got an answer. Or did I?

Two months later, the same man with the legal department fired me. Hmm.
I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

In other news: How awesome is my Boyfriend? Oh, I'll tell you.

He's so awesome that he buys me Halloween lights to string on the porch, even though I'm unemployed. AND I got rope light (not pictured). It's purple. THAT'S how awesome my smooky-pooky is...Thank you, Michael, for making every day a delight.

In other news, it seems that Delilah got in fight with herself.

She apparently lost an ear.

First of all, Spinning Girl mentioned in her "Confessions" she wished she had room for a piano in her home. So, just for her, I've hit a C minor chord in hopes to bring about the quiet sounds of Chopin's Etude in C minor.

Here is the piano. I seldom play, but when I do, I will play the romantics that I love: Erik Sate, Beethoven, Bach...etc. So, Spinning Girl, come on over and play what you can...

And Lastly...in my previous post, Spinning Girl asserted she could take me...maybe. What do you folks think?

Who'll win? Cast your bets, 'cause it's on...Madd Fritz versus the Spinning Hurlygirly (you guess which one is which...)

Hurry up and decide, because the winner is gonna get a trophy...hand drawn and everything...