I love cats. If Michael left me tomorrow, I would mourn his departure and fill that void with twenty other cats. I would be that crazy cat lady.

A cat is the only animal (in my humble opinion) that can lay about, disinterested in anything but sleeping, and still remain absolutely adorable. I've had five cats in my life, and about half of these cats came into the household, sat down on some peice of nice furniture, and slept away their existences. The other half of those cats spent their lifetimes gouging small animals in backyards and draping themselves over expensive peices of clothing. I realize my data would indicate that one of these cats would be exactly half of each purrsonality. Yes, it's true. I just typed out 'P-U-R-R-S-O-N-A-L-I-T-Y".

The cat that is exactly half-bum, half-crazy is Delilah Amelia, and like Christ, she is a morph of both traits to the fullest. That is to say: she is 100% crazy and 100% worthless.

For example, right this moment, she is plastered to a screen of an open window, muttering at some chipmunks at play. Soon, she will tire of this and go directly to her six-foot-tall cat-tree, constructed by Michael. This particular toy has been reconstructed several times, as her claws and her insanity have caused extreme strain and damage. Yet, she loves this tree, and will perch for hours there, literally rubbing herself all over the carpeted beams, indicating a strange sexual perversion unheard of in a spayed female cat.

She is a little trollop, this cat, and is also incredibly gluttonous. Yet, like those girls of reality television, Delilah will gorge herself into oblivion and not gain any weight. She is slinky, black, and I daresay, sexy. Yes. She is a sexy cat--when she isn't being deceptively stupid.

But I digress. Today, I merely wanted to highlight some of Blogger's finest feline friends.

Please meet D. Sergei, a robust neutered male currently owned (but certainly NOT operated by Madge of The Duck Motif).

D. Sergei lists his hobbies as paper-bagging it, snoozing in excessive amounts of Florida sun, and tormenting the camera with his beguiling good looks.

This fetching young lass goes by the provacative if appetite-inspiring name of Yammie. She is highlighted and spot-featured over at Kimberlina's Gimchi. I am still trying to find out if gimchi is a kind of food, or light-hearted ambivalence towards life. As we see from Yams, she could also double as a lovely cat ala orange in a restuarant, or a saucy dish served up at the hottest of gentlemen's clubs. Let's give Yammie a round of applause.

And, lastly, I'll re-introduce Delilah Amelia of some infamous notoriety. Yes, she's spunky and frightening around eleven p.m., but as we can observe from this delightfully impromptu photo, she remains queenly and distant even in the most compromising of situations (such as being caught in the dryer on top of a load of freshly laundered clothing). Ah, the mystique, the glamour! The cats!

Sometime ago in Blogland, I told Madge that at age 17, I had joined a cult and, then, escaped. She asked for the story. So, I give it freely.

I really am going to try and make this is as interesting as possible, but I don't know if I'll succeed.

At age 17, I had lost a lot of weight. I was skinny and looked a bit like a bobble-head, but I got a lot of attention (furthering my hypothesis that even if you are disproportionately thin, you'll get a date).

My mother worked at a fabric store. The owner of the store and most of the associates belonged to The Church of Christ, a seemingly innocent enough sounding church. Mom had said they never really hassled her about her faith, so she didn't have any qualms about her co-workers.

One of her co-workers, Rico Suave (name changed to protect the innocent), was a twenty two year old man of Mexican descent. He was very polished and well-educated and mannerly and all dark and handsome. All the things a mother wants in a beau for her daughter. So, here I would come to visit Mom on her lunch hour and here would be Rico Suave, asking me about what college I wanted to go to and how nice I looked and all the things that a recently-fat-girl-turned-skinny wanted to hear from a good-looking Latin man who was actually taller than she. Eventually, we went on a date.

We went to see 'Contact' and I think I was a bit put off on how much Jodie Foster was crying (again) in a movie. We ate at Waffle House to discuss the movie. And that's when he moved in on me. No, not sexually. He moved in on me CULTISHLY.

"What faith are you?" he asked.
"Episcopalian." I said.
Long sigh from Rico.
"You know, it's really too bad," he muttered into his food, "Because I really like you but I will not date anyone outside of my faith."
My heart leapt and then sank.
"Of course," he continued, "if you attended a Bible Study with some of the sisters, we could probably go out on a few more dates. Even though we really shouldn't date outside of our race. But I'm sure we could make an exception to that, no?"
I was hooked.

What?
I'd NEVER been on a date or had a boyfriend (well, except for that lughead John who managed to wreck two of his parents' cars in the span of a week trying to stalk me).

I went to the Bible Study. This is what I found out:
-If you are not baptized in The Church of Christ, then you have not been properly baptized.
-If you are anything but a member of The Church of Christ, you are going to Hell.
-Women and men should never study the bible near one another.
-Musical instruments are forbidden in the House of Worship
-Jesus is not really a social activist but more of a Terminator, who is going to destroy anyone who doesn't belong to The Church of Christ.
-I had to get my ass to the church before God smote me with irascible pleasure.

I arranged for some lady to pick me up. I asked Rico Suave, but he said he couldn't have any more contact with me unless a chaperone was present or I had been re-baptized. So, some stranger picked me up and took me to the service. The 'church' was actually a rented portion of the Atlanta Civic Center. This is worrisome (in retrospect) for a number of reasons:
1. They didn't believe in actually worshipping in a church
2. There were so many damned people who believed this shit to fill up the Atlanta Civic Center.

The first thing I noticed during all this was a key member of the choir.
It was Speech, from Arrested Development. Yeah, that's right. This talented musician abandoned his band to become a gospel singer for The Church of Christ. It's all rather disappointing.

After my communion of grape juice and saltine crackers, I watched some novitiates get baptized in a fish tank specially made for the occasion. Two thirteen year old girls almost drowned (but appeared ecstatic about the whole process), one fifty year old divorcee almost peed his pants get pushed in by the pastor, and there was an elderly lady who was not spared any indignity either. The woman at my side, with horrible body order, whispered to me, "Soon, dear, you will be baptized into the One True Faith." I shuddered involuntarily.

I tried to ask the 'pastor' about the baptizing. He was twenty-four years old, had bleached blonde hair, and a wife who had had more cosmetic surgery than Liza Minelli and Cher combined.
"So, uh, if I've already been baptized, why do I have to be re-baptized?" I asked him.
"You look a little bit like Marilyn Monroe," he responded.
"Thanks. Why do I have to be re-baptized?" I asked.
"Because the other one wasn't for real," he said.
"Not for real?"

I think this was about when I started to have some doubts. But still, I went to the Bible Studies. I hung out with these annoyingly chipper and good-willed girls. I learned about how Catholics are worse than any other kind of pseudo-Christian out there. I was really having some issues with it, and my parents were, too.

"I don't like it," said my Mom. "You're a cradle Episcopalian! You can't just ABANDON the Church!"

In the end, an elderly lady of the Church of Christ's congregation informed me that I had to have courage to split from the demon-ridden Episcopal church. She told me it wouldn't be easy to let down my parents, but she felt she had found the perfect verse to uplift me and fortify me in my path to Salvation.

"Here's a verse from Revelations," she quoted to me over the phone, "'The cowards shall burn in a lake of fire'. Remember that as you tell your parents you are turning your back on their sinful faith."

Something in me turned over, like a dying starter in a car.

whatthefuckdidshesay?
Did she just threaten me with HELL?

I'm seventeen! I haven't even DONE anything worthy of Hell at this point! I've never gotten drunk, I've never had sex, I've never cussed out my mother (to her face), I've never done any of the fun things that bought a ticket to Hell!

"Whatever, lady," I said, as I rolled my eyes. "I think I'd rather go to Hell than hang out with you freaks."

And that, Madge, is the brief story of my brush with a cult.
Edit: In doing some research on the web, it appears it was a good thing I got away. The International Church of Christ is now beyond a cult...it's a schematic way of making money for the 'leaders'.

I think, after seeing a picture of Miss Kendra, that all women secretly harbor a lust for Bette Page and saddle shoes (but not necessarily in cohesion).

It was with this retro idea in mind that Michael had me shuffle into a corset and don a new look. A new OLD look. How do you think we fared?

Well, hell. There would be more, but as I am examining the photos de retro, I realize there seems to be a long zoom into Cleave-Land, if you know what I mean. And for God's sake, my mother sees this blog. Take it from me. I feel oh-so-very-pin-uppy.

(PS: Mom (and anyone else who feels these pictures are a vain attempt at garnering attention and making me out to be a hypocrite, in regards to my ill fated interview with Hef) avert your eyes to the following picture...)....

Oh, nevermind. I haven't the stomach for it. It's simply too, TOO much.

This is The Vortex, an amusing restaurant in the heart of Atlanta's degenerate neighborhood, Little Five Points.

I just learned via the website that The Vortex sold their image to Rockstar Games, in order for the restaurant to appear in one of the filth-laden 'Grand Theft Auto' video nightmares. That's so way-cool.

Anyway, Michael and I rode down for Bike Night last night. The entire parking lot gets filled to the brim with bikes of all makes and sizes. We saw three scooters, nine billion crotch rockets, twenty Harley's, one Harley-Bobber, and a good mix in of sport touring bikes. Of course, our bikes were singular amongst the masses. Because we ride naked.

So, we ate our overpriced hamburgers (which were delish, although way too expensive) and looked at bikes.

Now, I should tell you, this was quite the trip. We live about forty miles from Little Five Points, so getting there was interesting. This was the first time I actually took my motorcycle through downtown Atlanta. I saw five or six prostitutes, but nothing else of great interest. I also managed to avoid getting killed by the inane number of Hummers swarming the narrow downtown streets. So, to do all this--to get to bike night at the Vortex, I was ready for a big pay-off.

You know what? Whatever you hear about bikers...it's NOT TRUE. I was hoping for fights, brawls, drunken women ripping off clothes, SOMEthing of ill repute. No. Bikers are all rather well-behaved. Michael and I stood in the parking lot for an hour, looking at other bikes and looking at each other. All the other bikers were doing the same.

We did not have a beer. We did not get to see a fight. We left at nine pm, so we could be in bed by ten thirty. We rode through the barren streets of Atlanta at a safe speed. We did not pop any wheelies, nor did we see any being popped. We had one of the tamest, lamest nights out in the Big City.

It's too bad I didn't bring my camera for evidence: Bikers are pretty much lame. But that's okay--for once, I fit in.

I am shocked and awed by my parents. They are actually quite concerned about my happiness during this wedding. I have not given them enough credit. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

We worked backwards. We're booking the honeymoon FIRST and then worrying about the money from there. You know what? It's all going to work out marvelously.

Want a sneak preview? Introducing...St. Lucia....(for lovers!) (Okay, yeah, whatever).

Look, I KNOW it's a corny tourist-y photo, but c'mon. Imagine it. Imagine sitting at that little bar and having a drink. Imagine that water and those skies and that heat and those daiquiris and...

Oh. I just. can't. wait.

Little Gidding:
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one."
-ts eliot

Warning: Fritz is waxing philosophically.

I am swimming in Lake Superior. My grandmother is at the shore, washing clothes. The longpierr stretches back to Starboard, the family cottage. The great pines are switching in the breeze. The water is pounding the sand. The little fish are scurrying in the undertow. I am eight.

I am visiting a client's home. He has Down's Syndrome and diabetes. He tells me he misses his father, who died when he was fourteen. His mother is in the garden, worrying her azaleas, speaking softly to the koi fish dawdling in the pond. The house is quiet within, except for the missive the man speaks for his father. I am twenty-six.

I am wandering through the aisles of Westminster Abbey. My parents are behind me, muttering over something significant written in Latin. I look above to the floating buttresses and the stained glass windows. I am transfixed by the light and the sounds of holiness. I am ten.

I walk through the damp, fetid hallways of Cabrini Green. I pass a tenant's door, and on it, in bright red spray paint is written "This whore is dying of AIDS". I take my paint brush, handed to me by the social activist group, and paint her door white. It takes many coats to cover the red. The door gleams in the Chicago sun, and I hope the tenant is given a fresh start. A clean entry. I am nineteen.

(and as the great waves become stronger, and wash my tiny legs under the surface of the lake, I becomebuoyantt, then weighty, and Grangie bounces in the distance. She is waving from the shore, un-worried. The waves are gray and black and green and blue. I am startled with the new strength of water carrying me farther and farther out from shore. And then, a great wave pulls me under, and I am in Lake Superior, alone and afraid. I cannot breathe. I struggle, and then open my eyes. Suddenly, it all becomes very clear: I see the seaweed dangling slowly in the watery air. I see the fish dancing in schools. I see great white rocks far beneath me. I hear the lull of the water above my head, pounding my ears. How peaceful it all is beneath the air, where life begins anew every moment. I am a ragdoll, being rushed and slowed by the tides. And in this space of time, I am caught breathless and amazed. I am just one tiny life stuck in-between waves of time. Yet, as I am danced beneath the waters, I find myself. Every inch of myself is discovered andreveledd in, and I know that life is truly the moments of clarity betwixt the rushings of great waves)

I am expelled, gasping for air, and slowly swim back to shore. My legs ache. My arms feel battered. I feel crushed and rejuvenated, for I have seen the end of my brief life, and have not feared it. As I stumble upon the beach, Grangie bends over and retrieves the laundry.

"Did you have a nice swim?" she asks.

Yes. I have had the best swim a woman could ever imagine.

Something is terribly wrong in the universe. At least, in the small snatch of universe over my head. Because there has been an implosion of sorts, and the consequences are shimmering forth like a geyser spewing out the decay of the ancient world.

Allegorical enough for you?

I have a terrible sunburn--the kind where I want to pickle myself in hopes of regaining some concentration of moisture. This is my fault--I was riding without a jacket, wearing only a tank top. With a lowish back. Ow.

This morning, the internet was down. So, I went back to bed. I got up. It was still down. I called the Cable Nazis. They said, "We can have someone out between 11 am today and Saturday at nine pm. Do not leave your house during this time." Natch.

The guy comes (surprisingly) at noon. Good. He comes in, he plays with the cat, looks at the motorcycle pictures, wanders around the home, and then decides to take a looky at the computer. He replaces the modem, and after twenty minutes of talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone and his dispatch lady on his work phone, he gets the internet up. Yay!

Oh, but then! Churlish me goes and asks aloud why the network doesn't seem to be working (we have two computers here because of my need to work (ie: BLOG) all the time and Michael's need to read motorcycle forums constantly). And my new friend, the cable guy, who has now dug through the fridge for a Capri-Sun and a Fruit Roll-Up, has the nerve to tell me that an additional network hook-up will cost one hundred dollars and an extra fifty bucks a month for service.

"Why?" I ask. "It's MY internet. They're MY computers. It's MY router. Why should I pay extra?"
"Mmmph," he says, swallowing his roll-up, "They do everyone like that."
"I refuse to pay it. Try to re-hook it up for me, would ya?" I plead.
"Mmmmph," he says, "Can't do that. Unethical, and stuff. Say, you got a hotdog in the fridge, there?"

Michael and I are VERY UNHAPPY with this cable company. It is a big fat RIP-OFF and we will be doing everything we can to avoid paying a network fee to NETWORK our own computers. Stupid, stupid, stupid....

So, I decide (now that I have kicked my new friend out of the apartment) to go on-line and start getting reservations ready for this wedding coming up. And I'm at my wit's end. I won't go into detail but it has to do with MONEY and SPACE and ROOMS and POSSIBLE RAIN and BACK-UP SPACE and DID I MENTION MONEY???

There is a strong liklihood that Fritz is going to wind up being married in her fifteen hundred dollar gown inside a shabby hotel room, where guests will sit on the bed and the window will look out over a dank parking lot. Really. It's that bad. Because the only hotels with half-way decent suites that don't look like sets for bad horror movies are so swank that I can't even imagine...my whole budget would be blown just on rooms, alone.

I honestly feel like we would have been better off eloping. We just want to be MARRIED and have a HONEYMOON where we can bake on a beach and sip mai-tais and do the nasty and play golf and get a mud scrub and get AWAY from cable guys, computers, money problems and cell phones.


I JUST WANT TO ELOPE!!

A month from today shall be my birthday. I will be twenty-seven. Instead of depressingly recite what I have NOT accomplished on that day, I shall do so now, and save myself the agony of listing my life's woes.

THINGS I HAVE NOT DONE AND SHOULD HAVE, BEING (almost) 27.

1. Gone to grad school
2. Started a saving's account/401k/invested in stocks, etc.
3. Gone to Europe
4. Written a book of short stories
5. Joined a choir
6. Ran for public office
7. Lost enough weight to be considered 'healthy'
8. Quit smoking
9. Sung karaoke
10. Done long division in my head
11. Kept in touch with college friends
12. Gone on a spring break trip in college

THINGS I SHOULD NOT HAVE DONE AT ANY TIME IN MY LIFE (But I did, anyway)
1. Had a helluva lotta money manipulated away from me.
2. Eaten all that pizza last night
3. Talked badly about friends
4. Got fired from a job (but that's really for the better, so...)
5. Told Stacy Kettle in the second grade that I had a crush on Andy Prohaska. It was all over the bathroom stalls the next day at school.
6. Gone to clubs drunk in college
7. Eaten at one too many cheap Chinese buffets
8. Listened to Jewel
9. Shaved my armhairs
10. Slept through all Applied Math classes in college, resulting in a 'D'
11. Screwed over a coupla friends (who have been kind enough to forgive me)
12. Joined a cult at age seventeen (I got away!)

THINGS I HAVE MANAGED TO DO IN 26 YEARS AND CHANGE

1. Snag me a terrific man
2. Figure out what I believe about God
3. Dance in a small apartment
4. Make the perfect cup of coffee
5. Gone to England
6. Write some half-decent stuff
7. Blogged a whole helluva lot
8. Graduated from a top learning institute with a good grade point average
9. Read four books in two days
10. Recite the Nicene Creed without looking at the Book of Common Prayer
11. Avoid strip clubs and naughty magazines
12. Tell my parents how much I love them
13. Snag me a terrific man.

I suppose my life is NOT (as yet) a collossal failure. But I'm getting old and still feeling a bit lost. Touche! The next 27 years may be twice as interesting...we'll just have to see.

DISCLAIMER: This is my blog. I get to judge people. They judge me all the time. I do not make apologies for the nature of my judgment of the people who partake in the activities mentioned below.

So sue me. I'm curious.

I had to look at a Swinger's site, just to see what all this is about. Do people really have sex with other people while their partners condone it?

Apparently, yes.

So I went to Miami Velvet, a site about some swinger's club in Miami, and was intrigued to see the 'rules'. Because, you know, if you're going to swap wives, you better be moral about it:

Rules To Live By For a Guaranteed Great Time
* The Golden Rule: "NO means NO".
Anyone may say "NO" for any reason at any time even if you are in the middle of a swinging encounter and have changed your mind and want to stop it right there! If you are in a situation that makes you uncomfortable, just say "No". Do not jeopardize your happiness and satisfaction with this lifestyle, or that of your partner, by doing something against your will just because you are afraid to say no. The friendliest way is to say, "oh no thank you, but thanks for asking". Be honest initially, and you will avoid any misunderstandings. Don’t forget that people’s attitudes change and who knows? Maybe sometime in the future you may meet again with a different opinion.
FRITZ SAYS: So, it's okay to say, "No, I don't want to buckle myself into a harness and allow you to dust me with glitter while repeating the lyrics to 'I am The Walrus'". Pervert.
* Always treat one another with respect. After all, this is a party!!!! Besides, you don’t want to be rude or judgmental, because you wouldn’t want it to happen to you. If a single gentleman talks to you and you are interested in swinging with couples only, that doesn’t mean you can’t be nice to him. He’s a person just like you! Just politely let him know.
FRITZ SAYS: Because OBVIOUSLY, respect is swapping mates with one another. Now, THAT'S honorable.
* If you are rejected (and it happens to everyone, including women), Do NOT take personal offense. Rejection is a very personal thing, and it’s almost as hard to reject as it is to be rejected. Honesty with each other is crucial. Who knows? You could end up with a great friendship if you handle the situation right.
FRITZ SAYS: Like any of these horny perverted freaks reject anything or anyone. * Deal with jealousy head on! It is a normal reaction. Remember that this is strictly a physical & recreational pleasure, not an emotional one. Discover what triggers jealousy in your relationship and work it out together. It may mean modifying your activities, but your relationship together is not worth jeopardizing over swinging.
FRITZ SAYS: Hmm. Do you think you might get jealous watching your mate snogging the barmaid with double D's? Here's an idea: DON'T BE A SWINGER. Or are you suggesting that swingers can feel jealousy? Maybe it's not jealousy...maybe it's called a CONSCIENCE.
* Always let your steady partner know she/he is number one. Arrive together, take time to caress them, touch base often, it makes one feel secure. And always leave together.
FRITZ SAYS: "Honey, you are number one, and that's why I want you to dance with a boa on the lap of that seventy-two year old retired banking executive while I chat up the stripper in the lounge. Love you!"
* Use your common sense and good judgment when you are involved in a swinging situation. Be kind, thoughtful, and sensitive. Swingers, couples & single guys are people and have feelings too!!!
FRITZ SAYS: Good judgment? Swapping partners?? STD'S???
* Honor any and all prior understandings & rules you have made between each other, and be sure to COMMUNICATE with each other openly and honestly so there are no misunderstandings about your rules.
FRITZ SAYS: "Love, it's okay for you to do the monkey twist in your birthday suit while shagging the neighbor's wife, but remember the rule! No kissing!"
* Respect the guidelines you set as a couple and communicate them to prospective partners. Open, honest communication is imperative to forming relationships! And please don’t forget to respect the guidelines of others. Don’t try to "talk them into" changing the rules because you don’t happen to agree with them!
FRITZ SAYS: "I can do the monkey twist in my birthday suit while shagging you, Lois, but I can't kiss you."
* Pay attention to body language. There is more to interaction than words. Consider the body language of the person you are talking with and it will tell you more than the conversation you are having! Be sensitive to the person and you will know what makes them uncomfortable or happy and excited.
FRITZ SAYS: What drunk idiot is actually going to pay attention to body language? In my experience, drunk idiots do NOT pay attention to body language; nay--they refute its existence and plunge ahead into whatever scheme their teeny little drunken brain cells have thought up as a ruse.
* Demand absolute discretion! And be worthy of the same. Discretion is paramount in this lifestyle! Privacy is imperative!!! Never, ever discuss details inappropriately. Everything you do, everything you see, MUST remain private. Miami Velvet has a saying, "Everything you see here, Everything you hear here, must remain here when you leave here".
FRITZ SAYS: Please do not tell the congregation during the church social that Pastor Filth was canoodling with the poolboy in the Skin Lounge the night before.

They are not swingers.

I just asked her at Starbuck's. I said, "Are you a swinger?"
She said, "No, but I've thought about it."
...
....
.....
Michael rolled his eyes and gave me a look when she asked me if I thought she was 'hot'.
"This is one conversation," Michael said with authority, "that men will never have."

(Sigh). Women. Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em for pleasure.
It's good to be loved so thoroughly by Mr. Michael.
It's very, very good.

I have a client in the hospital. He is a little boy, and he is autistic. He is in the emergency room because of his behaviors. He likes to throw his head against any flat surface. If I had his parents, I would be doing the same thing.

The problem is this: it's not entirely a good idea (parents) to keep a child in four point restraints for over seventy-two hours. At that point, there are some hard feelings on the child's part and only a few pieces of flung poo. Someone had the bright idea to get him into another facility as a brief 'respite' so I can work on finding a new home for him. The old home is not quite working out. However, the only facility that would take him is a mental institute. It's because the State of Georgia does not recognize any other problem than the problem of how many shitty roads we can build or how long we can fight public transportation. So, this nine year old boy is being schlepped off to the loony bin because he is autistic. Make sense? Yeah, I didn't think so, either.

I get a phone call from child's mom.

Mom: He's going to the state hospital.
Me: I know, it's not perfect, but otherwise he'll have to go home.
Mom: Oh, no, he's NOT coming home.
Me: So, he goes to the state hospital.
Mom: (sigh) I'm not happy about it.
Me: Well, he could go home?
Mom: He's going to the state hospital.

While I am on the phone with her, I get that obnoxious *beep* on my cell phone that says I've got another call.

Me: Hey, Mom? I've got another call. Hang on. (I click over)
Me: Hello, this is Fritz! How can Fritz help you!
Doctor: He's going to the state hospital.
Me: I know; I'm on the phone with Mom.
Doctor: How can you be on the phone with Mom when she's standing right here in front of me?
Me: I don't know. I'm on the phone with her.
Doctor: I don't believe you.
Me: He's going to the state hospital.

I click back over to Mom.
Me: Are you at the hospital?
Mom: No.
Me: Because the doctor thinks you're standing in front of him.
Mom: How could I be? I'm in my kitchen.
Me: Yes, exactly. Hold, please.

I click back over to Doctor.
Doctor: Anyway, you need to clear him for transport.
Me: Who needs clearance?
Doctor: The child, of course!
Me: That was a test to make sure we knew what we were talking about.
Doctor: I don't have time for this. I have an E.R. to run.
Me: Yes. Why do you need my clearance for him to go to the state hospital?
Doctor: We don't. It was really a courtesy call.
Me: Is Mom still standing there?
Doctor: (pause)...No, I can't see her.
Me: Very odd. Go ahead. Let him go to the state hospital.
Doctor: They aren't happy about it.
Me: WHO isn't happy about WHAT?
Doctor: The state hospital doesn't want to take him.
Me: Do YOU want to take him?
Doctor: No.
Me: Then I guess we're out of options.

This has been my day. I get paid to switch back from call to call, to confirm or deny information. I'm a switchboard operator. Not only that, but I also get to deal with insane doctors and abusive parents. It just can't get any better. But wait. It does.

Because for all this, I also get paid what averages out to be two dollars a day. Good.

Garcon! Coffee and cigarettes, please.

UPDATE: I was so touched by many of your responses, that I felt it necessary to keep you updated on the child's situation. While I meant this post to be more of a sardonic, witty interpretation of the events, I DID leave the hospital a quivering mess of goo (thanks Tammara). However, we have found a placement for him where he will be OUT OF THAT GODFORSAKEN HOME. The doctor and I did speak later, and he is a very kind man who did not like to see the child bound to the bed as he was (no one was happy about that). And while the child will be going on to the State Hospital for a short time, we have found a permanent home with a houseparent who is kind, disciplining, and able to handle this little guy's behaviors. And no longer will he utter words like, "I'm not his son," over and over (Mom's husband is not the natural father of the child). And he will no longer have to see the abuse that puts the bruises all over Mom's arms. So, it's getting there. By the way, your comments (all of your comments) were very much inspiring and thoughtful. Thank you, friends.

Shiddi haylik!!

I want to be this woman's neighbor. I want to go over for coffee at her place. I want to jam to The Pogues with her. I want to read her Top Five list everyday. I want her to help me understand trigonometry. And I asked her to bake me a pie.

So she did. And here it is:

It's a Pi-Pie. Get it? 'Cause it's PI, the answer to all theoretical, anthropological, biological questions ever asked. And who better to explain the universe than Tits McGee?

Thank you, Tits, for finding this Pi-Pie for me. You are the greatest.

Well, that's not true. I passed Statistics and Research Methods with a cool B. But that's because I kissed ass.

So, while I'm busy saving the mentally retarded/developmentally disabled population from Georgia from complete neglect, I decided to take on a side project.

Here are the results of my research (ie: fifteen minutes spent on Google).

Hypothesis: Poorly educated states produce more Republicans. Therefore, Republicans support ignorance and also keep their tax dollars in their pockets instead of sharing with educational systems.

Evidence:
Figure 1: A map of the state by state 2004 electoral party division.

Figure 2: A list of the education rankings in the United States:

1. Vermont
2. Connecticut
3. Massachusetts
4. New Jersey
5. Maine
6. Minnesota
7. Virginia
8. Wisconsin
9. Montana
10. New York
(Damn New Englanders, gettin' all damn smart and stuff, with their damn smart Ivy League schools and their weird accents and their clam chowder)
11. Pennsylvania
12. Nebraska
13. Kansas
14. Iowa
15. New Hampshire
16. Rhode Island
17. Wyoming
18. South Dakota
19. Maryland
20. North Dakota
(And shockingly, the Midwest steps up to the plate as the most looked-over, boring states around. I mean, does anyone really ever think about South Dakota? Anyone? I had a friend in college from South Dakota who went to a high school with twelve people in it.)
21. Missouri
22. North Carolina
23. Colorado
24. Texas
25. Delaware
26. Indiana
27. Michigan
28. Idaho
29. South Carolina
30. Washington
(Oh, hello, Michigan! You mean Detroit isn't helping the education rankings? Unbelievable).
31. Ohio
32. Illinois
33. Utah
34. West Virginia
35. Kentucky
36. Florida
37. Arkansas
38. Oregon
39. Oklahoma
40. Georgia
(Hey, Look! Illinois, my birth state, and Georgia are in the same tier! That's pathetic and sad. I've gotten stupider as I've aged, too, so perhaps this is indicative of downward sloping time released dis-intelligence)
41. Tennessee
42. Hawaii
43. Alabama
44. Alaska
45. Louisiana
46. California
47. Nevada
48. New Mexico
49. Mississippi
50. Arizona
(I hate Arizona. It's hot, it's filled with old people and John Wayne wannabe's, and it's dull. It's also stupid and racist. Let's just give it back to Mexico).

Okay, so California was waaaaay down there, and they're a blue state. Um. That kinda blew my hypothesis.

Shit. Well, I guess I better go back to work. However! From the same list, I can assert that Southerners are for the most part pretty dumb. Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana are all in a pathetic grouping in the lowest tiers of the rank. WooHoo! And those were all red states. So, in the South, Republicans are just dumbasses. I think I'll be sending my findings into M.I.T. or Yale. I'll publish this highly scholarly research study to great acclaim and be awarded the Nobel Prize.

Or, I'll just piss off another conservative.

....20 POUNDS!
Well, see it's unofficial because I went to weigh in and stuff, and only lost two ounces. But then! I told the short lady behind the desk (who couldn't see my lower half)(I think that's the first time someone couldn't see my lower half--ever. You can hardly miss this gadunkadunk [all credit for this word goes to the fabulous Spinning Girl]) that I was wearing jeans.

"Well, dear," she said, "They can weigh up to two pounds."

So, I went home with my OFFICIAL loss of 18 pounds, stripped at the door (the garage door, that is, not the front door), and weighed my jeans.

2.0 pounds is what those suckers weigh! Of course, this scale is more schizophrenic than Jeffery Dalmer after supper, but hey! I'll take it!

So, does it count? Have I lost twenty pounds, or am I celebrating a victory not yet won?

This post is directly appealing to the likes of Warren Buffet, the owner of the Ikea store chain, and Bill Gates. Please be a philanthropist for the Betterment and Welfare of Fritz.

I want this.

It will be used often and greatly appreciated.

If you are not a multi-millionaire who is not perusing this site, but more of an average Joe or Jane, please email me and I'll give you my PayPal account info. Any denomination of spare change is greatly appreciated.

Fritz needs a vacation, and this is the only thing that will scratch her adventuring itch.

"The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men."

-Plato

George Bush is always deciding things, isn't he? He takes great pride in making decisions. He's got the final say, By God, and he isn't afraid of using it!

His recent defense of Rumsfeld makes me shudder...to hear such a pompous and vindictive reply to criticism sends shivers of fear and anger down my spine. Do we not see how he is behaving as a dictator, or a king? What's next--lopping off of heads from the shoulders of those who ask questions?

I wish Plato were here to bring about Bush's demise. Plato wouldn't stand for this--nay! Plato would speak loudly with no tremors in his voice about the true duty of a leader. A leader should never relish his ability to be 'The Decider'. A leader should ponder all criticism, and hear it for what it is, instead of jumping on the defensive. By reading Plato's quotes, we know the Dubya's of the world have long been a threat, and Plato saw through their 'goodwill' for what it was--another action motivated by greed and contempt for common mankind.

I heard the other day that 48% of Americans think Bush is doing a really bad job. Another 27% think he could 'do better'. By my count, the majority of Americans want him gone. Out. Done. Fini.

But as Grand-PooBah Fritz says, "The ticket is NOT to impeach Bush. The ticket is to impeach Cheney, and then Bush!"

I wonder when Americans will realize that WE are the deciders, come to our senses, drop our fears, and tell this man where he and his cabinet can go. I wonder why Americans have forgotten about our civic duty--our duty to overthrow merciless 'leaders' and demand better justice. I wonder if Americans have lost their spines entirely.

Start asking questions. Write to your representatives. Tell them who the true 'decider' is. Enough letters sent, enough phone calls fielded, enough anger in the voices of citizens, and someone will start listening.

"Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God?"-Tyler Durden, Fight Club.

A friend of mine is in desperate straits, and I can hear the agony in her voice. I recognize it as my own. It is the voice of a woman who is beginning to discover she was abandoned by her father.

We were not children who were abandoned in the sense of 'failing to pay child support'. Our Fathers were always around, they just didn't talk to us. They didn't know what to say to us. At a certain point, we became aliens. Our Fathers had to think about work, or another drink, or a football game, or how to keep a wife happy. Our Fathers scolded us, or grew impatient with us when we couldn't tell the difference between a socket wrench and a screwdriver. Our Fathers seemed boorish and indifferent.

Our Fathers each forgot to pick us up from school. It took my parents ten minutes to realize I wasn't at home. I don't know how long it took my friend's parents to come to the same realization. We heard their apologies, and were so grateful to be recognized for one instant--"They MISSED me!"--that we forgave them instantly for forgetting. Our Fathers felt guilty, so they bought us each an ice cream cone and said, "Atta girl!"

Our Fathers got us into college. And we promptly fell apart.

We drank too much. We fooled around with worthless guys. We got addicted to certain herbs. We forgot to go to class. One of us managed to get through college within four years, despite a brief respite at a mental hospital. The other one flunked out of college. She returned a few years later--after she buried her father. She graduated and went to work as a social worker.

I got out of the mental hospital and graduated with a 3.4 GPA. I went to work as a social worker.

We started to take care of everyone else, because that's what we do--we take care of Our Fathers. We look the other way when their words stumble together from alcohol. We blink away tears when we are overlooked, because we are praying for the next interlude when Our Fathers ask us to grab a socket wrench (I'll grab the right one and maybe he'll say 'Atta girl!'). My friend went home when her father suffered a brain injury. And she kept him from eating dog food or mowing the lawn after it rained. And when he died, she called the ambulance and sat very still, waiting for her father's last ride.

My story is very different. I graduated, and slowly became a person to my father. The other night, he asked me why I didn't think about running for public office at some point. He blessed Michael's wish to marry me. He gave me a hug on Easter, and he squeezed. I've finally met my father.

My friend doesn't have this luxury of re-introducing herself to her father. She is still waiting to be picked up at school. And she is confronted once again with being left behind. It is the most terrifying feeling in the world. While she feels chaos blooming all around her, she is thinking to herself, "Who do I care for now? Who else needs my help?"

If she only knew that her Father would say, "You need your help, my little lamb."

We will continue to say our Hail Mary's, and hope that our stubborn moral codes be validated the next time we see Our Fathers. We will come to understand--we do not need to leave ourselves behind.

What good dad would want to see a daughter suffer?

To my friend: I will never abandon you. You will not be left behind.

We start today's interview with a brief bio on each participant.

Hef is a well-known icon among skin magazine giants. In 1953, Hugh Hefner released his magazine Playboy to sound acclaim. Free speech was the order of the day, as was the sexual revolution. Hugh Hefner has two children; his daughter Christie helps run the Playboy empire. Hugh resides in the infamous Playboy mansion with the company of beautiful young women--three of whom are his special girlfriends. Hugh asserts that he lives the life regular guys dream about--surrounded by nubile women who take their clothes off for fun. He is an octogeniarian.

Fritz is a well-proportioned woman who lives in a ambiguous suburb of Atlanta. Recently, she has been hassled for her opinion that her fiancee, Michael, should not own a copy of a Playboy in the home, nor request a stripper for his bachelor party. In all honesty, Michael is not interested in either of these things, but family and friends are giving Fritz a hard time for taking the stance of 'no consumerist anti-feminist filth' in her home.

Interviewer is a fictious character with no true substance or background in journalism.

I: Hef, how old are you again?
Hef: I have no idea. I am on my third martini of the morning. Who's the blonde?
FRITZ: My name is Fritz. You can call me that, Hef.
Hef: Mmm. Rub my feet, darlin'. (Chuckle). No, I'm merely teasing.
FRITZ: (obviously fuming) Can we get going on this? I'm kinda disgusted by this man.
I: Yes, why is that?
FRITZ: I think it's outrageous this man is allowed to subjugate and objectify women on a daily basis and be considered a Don Juan. I think it's terrible he affords himself a lavish lifestyle based on the bodies of young women who have probably been molested and raped at worst, or treated like pretty handbags at best. I also think he is smug, old, and wrinkled. I ALSO wonder if his libido is all it's cracked up to be.
Hef: Wanna find out?
FRITZ: (gags)

I: Hef, have you been met with this kind of opposition before?
Hef: Oh, absolutely. The feminists are one battle, the Christian Right, another. You know, I often think had I begun this empire two years ago, I would have been shut down by the conservatives. So afraid of sex, they are! So intimidated by a beautiful naked body! So opposed to free speech! Thank God my company was founded in the hey-day of cold martinis and pretty stewardesses.
I: Fritz, how do you feel about free speech?
FRITZ: (grumbles). Well. (sighs). I suppose I can't be against it, can I? Our nation's citizens are still nominally protected by the idea we have a right to opinions and a right to express those opinions. It worries me that these rights are being slowly drained by the conservative right. I'd agree with Hef on this--not only are the conservatives afraid of sex, but they are nervous about revolutions, naysayers, freedom marchers, gay marriage, and war protestors. The way the administration works now is closer to a coup rather than a bunch of elected officials. We ARE losing our rights daily, and this insinuates a moritorium on free speech--a founding principle for Americans.
Hef: Hear, hear! Now, fetch me a lighter, sweet-pea.
FRITZ: Did you just tell me to fetch something for you?

I: So, Fritz, is it possible that you think Playboy should remain on the shelves for Americans to purchase?
FRITZ: By my own moral code, I could not suggest otherwise. I don't agree with the publication, but I really have more beef with the individuals who purchase the magazine. By all accounts, a member of the KKK should have the same right to publication as Hugh Hefner or Martha Stewart (another dastardly publication, if I may be so bold). But the public has the ultimate decision if such a publication should remain on the shelves. I think that's where I'm rubbed the wrong way by Playboy.
Hef: Honey, men like to look at pretty girls. It's biology. Besides, these models are not engaging in sexual activity while be photographed. This is art, sweetie. Art!
FRITZ: No. Art is applying technique to a canvas to teach something. I'm not learning anything when I look at nude women splayed out like so many flayed fish.
Hef: That wasn't a bad metaphor.
FRITZ: That's not what I meant.

I: But, Fritz, many of those models are simply posing for financial gain. Many of them are college students or successful career women. Are you suggesting there is something anti-feminist about a woman using her power for financial gain?
FRITZ: That isn't a bad point, in theory. But here's the problem: that young lady who's dolled up and airbrushed may get a pretty penny for the photo shoot. But what has she done for the rest of women? Kept them objectified. Sure, she may be able to go and buy a Jaguar or pay for med school or whatever based on those photos, but how do you think I feel when a man looks at me the way he looks at a centerfold?
Hef: Oh, honey, you could never be a centerfold. All the airbrushing in the world can't get rid of that cellulite.
FRITZ: And he surreptiously proves another point for me.
I: That is?
FRITZ: We're still judging women based on appearance. Tell me: how many ugly, fat men do we see on TV or in real life, holding authoritative jobs and keeping young, pretty wives? Now, compare that to how many ugly, fat women hold powerful jobs and have gaggles of young construction workers surrounding their bedrooms. It's a pretty sad proportion. Women pay the price for not fitting into the standards that Playboy advertises.
Hef: You take yourself way too seriously.
FRITZ: If I didn't, who would? Anyway, I think the 'pro-feminist' argument for Playboy stinks. It's the same as legalized prostitution, isn't it? In theory, it is a woman taking complete responsiblity for her body and her actions. In reality, a man is always on the recieving end of the money exchange. Bunny ranches are owned by men in Nevada; the prostitutes take a decent cut for their work, but the owners are the ones who truly profit. The same works with Playboy; Miss December goes home with a check and some royalties, while Hef benefits from the sale, right, and ownership of the magazine. In essence, he owns more of the centerfold than she ever will. We can apply this principle to mainstream pornography, as well.
I: Is there any kind of pornographic or erotic material you would support, Fritz?
FRITZ: Well, actually, I don't have a desire for any of that stuff personally. But I'll tell you what faction seems to have the best ethics about porn--gays. Lesbian porn is directed and acted out by true lesbians. Every single woman in the production is an equal to one another. The fact that it is being made FOR women BY women gives it a whole different sense. It's fair, that's what it is. But male-dominated mainstream sex profit is unjust and unfair. It doesn't only hurt the women who partake in the movies and photos--it hurts me.

Hef: Fritz, is it possible that you are unconfident about your body, and don't want Michael to look at someone with bigger breasts and a tighter ass?
FRITZ: Duh. Obviously.
Hef: I think you are just so jealous of Michael, and have such a low self-esteem, that you are targeting my magazine instead of really addressing what's wrong with you.
FRITZ: (gets up and smokes a cigarette) We'll finish this later. I'm so angry...I can't do this.
I: (stopping tape). All right, we'll continue the discussion at a later date if all parties are agreed. Hef?
Hef: Yeah, that's fine. It's time for my massage from one of my girlfriends, anyway. I think it'll be the eighteen year old one, today.

Delilah Amelia had a few choice words to add to this post, but since this is a family holiday, I convinced her to restrain herself.

We're going over to The Grand Poo-Bah and Madame Fritz's house for dinner. It's an hour away. They are making us bring ice-cream.

I told them it would melt. But what do I know?

On the menu:
Lamb
Coleslaw
Veggie Quiches (made by moi--and they look pretty sad)
French Potatoes
Cupcakes
Cake
Ice Cream

We are the wierdest family ever. Poor Michael has no idea what he's getting himself into. And he's never had lamb before. Mmm. Baby lamb. Representative of Christ being sacrificed, or the blood of lambs splashed on the doors of the Jews in Egypt when the Angel of Destruction came. Lovely. Christianity is so gentle, isn't it? Judaism is not far off the mark, either.

This Easter, I leave you with one thought (this will turn into many):

I propose that Christ did not die on the cross for our sins. I propose that he died on the cross to fully understand the pain of being human. I believe his death to be representative of the horror and anguish we put ourselves through, and his resurrection to be the symbol of our own forgiveness--the forgiveness of ourselves. I believe he died on the cross because God asked it of him, and he obeyed. The Crucifixion is more about faith and trust in a powerful God, and less about 'saving' any of us. We are all saved; we merely must stop putting ourselves and others on crosses. Whether we believe in God or not, we have a duty to be good to ourselves and each other. It is good actions that reclaim us for happiness (in this life or another). So, as we celebrate new life and spring, or weep for the death of Jesus, or say 'Alleluia! He is Risen, Indeed!' at church, I would ask you to think upon your own mini-crucifixions.

And I would ask that you put them aside, and love yourself for who you are. Then, we can all truly be resurrected, each day, in a new, meaningful, and tangible way.  

Michael and I have some new friends. We met them through my job (I'm their caseworker for one of their relatives). We like them, but there are some reservations on both our parts.

Miss Loudmouth is a teacher. Mr. Bald is a firefighter. Miss Loudmouth is louder than myself (amazing!) and Mr. Bald is quieter than Michael (really amazing!). We all ride motorcycles and are from up north. When we get together, the men are happy because they finally get a word in edgewise. Miss Loudmouth and I blabber away.

But there are some problems.
1. Miss Loudmouth has fake boobs. I've never associated with anyone who has fake boobs. And these were not boobs put there for medical reasons (like a masectomy). No. She had them done after she had her baby--she didn't like the way her natural breasts sagged.
2. Mr. Bald is really desperately a man's man. He likes to stare at other women. Miss Loudmouth is okay with this, as she likes to tease him about his lack of a sex drive with her.
3. In fact, Miss Loudmouth also talks openly about other women's butts and how attractive they are.
4. We have a sneaking suspicion that at the bottom of all this, Miss Loudmouth and Mr. Bald are swingers.
5. This is unappealing.

Now, I am a very jealous woman. Nobody gets to hug my man, look at my man, or talk to my man about sex. Period. And if I thought Michael was even tempted to look at a woman with fake boobs, he knows there would be several outcomes:
-Sleeping on the sofa for a month
-Getting a blow-up doll for 'release'
-Being cut off. You know what I mean.

However, Michael is one of those rare guys who doesn't go for silicone or skinny. He likes round real women (and by 'women', I mean 'FRITZ' and no one else). So, I don't have to worry about Miss Loudmouth being appealing to him. She's skinny and has fake boobs.

But there's one woman I am very leery of: Tanya Tucker.

Why? When Michael was 19, he worked at Chuck E. Cheese as a video maintenance repair guy. That's right; he carried all the keys. He was cute in that 80's way (mullet, mustache, cute dimples and sparkly eyes)(obviously, he's still very cute--just not in that 80's way). Tanya Tucker was in Michigan on tour with her in-bred band of cousins and roadies. Where do drunk country stars want to eat after a long show? Chuck E. Cheese, of course!

So, Miss Tanya brought her entourage over to Michael's Chuck E. Cheese for entertainment. She came after the restaurant was closed and tossed some money at Michael and the managers. That's all it took for my future husband--he was smitten.

Apparently, so was Tanya. She smooched Michael on the cheek as a thanks. She called him a cutie and said, "I could just eat you up!".

Oh, I bet she could.

All I have to say is: If Michael EVER utters one word about how he wished my hair were a bit more peroxided or my clothes a tad tighter or my eyeshadow a bit bluer, we'll all know why. Miss Loudmouth ain't got nothin' on Tanya Tucker.

And Tanya Tucker ain't got nothin' on Fritz.

Michael is well-known to grab photos of me while I'm unprepared. I honestly think I was clapping and saying, "Let's go let's go let's GO!" when he nabbed me.

Thanks, honey. I like how the helmet squeezes my huge cheeks together like a chipmunk.

Here are our flavorful toys:
Michael's SVT Ford Focus
Michael's Kawasaki Z1000 (We call it Kermit)
and
My Honda 599 aka The Hornet aka Big Bird aka Charlene.

I think I almost killed Michael's computer. It seriously dive-bombed from all this blogging use.

Anyway, I was doing a whole long post about me riding Charlene, and I don't really feel like retyping it all, but suffice it to say: I apologize for not being around a lot. Please know it is because I am on my bike, and we are having fun.

Here's me in a pair of very unattractive jeans--they fit, once, but now that I've lost seventeen pounds, I have a hard time keeping them up. Also: Please dig the new pink ICON jacket Michael bought for me. His is all black but matches mine. Aren't we disgustingly cute?

And: the helmet has hearts all over it. I am going to attempt to post a couple more pictures, but I can't promise anything.

I'll be coming to your blog shortly, so don't give up on me! I've just been having too much fun, recently. I miss you folks, though.

I wish I could take all of you with me on the bike!

This is the most beautiful in-between I've ever experienced. Unfortunately, we live in a time when in-betweens are unappreciated. Aren't we always trying to get HERE or THERE? We forget to look around while we're in traffic.

My good friend Katie and I made a lunch date. Katie and I have a fabulous relationship; we've known each other since high school and have actually become closer through out the years (we've both admitted to pretty much tolerating each other in high school). What's doubly wonderful about our relationship is that we are both crazy, depressed, and ingenious--but in different ways. We both rely on each other to reflect the world as we see it--screwed up, non-compliant, and downright crappy. Man, it's good to be understood.

The other wonderful thing about Katie and I is that we see each other very rarely and still have fantastic times together. We don't know each other's birthdays (well, she's got my birth month right--I can't remember her's to save my ever-living birthday-forgetting soul). And we exchange gifts at the most random of times. Christmas presents are handed out in June, birthday presents are years late...we don't care. It's the idea, is what we enjoy.

So, when we had a lunch date, I was not expecting an engagement present. But, lo, Katie surprises me once more.
"Here," she said, handing me a box and a bag. "This is your freakin' engagement present. I know it's a little late. Sorry."
"Katie! Why'd you do this?"
"Hell if I know. Duh! It's your engagement! Although it's late, so it's probably anti-climatic."
I open up the box to find two beautiful champagne flutes, and the bag contains one bottle of very drinkable fizzy.

"I figured when you guys got stressed out over the wedding, you could have it," she said from behind her fabulous Jackie-O sunglasses.

"Well, either that, or you could get drunk and have sex," she says after a pause.

I love Katie.

So, it's Saturday night. I'm blogging and Michael is staring at his beloved motorcycle forum. And we're drinking champagne. Katie, you were toasted. This is the life.

I'm about to be married, and loving every moment of the 'about to be' as much as loving the idea of spending the rest of my life with Michael. 

I'm too excited to come up with a title. Wanna know why? Because THIS is my new bike.

No, really, THIS is my new bike! It's got a big SOLD sticker on it and it's MY bike! All I have to do is sign the dotted line tomorrow, and it's mine! Yup. Lilith will be traded in for the newer, sleeker, lighter, brighter Charlene.

That's right, her name is Charlene, and she's my new ride. Don't drool, boys!

This is a Honda 599 (a 600cc class). She weighs about 450 pounds wet (as opposed to Lilith and her 600 pound bulk). Charlene's got about 90 horsepower and a full throttle of fun. Eventually, I'll be getting a slip-on exhaust for her (to make her growl and purr!) and doing some airbrushing on the tank.

Some Boring Stuff:
Even better: Charlene's interest rate is LOWER than Lilith's, so even with negative equity, I'll be making the SAME payment as I do currently on Lilith! Let's all thank our neighbor and finance manager John (I can't find a picture of him, so here's a picture of his bad-ass V-twin Aprila Mille R) over at WOW Motorcycles for making this possible.

Fritz has got a new motorcycle! YEEHAW!!

PS: Oh, and, uh, my boss told the executive director of the company for whom I work that out of fifty employees, I'm her NUMBER ONE SUPPORT COORDINATOR.

I mean, not to brag, or anything.

Hey, Georgia Department of Corrections (specifically Cherokee County Probation)??

SUCK IT.

(Fritz The Brat skips away merrily. Why does she deserve to have such a good run of luck with THAT attitude?) 

Africa is dying.

I know you are aware of this; you've seen the reports that over two-thirds of the population in Sub-Saharan Africa is infected with HIV/AIDS.

Starving children, genocide, rampant disease, famine, clandestine government officials, racism, practiced misogynist, female genital mutilation. We're used to hearing about these things, aren't we? When it comes to Africa, we may be interested for a few reasons. We may be concerned about species soon to grow extinct thanks to poachers. We may day-dream about a safari in a posh Range Rover. Perhaps, we want to stroll the lovely streets and avenues of Cape Town and dig for diamonds in the Western Cape of South Africa.

But what we don't want to recognize is our own, individual responsibility to Africa.

What Fritz Is Guilty Of:

1. Wearing a diamond ring most likely mined in Africa. The global economics of diamonds is a vast picture of true monopoly, scandal, and brute greed. Children in the D.R. Congo are the main source of labor and infantry, although human right activists have been working to stop this. In 1975, the diamond trade led Angola to civil war. And we can all thank Kayne West for bringing to light the issue of diamond mining in the Sierra Leone. While we've all know that Belgium has played a huge part in the carving apart and colonization of the African Congo, we forget how vital Belgium's role still is in supporting corruption and war in the Sierra Leone. Most rough diamonds are traded from Sierra Leone into Antwerp, and from Antwerp, to the rest of the world.

I've probably supported a child's death in Sierra Leone.

2. Drug companies.
Now, we all know drug companies are evil, malignant, and down-right greedy. We know they are in cahoots with the government and myriad insurance companies. Half of the time, they 'fudge' statistics on side-effects, deaths caused, and true curing-capacity of medication. Once I saw The Constant Gardener, however, I was agog with outrage.
Where can drug companies test drugs with no worry about too much of an outcry? Somewhere where life is expendable and cheap. Where desperation is rampant and families willing to sacrifice anything for food or decent health. So, it's reasonable to understand why conglomerate businesses profiting from the production and sales of synthetic drugs TEST AFRICANS.

Pfizer has been named as a prime example of this horrible practice. They are the same company that makes Zoloft, the sertraline drug I take for anxiety.

I've definitely supported the out-right immorality of a business giant. And a child has suffered because of my need to stay happy.

To sum up: I am not singularly guilty of causing one death. I am not a murderer. It takes many people to kill a child in Africa. It takes many eyes looking the other way and ignoring the signs. It takes more than one first-world nation to sigh and say "That's just a shame" and then go about dumping nuclear waste off the shores of the forgotten land. It takes millions of Americans too concerned about the Middle East to waste a breath on Africa. I am not alone in the murder of Africa.

We are all conspirators.

Perhaps, it is too late to stop the demise of a once lush and beautiful land. Our efforts of dividing and conquering the natives have succeeded tremendously. Because of the Boers and the English and the French, Africa was stunted in its civil growth, and while we roll our eyes at unrest and tribal genocide, we must understand that perhaps, had it been left alone, Africa would have evolved. Perhaps, it is the influx of outsiders that have led to the dismemberment of what was once a vast and powerful land.

Perhaps, it is time to admit responsibility and save Africa. Or, in the least, mourn her dying, abandoned children.