Karl Marx himself said it.

So, I turned to iTunes (like great ones before me [Tits McGee, Kendra, Jiggs Casey]) and asked of the iTunes to read my palm through my iPod. Wired stuff.

(To contact the great Jabba the Hut of Psychics via iTunes, put it on party shuffle and start asking questions).

1. How does the world see you? Here Comes Your Man--The Pixies.
Great. I always knew these broad shoulders would be the death of me.

2. Will I have a happy life? Save My Soul--Gabriel and Dresden
I don't even know where to begin with this one.

3. How do my friends see me? Big Me--The Foo Fighters
See? I said I was a big girl!

4. Do people secretly lust after me? Lullabye--Ben Folds Five
Well, that just doesn't even make sense.

5. How can I make myself happy? Roses--Kayne West
And they do make me happy.

6. What should I do with my life? Endless Skies--VNV Nation
Hmm. This is rather philosophical. It requires a cigarette and a brief respite from life, dwelling on the intangible. Subtly, the most meaningful answer out there. iTunes IS God. Weird.

7. Will I have children? Jeux interdits--Chopin
This is loosely translated into 'Prohibited play'. I guess I'm not having kids. Which means I get more cool clothes for myself.

8. What is some good advice for me? Rock Your Socks Off--Tenacious D.
Indeed.

9. How will I be remembered? Anonymous Skulls--Medeski, Martin, and Wood
Leave it to that trio to name me for what I am.

10. What is my signature dancing song? The KKK Took My Baby Away--The Ramones
Music baffles me.

11. What do I think my signature song is? Dream A Little Dream of Me--Billie Holiday
I'm always dreaming, if I do say so myself. And I do.

12. What does everyone else think my signature song is? How Soon is Now--The Smiths
There is always a chance that when I say "I'm leaving soon," people can hope "soon" means "now"?

13. What song will play at my funeral? Until the Sun Turns Black--Ray Lamontagne
Beautiful. I'm not worthy of this answer.

14.What kind of women do I like? Dead Stars--Covenant
Yes! Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, all the classic betties. I DO like Dead Stars!

15. What will my day be like? Queen of the Night--Maria Callas (From The Magic Flute) Oooo, time to get out the handcuffs!

So, the next time I'm debating life-altering choices, flowers for the wedding, or what to name my next pet, I'm going to iTunes.

I was talking to a twenty year old autistic boy yesterday.

I asked: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
He said: "A ballerina princess!"
I said: "Why?"
He said: "A BALLERINA PRINCESS!"

I asked: "How are you going to stay healthy?"
He said: "Dancing and I'll KICK THE MONSTER!"

Now, if you ask me, kicking the monster is always a good way to stay healthy.
I love my job.

I went over to the Golden State and stole Miss Kendra's meme.

Well, you were SUPPOSED to pick out some blogger friends' names, think of a term to describe them, and then search images to see what comes up. But since I'm a mere self-involved individual with a small universe of Me, I punched in:

"CRAZY FRITZ"...and this is what I got.

Mmmm. Because we all need more honky tonk, don't we?

Image searching "Big Blonde Girl Hates Bush" comes up with a lot if images, none of which are appropriate for my blog. It's a family site, you know.

Fat mouse gets picked on by Bully

I say: Good for Mr or Mrs Obese to come out and join the living.

Then, I ask them (they are both small framed people, my Mom and Dad); I ask them: "Well, how do you think that makes me feel?"

And Dad says, "You're not offensive to look at."
And Mom says, "You're just big-boned!'

Nope. I'm FAT. I'm not Morbidly Obese, but the doctors all say I am OBESE. Yup. That's me, Mom and Dad! Right up there with Mr and Mrs Morbidly Obese! I guess I am offensive, unnatural, and just down right lazy, myself! Oh. Whoops. You mean...I work forty hours a week (give or take), exercise religiously, occasionally give in to gluttony, smoke, AND somehow lead a normal life?

FAT PEOPLE ARE NORMAL?!?

Fat people ARE normal. We're out there. We're fat, we're smart, we're funny, we're beautiful, we're lumpy, we're curvy, we're healthy. Fat people are not lepers. Fat people have problems just like thin people. Fat people deserve to get paid the same amount of money as thin people (but they aren't). Fat people like to buy clothing. And if a FAT person (like me) wants to lose weight, they are generally not doing it for themselves. They are doing it for Moms and Dads and cultures that pick on fat people.

Fat people who lose weight gain it all back, nine out of ten times. That's a fact.
My FAT may just come back.

I don't know why I'm losing my fat. Maybe it's because I'm getting married in September and want to be gloriously thin for one brief moment. Maybe it's because I want to be that seventeen year old girl I was (after losing seventy pounds in high school and rapidly approached anorexia). Maybe it's because I want to buy some cute jeans. Maybe it's because I want to make more money or be more accepted or feel better about my butt or make Michael want me more or get a nicer car or...not have thin people judge me.

That last one resonates pretty strongly.

Not have thin people judge me.

I am not a lay-about. I am not a filch. I'm not really a glutton (except for Wednesdays: pizza and ice cream night). I do smoke, which is unhealthy (I'll admit). I do enjoy exercising. I'm stronger than most chicks in my age/height group. I'm a big Midwestern girl. I'm a BIG FAT GIRL.

When I'm not busy hating my FAT, I'm busy defending my FAT. So gimmee a break. And love me for being FAT.

...that there is a strange symbosis when it comes to knitting and blogging.

I'm not sure what the connection is.
I'm certainly not complaining.
Nor do I feel excluded.

Only, I am befuddled.

Why do knitters blog so much?
Why do bloggers knit so much?
And should I be knitting, as well? Cyber-Knitting: click for credits

Is there a secret club, with a handshake and a decoder ring?

Knitting LOOKS like fun, but I could never attempt to do it alone without someone showing me how. And none of my friends are knitters.
Very few of them are bloggers.

Except for my friends I've met as bloggers who happen to be knitters.

This is all very confusing.

Please explain!

...I asked for it.

I asked all of you to tell me what to read. I did it to myself. This is what happens:

(Well, I drew a pretty picture of my brain and had it labeled and everything, and right in the frontal lobe, there was a picture of the words "KA-POW!" written in bold, friendly lettering to symbolize my upper cognitive skills imploding with information, but 1. Paint program isn't working too well and 2. Blogger isn't working too well, so you don't get to see the picture, but it was funny).

My brain is exploding. I have eight (count them 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.) books waiting for to be read. I have read four in the span of five days. I am eating them alive, and my, they are good.

Good Reads:
The Tooth Fairy by Graham Joyce
Assassin's Apprentice by Robin Hobb
and
Son of a Witch by Anthony Maguire.
There were two others but I've returned them to the library and/or put them on the Fritz Fiction Shelf in the office. One was
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon (worthwhile but not completely satisfying) and
You Shall Know Our Velocity! by Dave Eggers (too much like Jack Kerouac. I HATE Jack Kerouac, no matter how cool it is to like him).

But I'm drooling, now, because of the brain implosion/explosion, and have no head for normal, daily tasks. I blame all of you,and praise you, as well.

I've had very little time for blogging. The books will not permit me to leave their sides. I'm a hostage of literature. Sue me. Thank you, again, for your suggestions. I am following through, and trying to read every single one of 'em.

For months, Michael has been attempting to put his photo page up SOMEWHERE in the vastness of the Internet.

He has succeeded. I present to you:

Michael Cottle Photography.

Please, go, peruse his work. He has many, many more pictures in his portfolio--those shown are but a smattering of Michael's talent. I am so proud to be his 'other'. I keep telling him he should quit his job and do this for a living.

I am speechless at his efforts to capture the world in a single frame. I hope you will find this true, as well.

I have a double major in Theology.

I hate it when Fundamentalists tell me I'm wrong about the Bible, God, and all that stuff. I don't necessarily know if I know more than they.

But I'm damn sure they don't know more than me.

So, the next time I express my opinion about Jesus and you come at me with some crap about hell and judgment and blah, blah, blah, just remember...

...for every weak argument you have about the state of my soul, I have twice the ammunition of logic, hope, thought, and love. Don't you dare tell me about my spirit. And don't even think you are in a place to 'spread the Good News' through threats and cowardice.

Take a chance. Question God. You might just be surprised--She might answer with some logic.

I can still smell the fresh Missouri air.

I drove along the North Platte river in Nebraska for two or three hours; just wondering what my life was growing towards. I was 19.

In Nebraska, the city limits of Omaha fall away quickly (not like Atlanta, where all blurs together in some fastidious suburban Hell). In Omaha, there are city street lights, and then...nothing. Fields of blackness at night, only the hollow-eyed stares of deer. And in the dusk the land sets itself on fire, like a burning brush. And those fallow fields glow like plutonium hope.

Time to go home: two week reprise to Georgia. I drove from my scanty studio apartment on North 24th street (one block off campus) into the wilds of the Midwest.

Others have trailed over the hilly glens of Europe. Friends have launched themselves from the highest peaks into the deepest pools. And still others backpack into Yellowstone National Park. I did none of these things--as I couldn't (for whatever, whichever random reason). But I did drive 800 miles alone. Yes, alone, and filled with the land.

No Jack Kerouac, I. No free roaming spirit. I stick to the most direct route from A to B. But there I am--the middle of Missouri in May. 7 pm. And it's simply me and the winding road. I look out and there, the sun is glowing hot and low in the air. The wind comes through the windows, and I'm singing. I'm throwing that voice out into the sky, daring God to throw it back. I'm all alone. I'm complete.

While I drive, I replay my club nights in front of my brain. There is only thumping bass and the sweat of others' bodies. I am trapped in a corner, against a mirror, the DJ pounding out the techno and industrial of Europe, and some joke! I'm in a gay bar looking for a man. But there is only the corner of the dancefloor, and a mirror. And there is me--this large girl with these wide eyes and thick legs. So what can I do? Thrash my fists into the glass and cry? Or--dance?

Dance. It begins with a head move and eyes shut. I don't exist, therefore, I can be whomever I please. Hips begin to swivel, breasts undulating, arms upended (praise the DJ!) and my corner of the dancefloor has become just a bit bigger. GIVE ME ROOM! I'M TRYING TO FLY!
Fly, Wallflower. Fly. Faster tempo blends my hands into the whirring of doves and I'm tapping out my own salsa. The lights go dim, the beat slows, you know the score! Now we make a move..

Back in my car, I smile at myself. Funny where we find ourselves believing in our own magisterial skin. Whether in a decrepit car or a sad club, we can always find a kernel of incredibility. That's me--that blonde chick thumping to her own beat. That's me--that blonde chick throwing a smile out into Missouri, and every color melts right back at her, gently chiding her:

"Go on, sweet babe. Go on dancing."

Click photo for credits

...I checked this book out at the Library for only ONE reason:

...and that's because I love saying "Herodotus". It's a lovely sound. It rolls and bounces in the mouth. I look at the book, and pick it up, and read a bit about Greek maidens and Io and tragedies. That's nice. But it's not as nice as saying "Herodotus".

I also like the way the book is covered in crackly cellophane, and smells like library paste and fingers of other people. I like to open the thick binding and shut the covers, over and over, just to hear that plastic sing. I drag my fingers over the plastic....SQUUUUUEEEEAK!...oh, it's delightful.

If I read long enough, I can almost imagine great ships rolling about over the Mediterranean Sea, and hear the gasps of the Argonauts, and smell the brine of seawater. I can almost imagine great armaments clashing in battle and the yells of ancient Gods, sitting in their theater arena, pitting human against human for mere entertainment. And then, I get bored, and put the book down, and watch television.

But before I turn the light off and rest my head on my pillow, I say the name again and again.

Herodotus. Herodotus. Herodotus.

And I drift away on a great ship, captive in chains, as my Alexander calls for me:

"Fritz! Fritz! I will rescue thee!"

Ah, thank you, Herodotus.

Normally, I don't share forwards. This, however, is an exception. Totally worthwhile. I apologize if everyone has already read it/seen it/laughed at it.

Lesson In Political Science

DEMOCRATIC:
You have two cows.
Your neighbor has none.
You feel guilty for being successful.
Barbara Streisand sings for you.

REPUBLICANISM
You have two cows.
Your neighbor has none.
So?

SOCIALIST
You have two cows.
The government takes one and gives it to your neighbor.
You form a cooperative to tell him how to manage his cow.

COMMUNIST
You have two cows.
The government seizes both and provides you with milk.
You wait in line for hours to get it.
It is expensive and sour.

CAPITALISM, AMERICAN STYLE
You have two cows.
You sell one, buy a bull, and build a herd of cows.

BUREAUCRACY, AMERICAN STYLE
You have two cows.
Under the new farm program the government pays you to shoot one, milk the other, and then pours the milk down the drain.

AMERICAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You sell one, lease it back to yourself and do an IPO on the 2nd one.
You force the two cows to produce the milk of four cows.
You are surprised when one cow drops dead.
You spin an announcement to the analysts stating you have downsized and are reducing expenses.
Your stock goes up.

FRENCH CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You go on strike because you want three cows.
You go to lunch and drink wine.
Life is good.

JAPANESE CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk.
They learn to travel on unbelievably crowded trains.
Most are at the top of their class at cow school.

GERMAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You engineer them so they are all blond, drink lots of beer, give excellent quality milk, and run a hundred miles an hour.
Unfortunately they also demand 13 weeks of vacation per year.

ITALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows but you don't know where they are.
While ambling around, you see a beautiful woman.
You break for lunch.
Life is good.

RUSSIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows.
You have some vodka.
You count them and learn you have five cows.
You have some more vodka.
You count them again and learn you have 42 cows.
The Mafia shows up and takes over however many cows you really have.

TALIBAN CORPORATION
You have all the cows in Afghanistan, which are two.
You don't milk them because you cannot touch any creature's private parts.
You get a $40 million grant from the US government to find alternatives to milk production but use the money to buy weapons.

IRAQI CORPORATION
You have two cows.
They go into hiding.
They send radio tapes of their mooing.

POLISH CORPORATION
You have two bulls.
Employees are regularly maimed and killed attempting to milk them.

BELGIAN CORPORATION
You have one cow.
The cow is schizophrenic.
Sometimes the cow thinks he's French, other times he's Flemish.
The Flemish cow won't share with the French cow.
The French cow wants control of the Flemish cow's milk.
The cow asks permission to be cut in half.
The cow dies happy.

FLORIDA CORPORATION
You have a black cow and a brown cow.
Everyone votes for the best looking one.
Some of the people who actually like the brown one best accidentally vote for the black one.
Some people vote for both.
Some people vote for neither.
Some people can't figure out how to vote at all.
Finally, a bunch of guys from out-of-state tell you which one you think is the best-looking cow.

CALIFORNIA CORPORATION
You have millions of cows.
They make real California cheese.
Only five speak English.
Most are illegals.
Arnold likes the ones with the big udders.

Yet another unflattering picture of the Fritz, touching The Doctor's bike.

Ooof. Not that I have a crush on him, or anything, Michael. Just a love for a talented motorcyclist who HAPPENS to have an Italian accent and go by the name 'The Doctor'.

We love Valentino.

And Fritz loves the way she looks on a Ducati.
Yum.

As I sit in the coffee shop (the bland, nameless chain store which we are familiar), I see the college students at their round table, clicking hi-lighter pens and whispering in glee. I know who they are--they are the bourgeoisie of the suburbs. Poor things.

They flip their Anatomy books to the chapter of study and ignore the material, partaking in banter about carbohydrates and body-building, Suzy with the firm ass in Western Civ, the latest basketball match. Their shoes are gently unlaced sneakers with expensive symbols swooshing here and there-- a vestige of high school, perhaps? Each one is really the same, you know. I would attempt to describe each individually, but as a whole, they are quite bland. Boring. Predictable.

So, I try to shut out their whisperings and snorts and concentrate
Which book is it that I shall buy?
Why am I purchasing a book when I should go to the library?
Have I read In Cold Blood before? Yes, I think so.

And then the snickering becomes louder. Brow furrowed, I look up from my book and see a young girl, sweater hugging curves, standing at their table. She flips her hair and looks at me briefly; I condescend with a smirk--I am not impressed. But the boys (those bland, boring shells of something masculine, smelling a bit like wet socks) are staring at another girl.

She is roughly my age and much older than these college clones. Her body is less than well-proportioned. Flagged, flabby legs tucked into a tiny pleated plaid skirt. Oh, the skirt is so sad and so lovely in its attempt to be lovely. Her limp, sad hair is parted (or separated quickly) into two ponytails framing her broad, expressive, plain face. The shirt is lumpy and rumpled. I see what she is attempting--sexy, cavorting Catholic schoolgirl. She has not succeeded in this venture and looks more like an outgrown woman in someone else's clothes. Her legs are bitten and scratched most certainly by that cat she rescued. She has a stack of books and is accompanied by a short, stocky woman with a mullet and a "Shrek" sweatshirt.

She has no idea the mediocre are laughing at her and I wish to help her. I want to stand up and yell: "THEY--THOSE SAD REPEATS OF ONE ANOTHER--THOSE DRONES OF CABLE TELEVISION--ARE MOCKING YOU!" I want to protect her and shield her from their snivels and snorts. I clear my throat in a matronly way, and two of the ballcaps turn to grimace at me. I squint at them and hex them silently.

They turn away and mutter, snickering at me, now, and that is fine, fine for me to be snickered at, because I have endured these small-minded, middle class, replaceable snobs my whole life. There is nothing new about them, and there is everything new about that woman, dressing to impress, dressing chaotically. Whose is the mind I adore? Hers. And these young stupid cutouts of one another will live a sad, terrible life of beer swilling, game watching, church going idiocy. And when their nights are dark, and they have nothing left to say to the prettiest women in all of this Atlanta Suburb (lying next to them in boredom and displeasure), the saddest girl in all of the coffee shop will be dreaming with her mind wide open, and she will be the success story.

So, it is these unfortunate Freshmen I pity. Put those Anatomy books away, children, you'll never make Organic Chemistry, and if you do, you'll fail the MCATS with such velocity, you'll forget heads up, tails down, and so hello! to the world of used cars and baby strollers and mortgaged homes.

While that young lady may not have any dreams that differ from the ballcaps, she will know her own strength when she marries or chooses to stay single, or goes to New York or lives in the basement of her mother's house. Her sad skirt will stay with her for many years until she no longer is able to button the waist, and then she will lie it aside and remember when she was the prettiest girl wearing the sweetest skirt.

Okay, okay. No, these aren't MY feet, per se. These are the feet of a ballerina for the Hong Kong ballet. But it's a like comparison.

I have dancer's feet. And runner's feet. I have callouses the size of half-dollars on the bottom of my feet. The skin has cracked and peeled in many areas of my feet. No, my feet are not pretty. That's what happens when you have danced, run, and walked barefoot most of your life. Let's not forget the purgatory of wearing four inch high heel shoes on a daily basis. (I know, Mom, it's not healthy and leads to vericose veins and infertility).

The last time I got a pedicure at a nail shop was about a year and a half ago. After that terrible procedure, I resorted to doing my toes at home, bent in strange positions in order to apply nail polish--only to wind up throwing polish at the targeted area and hoping some of it sticks. You see, I can't abide being mocked. I especially can't abide being mocked when I'm not certain I'm being mocked.

The Vietnamese language is one of dipthongs and uuummmmlats (whatever) and basal vocal box vibrations. It is a most fascinating language to hear and I would normally listen to such a language for hours uninterrupted. Except when I'm pretty sure the user of that language is mocking me.

A year and a half ago, I entered a nail shop.
"How can I help you?" said the tiny twelve year old behind the counter.
"I would like a pedicure," I said.
"Okay. Pick color!" she instructed.

I climbed into the spa chair. I took off my shoes. I put my feet in the water. The girl then pulled one foot out...and began to laugh. She got out the foot scraper (a maniacal device used to shave off dead skin) and began to laugh harder. She started a litany of her odd, musical language, and pretty soon, all the employees were laughing. Laughing hard.

Now, it is entirely possible that she told a joke about something unrelated. Yes, I will admit that much.

But highly doubtful. They were laughing at my feet, and all I could do was sit there and blush, praying that she would accidentally cut off a toe so I could sue. No such luck. The pedicure was finished in between the guffaws of laughter. I paid and left with my ugly feet and bright pink toes.

It was such a humiliation that I had not returned to a nail shop in ages. Yesterday, I got over this fear because next week, I have an interview with a different company. I wanted some decent looking toes and fingers.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say: in a different shop with different Vietnamese twelve-year olds, I was still the laughing stock. Apparently, my feet are so hideous, I could enter a freak show and make out like a bandit. And now, they have been soaked, rubbed, scraped and beaten, and finished off with a bright orange polish. To me, I liken the nail polish to a crown of thorns--a mockery of something pretty. A bow atop a Doberman Pincher's head. Air conditioning in a Jeep.

I guess it's back to contortion in the bathroom for my pedicures. Maybe I'll just start wearing pointe shoes all the time, so at least I would have a decent excuse for these hideous feet.

You Are Teal Green

You are a one of a kind, original person. There's no one even close to being like you. Expressive and creative, you have a knack for making the impossible possible. While you are a bit offbeat, you don't scare people away with your quirks. Your warm personality nicely counteracts and strange habits you may have.

I'm like a quarter Irish. My great-grandfather was supposedly an Irish horse-thief. Michael is a decendant of an Irish prostitute. Between the two of us, we've got all the makings of a proper Irish drunk. So, instead of wearing bright green shirts that say, "Have intercourse with me, I'm Irish," I will merely deviate with a story.

I had to go to a meeting for a special needs child at her high school.
There were three other students in her class.

The teacher asked the students, "What holiday is in March?" An autistic boy said, "St. Pat's Day!"

And the teacher asked, "And what do we do on St. Patrick's Day?" Before anyone could answer, a child with Down's Syndrome called out from her desk:

"DRINK BEER!"

And she laughed and clapped. She was quite pleased with herself. And I was quite pleased with her. I haven't laughed that hard since I read Todd's blog.

Fritz on her 8th birthday, clogging through the Chicago streets, leading snakes out of the gutters.

Slán agus beannacht leat! (Goodbye and blessings to you)

Why I love my Dad....

[Upon calling his cell phone and getting his voicemail]....

"You've reached GrandPooBah Fritz. I can't answer this infernal device right now so leave a message and maybe I'll call you back."

Who says that? Who says 'infernal device'?
Grand PooBah Fritz, that's who.

Remember that place I worked at? You know the one...where I got fired for blogging?
Remember me talking about the meth crisis in Cherokee County and how the court system was failing the people by giving them ridiculous fines and no assistance in getting treatment?

Remember?

Remember how I always have said that a court system that relishes putting drug offenders on probation for drug abuse with no alternate recourses will merely revolve the doors at the jail?
Remember how 85% of my probation cases were all meth-related?

How about what I was saying in regards to the devestation of meth in tiny, rural communities where everyone knows everyone else?

How the judges have grown up with the offenders and the attorneys go hunting with the judges?

Well. It's just getting worse up in Cherokee county. Meth use is rampant. All sorts of people are on it. Everyone knows everyone else. I wonder how much longer that has to go on before people start demanding help along with criminal conviction after criminal conviction. Other counties in far-off states have come to realize that meth, being the epidemic it is, can't merely be battled with five year probation sentences. It's going to take some money, foresight, and revolutionary beliefs to turn Cherokee County around.

We're losing our small towns to this dangerous drug. Until the people most afflicted with this horrid disease start demanding help from the authorities who are continually 'busting' them, it will only grow worse.

I drove up to my old haunt yesterday on business of my own. I drove through that tiny, sad town. I don't hate it anymore. I'm paranoid as hell, still, but I mostly feel sorry for it. I feel sorry for the people who are so adamant about protecting their small-town life that they have failed to see the danger of isolation. Canton's main street is like a ghost town, and a business just across the street from my old office was recently raided for meth. How many souls will it take to fill up the jails? How many abusers of meth will take the standard five year probation sentence, 5000 dollar fine, and mandatory drug treatment classes they pay for out of their own pockets?

How many court-appointed attorneys will start advocating instead of pushing people through the system?

What has to happen to make it STOP instead of furthering the cycle?

All of Georgia's politicians seem to handle every crisis in the same manner, and this goes for other social diseases, as well as criminal behavior. We don't think 'prevention'. We think 'crisis control' and 'how much money is involved'. What is reaped is stunted evolution. Cherokee county will always be that tiny, sad place, no matter how many huge subdivisions go up and how many new strip malls appear. In a county where there are NO BOOKSTORES and too many shelled out gas stations, there is naught but strife.

Man. I thank God I'm no longer stuck in the rut that is Cherokee County. But I'm still worried about the Average Joe's and Jane's. They deserve better, and they deserve to fight for what's right. Unfortunately, speaking one's mind in Cherokee County is almost a Scarlett Letter.
Frankly, I'm surprised I lasted as long as I did.

From Sunny Acres photography (Helen Meeks)

(Did she take this with a disposable camera and forget how to frame a shot?)

This is NOT the business earlier mentioned. This is merely one segment of the sad main street of Canton, Georgia. Sadly enough, I can remember smaller towns up North with much more bustling and refreshed looking buildings. Perhaps, it is a Southern Thing. Perhaps, it is a Money Thing. Whatever it is, it's depressing.

The woman at the ice-cream store was very thin and very tan. Her breasts were huge. She was dressed in Gucci and Coach. I disliked her immediately.

"Vapid. Bratty. Fake." I thought.

How did I know that?

Well, she seemed arrogant, that's why. I cannot put up with boasting or self-centeredness. I loathe vanity.

I kept thinking about her. I kept thinking about my judgments of her. And then I thought about Lent.

And then, I wondered aloud, "Aren't I boastful about my intelligence? My faith? My beliefs and ideas? Don't I announce my beliefs to anyone who stands still long enough to listen? Don't I think I'm better than that girl at the ice cream store? Don't I think my hair is prettier than most others'?"

Yes.
And then, I asked myself, "Why am I so arrogant?"

I'm arrogant because I'm insecure. If I look down my nose at others, it is only because I find fault within myself. I'm jealous of the thin, beautiful girl, and I have no reason for it.

Which begs the question: Why suffer a hypocrite? I'm suffering with the most arrogant, vain person I know. I'm suffering myself. "

"All is Vanity" C. Allen Gilbert

An Austrian noblewoman eloped to America with a servant. These are my ancestors.

A Roman Catholic German and his wife escaped the terrors of the Austro-Prussian war in 1866 and emigrated to Canada. These are my ancestors.

A ship sailed from England, carrying 102 passengers. During the first winter in the New World, most of the passengers died. Some lived. One of my ancestors was among them.

A Scotsman came to America. He owned the Beloit Iron Works. His name was Noble Ross (click previous link for picture). He was my mother's great-grandfather. He is my ancestor.

My grandmother (nee Ross) worked as prima assistant to wife of Carson, Pirie, Scott's owner in Chicago, Illinois. She is a marvel--almost 89 years old, spry as ever. She is a testament of the wealthy 'old money' American. She recounts the Depression briefly...."What Depression?"

Her husband, Charles E. Doring. A man of ethics and learning, Charles was born to a poor German father and Irish mother. Shortly after his birth, his mother died. Charles taught himself everything--how to read, how to drive, how to sell. He put himself through college. He married Miss Ross, a woman of class and stature. He worked for Libby's in Chicago. My granparents were very much in love up until his death.

In Canada (meanwhile) the Fritz family had eighteen children. Simon was second eldest. He drank. He was harsh, just like the barren landscape. Simon married an Elizabeth Anne (another stout German). Simon and Elizabeth Anne moved to North Dakota, just over the border. He farmed and drank. The farm went fallow. Elizabeth Anne abused the children. Jerome Fritz (my grandfather) had four sisters. One died at age five from infection. Other children were born and died, thanks to sickness and cold. Jerome survived, speaking German in the home and English at school. Jerome was a handsome man with a cold glint in his eye.

Hazel Elaine lived in the town near Jerome. Her father was a foreman at the granary. Jerome went to work there and fell in love with Elaine's deep eyes and simple, sweet smile. Jerome and Elaine were married. Elaine had three children. One died (the first son). My father was the second son. He was reminded of this fact often by his father. He grew up the street across from the University of North Dakota. He attended this school and then escaped to Chicago for higher education.

Richard Jerome was the first in the Fritz family to receive a college education. He was also the first to hold two master's degrees. My father is a brilliant man. We have not always understood each other emotionally, but we know each other intellectually.

Anne Gordon [family name] Doring grew up in the suburbs of Chicago. Her mother stayed home and baked cookies while her father carpooled with other men in the neighborhood. My mother was terrible at academics. She thrived (and thrives) on art, alone. She is a butterfly--erratic, wonderful, energetic, frenetic. She is an artist and the right to my father's left.

Richard Jerome went to Chicago to receive his master's education. He held a post as Assistant Dean at Roosevelt University. This is the school my mother attended for the third and final time. She was required to take a 'returning student' class. The class was a mixture of Vietnam Vets, old ladies who knitted in the back of the classroom, and college drop-outs and returns. Richard Jerome taught this class on writing. Anne Gordon Doring sat in the front row of the class. After the class was completed, Richard asked Anne out for a date. She said 'no'. She had to say 'no' a few more times before she said 'Yes! And then leave me alone!'.

And three months later, Richard and Anne were engaged.
And six years after that, they had their first and only child.

And here I am--a classic American, a mixture of rich and poor, noble and common, harshness and light. I hope I have done justice to those who came before me.

"Opinions founded on prejudice are always sustained with the greatest of violence."
Francis Jeffrey

If I offend anyone of my dear blogging friends in this post, I apologize upfront.

Has anyone seen that show Black:White? It's produced by Ice Cube. A white family and a black family live together and go through exaggerated make-up to look the part of the opposite race. The show documents their experiences of being that other color. Initially, I was enthralled with this idea. Then, I watched a bit more closely. What I've determined is these shows will do nothing to balance out the racism in this country. Why? Because the white father who dresses as a black man repeatedly says, "I am not being treated any differently as a black man than as a white man." And the rest of the show is really pissed off about this.

Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. So, this white dude from Santa Clara is experiencing life as a black man, and not feeling threatened at all by the rest of society. This pisses off the black family. Shouldn't they be happy about this? But the show continues to highlight how 'arrogant' the white dude is. The show zeroes in on black people in focus groups saying, "I'll always feel inferior," and the two white people in another focus group who say, "I feel like I need to wash my hands after shaking with a black person."

What the hell? Who actually thinks this is fair? It's bullshit, is what it is.

I can say this as another member of a minority group: as a woman. I'm sick and tired of all this politically correct crap about race. I live in the Deep South, where it's almost a sin to say anything along these lines because so many African-Americans are so upset about their history. Fair enough. I understand that years of oppression beginning in being taken against your will from your motherland can kinda hit a sour note. I understand that some white dumbass is still out there, talking about niggers and hanging people from nooses. I also understand that not ALL black people are given fair chance. I know that more black men sit on death row than white. I know these things, and I know they are not right.

I also know that if you get scholarships up the ying-yang to succeed, and you DO succeed, you need to stop bitching about race and life and unfairness. If you are a professional black woman working in a Probation Office, do not call me a honky to my face and think it's OK since you're black. If everything you touch turns to gold, then obviously you need to help those of your race who are afflicted with the true consequences of racism. We can all work together to alleviate these crimes. But you cannot hold me responsible for them, and you can't blame me if I see life a bit differently than you.

Also: please do not expect me to speak Spanish. I tried to learn it in college. It didn't take. On the other hand, I don't expect you to speak German, Gaelic, or French. Please be able to speak with me in the tongue most of us are familiar with. When your vernacular improves, perhaps I will learn more about your language. I respect your differences, and love the fact you speak another language. But I would merely like a cup of coffee with no sugar in it. If you do not understand this, then perhaps you should not be working the fast food drive-through window.

Another perfect example of reverse racism. Thanks a lot to the asshole who drew this. You racist son of a bitch.

I worked out for an hour. I ran. I did the Eliptical. I had to burn off last night's cheat. After all this, I sat in the sauna for about twenty minutes.
When I came out of that joint, I was absolutely drenched in woman sweat--stinky, fetid woman stench. Yummm.
I had to sweat out all the crap I had ingested the day before. Besides, the sauna is a lot easier to tolerate than the whirlpool filled with the old fat women. So, I sat. And I leaked bodily fluid all over myself. I don't think Mike Tyson after a fight has sweat as much as me in the sauna.

Then, I went on a motorcycle ride for about two and half hours. Here in Georgia, it was about 78 degrees. Add a motorcycle jacket to THAT plus full face helmet, gloves, and leather boots, it's roughly 99 degrees. Guess what? I sweated some more.

We come home. We bought a grill. We grilled out on the driveway, beneath the stars. Michael grilled hotdogs and hamburgers, and I've never eaten anything as sumptious as charcoal grilled beef on a bun. Mmm.

Did you know that severe dehydration causes constipation? No? Well, now you do. Kids, drink your damn water.

Twenty minutes later, I'm in the bathroom. I'm dying. This kind of pain can only occur once in a woman's life, and she's supposed to be passing something more interesting than poo through her legs. Unfortunately, I'm unable to pass anything. I crawl to the bed, huddle into a fetal position, and pray for death to take me. Let me tell you: constipation is no laughing matter. When the intestines have crawled into the vacuum of your diaphragm and twinge in cruel agony, you don't want to laugh. When your anus is quivering in trauma, you can't laugh. And when you finally request your dearly beloved to go to the local drugstore to pick up an enema, you're in no place for dignity.

Michael saved the day. He rescued me from death. He travelled far into the night to retrieve the Holy Grail of enemas. And when he returned, I doth applied and vundabar! Sweet relief.

But let me tell you, no one is going near the bathroom for a good long while. Ahhhhhhh.

My existence is a big run-on sentence.

Firstly, I am admitting up front and personal--I'm getting dumber by the day. I haven't read a book in ages. I'm mad at myself about this. I am going to the library this weekend and paying off that fine.

A perfect example of the stupidness tumor growing inside my jelly-head is that I can't read The Nation without stopping, going back three or four paragraphs, and starting again. THINGS ARE NOT SINKING IN, and this is all rather debilitating, especially since there ISN'T MUCH UP THERE to begin with.

I'm really mean to strangers. I hate saying hello to folks who smile at me and I cannot stand strollers and the mothers attached to them. I've almost been banned from the local Starbuck's for pissing off people in the drive-thru. Listen up: if you're in a drive thru lane, please pull up as close as possible to the nimwit in front of you. It makes life easier on the rest of us uncaffienated yo-ho's behind you. And don't glare at me when I'm an inch off your bumper. SOME of us know how to drive.

Why was the lady at the Crate and Barrel actually wearing this hairstyle? I think she actually lost her receipt in it.

Kierkegaard (my favorite theologian) talked a lot about the depressed artist...he stated that the artsy fartsy folks are always upset about something because the world isn't nearly as nice as one would hope. So, these artist people go out and attempt to create a better world through different media--painting, acting, writing. They go through periods of depression and then create a work of art in order to self-medicate from the horrid world in which they dwell. Unfortunately (says Kierkegaard), the 'model' of the perfect world sucks, too, so the artist furthers her depression.
My question is: I'm generally cynical but I can't draw my way out of a paper bag. What gives?

Hegel was a philosopher who actually started the dialog about S&M. Funny thing about Hegel (other than his name rhyming with kegel), though, was that he made the Master/Slave paradigm an example of God and followers. Like: how does a Master get a Slave to obey? By giving the Slave cookies; you know, "Follow me into the desert and I'll give you the promised land" kinda thing. I slap my knee every time I hear someone mention something like, "Yeah, I like some freaky stuff. I mean, I'm into being submissive and everything!" In my head, I'm thinking, "Hey! He would make a good Baptist!" Is this wrong? Am I going to Hell?

Actually, I don't believe in Hell. I don't believe in Heaven, either. I just believe in some great, rushing place in the universe where we'll all go and be part of the Collective Whole. The nice thing about this afterlife is that if you fart while being part of The Mysterious Other, no one can blame you. Because there will be no one, and we'll all be everyone else.

Wait, if that means I'm sharing space, time, and other metaphysical things with Paris Hilton, I want a refund. I'll take Hell, thank you very much.

The kitchen needs cleaning. Please excuse me. I'm merely deviating from another senseless chore that will need repeating in two days, thereby teaching me some Buddhist lesson that I cannot yet articulate. I'm going to cull all this over while I go to the bathroom.

...that's how much I've LOST since January 4th.

Yeah, I know. Not astounding. Not a posterchild for any of those ads featuring bikinis and diet shakes. But I've lost EVERY SINGLE WEEK, even if it's only been .2 pounds. Losing feels good.
Losing consistently feels even better. Hopefully, by the time we hit the beach for the big hitch up, I'll be a svelte, curvaceous broad with a gorgeous dress.

During this weight loss, unlike others that have come before, I'm learning a few new things.
1. I'm a 'hawt' chick no matter what size I am, and I need to keep reminding myself of it.
2. As I grow older, I look at the people around me, and realize that weight isn't the most important factor with THEM, either. We may all have some extra lovin' on us. But we're all getting more and more comfortable with who we are.
3. I still can eat crap if I want to...just not as MUCH crap.
4. Working out DOES make me feel better, even though I am loathe to admit it.
5. I just have to get over stretch marks. They happen. They happened when I was 13, and they'll happen again before this life is over.
6. I hate water.

The steadier I go, the happier I get. Let's see if I can reach my goal of forty pounds down by September. I'm almost half way there!

No, I'm NOT stripping. I'm just gonna show off my new tats. And Michael's. So, here goes!

On the Right Shoulder!

On the left shoulder!

The Deviant's Back!

Okay. That's It. For the next issue of Bloginess...Race Relations?

...if you are not funny or political or obtuse or absurd or (FOR GOD'S SAKE) you are not intellectual.
...if you are stuck up for no reason (ie: not a princess, blessed by Gandhi, not intellectual, have a tail...you know...)
...if you actually think that drivel such as "OMG I had the best sushi ever! and it was only like, forty calories!" is actually entertaining.
...if you blog instead of keeping a diary about mundane shit. Try to find something interesting to say ABOUT the mundane shit.
...you really care about the Oscars.
...you think Paris Hilton is somebody worthwhile.

This has been a public service announcement. Vapid women, please excuse yourselves to picture blogs where you will hear wild acclamations about how 'hot' you are. Once you speak, you drive the rest of us to the brink of insanity.

...I think I'm funny. Michael does not laugh out loud at me (but he says he does--LIAR!).
YOU are probably NOT laughing at my previous post (about Mr. Guerra the Chinchilla).
I am laughing.

That is what is most important.







Do you think I am funny?

Please meet Mr. Guerra. He is a chinchilla. He came to me this morning and nested in my hair. He quivered his soft fur against my face. Mr. Guerra is illegal. He snuck in through a sewer from Mexico. He does not have any papers.

I told him what happens to illegal Chinchillas.

He told me I needed to get some better subject matter for my blog. I turned the little bastard in to INS.

He will be missing the pilot episode of 'Sons and Daughters'.

Goodbye, Mr. Guerra! Hasta La Vista!

Edit: By no means does this post belie my political beliefs about illegal PEOPLE. Only illegal CHINCHILLAS. I am not a facist.

I am trying to sell Lilith.

Why? Because I want this bike.

It's a Honda 919, and the one I want is sitting at a dealership right now with custom yellow paint and fully integrated exhaust. It growls. It's fast. It's light. It makes things a bit slippery. Oh-ho-ho. It was made for ME!

I have spent too much time on Michael's Kermit (one hour). One hour on that bike makes all the many hours riding dear, bulky Lilith feel pathetically void of emotion. I am ready to push it up a notch or so.

I put Lilith on craigslist.com.

Someone just offered to trade his guitar for my bike.

This may not work out to the best of my advantage.

Prelude: I've been receiving these emails from people about "God backing out" of the Katrina storm because we haven't been praying enough in schools and government. I know they are sent with good intentions. But what chaps me up is the bottom of these emails, suggesting things like "If you don't forward this on, don't complain about the state of the world" or "If you don't agree with this, delete it and join the ranks of Hell."

I DO delete these without any problem. The last one I received, however, was from my lovely and beautiful Mother. So, I had to ponder it. Think about it. And my response to her email, I believe, articulates what is so terribly wrong about these messages.

I shall not copy the entire forward I received. That said, it was from 'Ben Stein', a Jew who has no problems with Christians (surely an attempt to 'win' over people of different faiths). He states he does not know who 'Nick and Jessica' are. He states that he was touched by the profundity of Anne Graham's response when asked "Why would God let something [Katrina] happen?" Anne supposedly said, "We have asked God to back out of our schools and lives. I believe God 'backed out', like a gentleman, when we asked him to." Ben Stein, people, the man who hosts that pop culture TV show, has suddenly become a Republican and Christian Jew. And has begun to write emails.

Here is my response:

You know those times when you learn something about yourself and you're floored?
***
I was on my last, sad bra. The underwire had come out of one cup, but I've been too lazy and embarrassed to go buy another one. I've been wearing the damn thing for three months, now, with only one cup 'up' and the other one...not up. Yeah. I know.

I suddenly wanted to rectify the situation immediately. Today. So I 'dragged' Michael into Victoria's Secret (because he HATES to shop for anything involving my breasts). We stand around for half an hour waiting for a little chippie to acknowledge my existence. Enter: black suited twelve year old.
"Do you need help?"
"Yes." And I just stare at her, hoping she'll read my mind. She's done this before. Leaning over in conspiratory manner, she whispers, "MEET ME IN THE FITTING AREA."
She does this thing with a tapemeasure involving me standing on my head and jumping and then, solemnly, pronounces my size.
I hit the floor. I'm surprised I haven't been CRAWLING on the floor with these enormous happy coconuts for the past four years.

I've been wearing a 36C ever since I was 18. Respectable size, no? Not too many would complain about 36C's.

You know what size I am?
A freakin...
gigantic...
enormous...
megalithic...

I can't recall if I've told this story. If I have, I apologize for the repeat and I'm too lazy to go through my archives. Anyway, it's embarrassing and entertaining, so should do for an excellent read.

I'm sixteen. I'm sick with the flu. I'm a clutz anyway, so throw in that wonderful combination of dizziness and nausea, and I'm falling all over the place. Down the stairs I'm falling. In school--falling. But I'm actually failing Alegebra II. I'd like to blame this failing on my parents' recent separation and unable to because I'm acing all of my other classes. I keep going to school, getting more and more ill, and falling more and more. Finally, the vomiting takes over and Mom says, "No school for you!" in a slightly menacing manner. Fine. I'm stayin' home. I hide in my bedroom for a week, desperately trying to understand why the hell balancing complex equations is essential to my development and citizenship. I'm doing so much of this, I forget to, well, you know, BATHE regularly. Whoopsie.

It's my third day home from school. I awake at ten p.m. with a sore backside. You know, the kind you get after FALLING numerous times. I shuffle to the bathroom and take four or nine ibuprofen. 2 a.m.: repeat procedure. This goes on for two more days. I am sixteen--I am not looking at my big fat ass in the mirror. I do not care to see if I am bruised. I simply want to stop hurting.

"Mom. My butt hurts from falling," I report through a haze of snot. Mom is at the end of her rope. Normally, there would be a brief exchange about 'being too melodramatic' and 'menstrual cramps are purely psychosomatic', but the situation with Dad has her worn down to a mere rind of her former self. She calls the doctor and schedules an appointment. We go.

"Doc. My butt hurts from falling," I report in a funky cloud of fever.
"You're sick," the doctor says. Of course, I'm immediately relieved to have such an astute physician attending me.
"Yeah. But the real problem is--my butt hurts from falling." Somewhere in all of this, I am still trying to figure out what the inverse of cosign is, and why it matters.
"I'll give you a pillow to sit on," says my doctor.
"I've got pillows at home," I say, "and what I would like is something to dull this pain."
"Have you had suicidal thoughts recently?" asks Doctor Observo.
"No. I've been too busy falling."
"Roll over and drop your pants," she orders. I am wanting to contact Maury or Geraldo at this point. The woman wants to molest me.

I do as she orders. Secretly, I've always been a bit submissive.

She looks. And then she looks away. And then she opens the door a crack and calls in my mother and another doctor.
"Do you see that?" she asks. Both parties nod in paralyzed fascination.
"Take her to the emergency room," she tells Mom. "I'll call ahead."
"Mom, what's going on?" I ask.
"Um, get going," says Mom.

I sit on my left hip on the ride to the hospital. It is now seven p.m. Mom is crying.
"Ma, I'm fine. I just keep falling!" Man, the fever is BAD.

I get to the hospital. A hundred kids are there, all suffering with the same flu I have, but I'm rushed right in, after this other girl who keeps vomiting and losing her water. (Turns out, she was born with only one kidney, and when that got sick, she kinda had problems...but lived. Anyway, this story is about me).

I still have no idea what's going on. I'm in the emergency room with those little curtains dividing me from the lobby. In fact, they put me in a gown which is nothing more than two curtains drawn together in the back. I'm beginning to think an ER is just an exaggerated stage. The intern walks in. He is Matt Damon. He says, "Hey! I wanna look at your butt!"
Through the fever, I thought he was flirting until he flipped up the curtain gown and gasped, too.

"Wow! Now THAT'S painful, ain't it? Let's get a temp," and then he proceeds to take my temperature through my mouth and up my bunghole. And then he puts one slightly lubed finger up my bunghole. And then he says in front of God and everyone, "Well, not only do you have a fever of 106 degrees, you also have a bowel movement up there!"

Sicko bastard. Thankfully, they wheel me into emergency surgery before I can strangle him and his testicles. Later, it would be divulged that he was so worried about my dying in the ER that he was doing everything he could to avoid that possibility.

Here's what it was: through a week of not bathing, a BUTTHAIR got INFECTED in my sacral cleft *read:crack*. It became a zit. Then, a boil. Finally, a three inch deep abscess filled with pus and bacteria. It nearly killed me. They drilled the sucker out of me and pumped me up with IV fluid and antibiotics. My mother had to pack and unpack that open wound for nearly six weeks. Gauze in, gauze out, otherwise, it would heal with a pocket of air, and that could cause another infestation.

End result? I lived. But a zit on my ass nearly killed me. For future reference to all aspiring hypochondriacs, it's called a pilonidal cyst, and it looks like this. (Note: image is graphic and disturbing. While viewing, please imagine a strong disgusting smell accompanying it, like dying cat poop in the sun).

Thank you. I believe I have embarrassed myself enough at this time.

I sit around all day and the house doesn't get clean. Dammit.

I think have two real friends. I don't know anyone else.

I wake up twice a night to go smoke. I'm too lazy to put on underpants and since it is dark, I sit outside on the porch. Lately, the birdseed has been getting everywhere. Imagine my surprise as I made the bed this morning and found a sunflower seed in the sheets. What is even more surprising is that I have yet to shower today. I wonder if there are any more seeds hanging out?

Delilah A. is having a nervous breakdown, thanks to the birdfeeder on the porch. She has been spotted batting the glass. Because she cannot get outside, she has taken to destroying the venetian blinds hanging in the bedroom. Now hanging at a forty-five degree angle, I want to accesorize the blinds by duct taping them back together.

The downstairs neighbor dude has a sign stuck on his porch door. It reads, "This home is under video survelliance." I'm certain that should worry me.

He also has a hideous cat named Samson. My cat's name is Delilah. Is this fate?

I haven't read a book in ages. I blame all this neo-technical crap filling in the chinks of a poorly insulated society. That, and my lacking desire to pay my library fines.

I really need to call my 88 year old grandmother. What's really horrible is that sometimes I want to call her just to keep my mother from asking me, "Have you called your grandmother lately?"

I sent a postcard in to PostSecrets, but I'll never tell what it says.

I have a sinking feeling that Bush is going to continue to do horrible things and get away with it. Somewhere, there's a video of him flicking someone off and then shooting that someone point blank. Unfortunately, no one would want to hold him responsible for that, either.

I'm pretty sure Georgia doesn't give a flying crap about developmentally disabled citizens. I'm also pretty sure the Governor of Georgia should go hunting with Dick Cheney.

I've been bad. Spank me.

Michaela, mid-westerner ad naseum (what the Hell does that mean, anyway?) tagged me approxiamately nine weeks ago and I just now saw it. Hell's Bells.

So: The Quatro Quiz....

4 jobs i've had:
Probation Demon
Nursing Home Social Worker
Pharmacy Technician
Librarian
4 places i've lived:
* Omaha, NE*
Chicago, IL
Atlanta AREA, GA
Memphis, TN
4 movies i could watch over and over:
American Beauty
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Full Metal Jacket
American Splendor
4 tv shows i watch (currently on air)
The Office
My Name is Earl
What Not to Wear
Animal Cops
4 places i've been on vacation:
England
Canada
Mexico
Ashland, Kentucky
4 websites i visit daily:
ebay.com
cnn.com
wikipedia.com
http://elevenpointfive.blogspot.com
4 of my favorite foods:
spinakapatas
mousakka
bahklahva
pizza
4 places i'd rather be right now:
On Honeymoon
On Honeymoon
Buying some Christian Leboutin shoes
On Honeymoon
4 bloggers i am tagging:
Whomever
Whomever
Whomever
Whomever

You Are 46% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side. Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

I'm trying to breathe new life into my blog...it's like one of those belching coal furnaces. It takes a lot of cleaning up and invigorating. Hopefully, some new changes will brighten things up in just a short while.

Meanwhile, I've re-discovered my Story Blog.

I think I'll pick out my personal favorites:
Symphony for Life
Travelling Without Moving
For Michaela

It's funny--I re-read these and think to myself, "Hey. I'm not a half-bad writer."

Thanks to Willie B. of Dallas, Texas, we can see a collection of insightful art pieces, or archeological evidence, or the suffering of souls.

In lieu of women's history month, I did an investigation into women's hygeine at the local health spa I recently joined.
Here are my findings:

1. Women comb their hair with their fingers, pulling out clods of the stuff, and then wipe the disgusting knots on the shower walls.
2. Women (mothers) apparently think the rest of the world WANTS to see children's genitalia. There are so many naked girls and boys running around the locker room, you'd think it was a love-in at Woodstock.
3. Women belch loudly in the showers without excusing themselves. Apparently, the thin veil of steam and water can disguise a full fledged beer burp.
4. Women stink. To high heaven.
5. Women walk around nude, boobs and cellulite flopping everywhere, and then stare at the chick with lots of tattoos like SHE'S a threat.
6. Women who are skinny think that gives them extra leverage with the nudity. These chicks drape themselves all over the locker room in provocative positions, as if to say, "Hey, fatty. You'll never have breasts that sit as high as these puppies."
7. Women like to talk to their friends in the shower at full volume. It would seem they believe that everyone else in the showers would like to hear about husbands' prostate glands.
8. Women peel off band-aids and leave them on sink counters.
9. Women are pretty much disgusting.
10. Women really do have a hard time finding fault with their own spawn. Small chipmunk voiced children are encouraged to sing, dance, and pee in the showers.

Well. This really isn't very encouraging. I'm starting to get the heebie-jeebies everytime I walk into the gym. It'd be pretty sad if I get foot rot and Hepatitis A,B,or C from a health spa.

Ewww.

I suffer from cell-phone avoidance and separation anxiety. I hate the damn thing. I feel guilty when I don't have it with me. If I miss a call, I freak out and dial the last nine numbers received in order to get back in touch with the person who called, hating the whole procedure.
I see my mother's number pop up and feel guilty for not answering. On the other hand, I know if I DO answer, it will be at least an hour of my life used up discussing...well, all those things we discuss with our mothers:
"Have you lost more weight?"
"Yes. Only three-fourths of a pound this week."
"That cough sounds terrible. When are you going to quit smoking?"
"I don't know, Ma."
"Just think about what your skin looks like now compared to four years ago. I can tell a difference, honey."
"Mom...um, we're gonna eat. Can I let you go?"
"Let me go? What kind of phrase is that--let me go? No, you can't let me go. Where did you learn to speak? What is it with these phrases?"
And on and on. Love you, Mom!

But the best cellular dysfunction I've had is this:
I received a text message. I don't look at the number, I just read the text.

"I love you!" says the message. 'Oh, it's from Michael!' I think.
"I love you, too!" I write back. "I missed you this morning!" (I sleep in when he leaves and am generally in a total zombie state).
An hour later: "You missed me this morning? How could you miss me this morning?" says the return text. I'm confused and don't return the text. Michael is being funny?
A half hour later, I receive this text, "You know, the next time you tell someone you love them, make sure you know who the hell you're talking to!"
Now I'm simply peeved...what the hell is Michael's problem? Before I can text back, I get this, "I wasn't even there this morning! WHO WAS THERE?"

The phone rings. The twang of a toothless man is heard rattling my phone.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? Who was in your bed this morning? Who you been sleepin' with? You better start explaining yourself, woman!"
"Uh, sir? I don't think this is who you think this is."
"Wha..?"

He had been texting my phone all day, thinking it was his girlfriend's number. The girlfriend who he DID NOT spend the night with. oops. Guess I'm not the only one with cellular dyslexia.