Three (3) Random Things

1. Today I went to work. I sat in my office. I attempted to work. I was interrupted, every ten minutes, by random coworkers popping in and out of my door.

"You're going to the breakfast, right?"
"Do you know if it's time for the breakfast?"
"What will I do if I miss the breakfast? Oh, Christ! I'll die! I'll. . .die."*
"Hey, they're starting the breakfast."

I thought about the fact that, even though I had nothing at all to do with said breakfast shin-dig, I am, apparently, thought to be Julie, The Cruise Director. On Friday we're having a luncheon. I think I'll make myself a name tag, buy a white blazer and direct people to the lido deck whilst flipping my super cute Dorothy Hamill hair cut. It's gonna' be boss and...possibly...gnarly.

2. Speaking of cruise directors. . . .

I have been staying at Elisa's in-laws since everybody and their brother Mike left for the cruise on the twelfth. I'm watching the dogs. They're adorable. I heart them. However, one of them has killer gas. No. I mean it. Killer. My life is in danger. Go ahead and laugh but you'll be laughing out of the other side of your face when you read in the paper (oh, come on, who am I kidding? Nobody reads papers anymore!) that I was found in deep rigor with a look of extreme terror and not a litt;e awe engraved on my face. Awe? Yes. Awe. I'm amazed that anything or one can smell that bad and not be dead. It must be a skill of some kind.
Oh, also? They wake up and bark every two hours starting at 1 AM. It's awesome! But, they are ador - - - - -

Holy. Mother. The stench just hit me. I can't give you a third item. I've got to run. Literally.

*OK. I made that one up. But not by much!

Erin Is An Enabler

Who feeds my list fetish. She's evil & wrong. That being said.....

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Wrapping paper
2. Real tree or Artificial? In a perfect world? Real. In my house? Artificial…damn it!
3. When do you put up the tree? The Saturday after Thanksgiving. It’s called “Turkey Tree Day”. It’s tradition.
4. When do you take the tree down? January 2nd
5. Do you like eggnog? No. It’s vile, evil & so very very wrong.
6. Favorite gift received as a child? The Complete Annotated Shakespeare.
7. Hardest person to buy for? Nobody. I’m a pretty good gift giver, I think.
8. Easiest person to buy for? Elisa. She’s a hippy. Step 1: World Market Step 2: Buy Something - Done!
9. Do you have a nativity scene? Yes, my great grandmother gave me one. It’s quite lovely….I am the best Jew ever!
10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail
11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? My great aunt (from Brooklyn so not really her fault…much) gave me a gold lame, beaded, fringed (!) purse when I was 16. I almost threw up.
12. Favorite Christmas movie? The Bishop’s Wife
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Usually the week of. This year? I’m on it! I’m half done…it may be the end times. Seriously. Be afraid.
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? No. Tacky.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Beef Stew (What? We’re Irish. Don’t judge.) For Hanukkah? Latkes, obviously.
16. Lights on the tree? Yes, but I’m OCD so they’re very specific & we really can’t get into that without me having an “episode”.
17. Favorite Christmas carol? Anything by Bing Crosby
18. Travel at Christmas or stay at home? Go to my Aunt’s.
19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? Hanchel, Herschel, Schlomo…um, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy, Ted & Rudolph!
20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Star.
21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Christmas morning. What am I a heathen?
22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? Explaining, repeatedly, to my coworkers that I do, in fact, celebrate Christmas & Hanukkah…welcome to America! It’s a melting pot.
23. What theme or color are you using? We don’t do that. We mix it up. Single color trees are gross and wrong.
24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? Corn muffins. What? What else do you eat with beef stew?
25. What do you want for Christmas this year? World peace…but, if I can’t have that, I’ll take a million dollars. Who am I to be so picky?
26. Who is most likely to respond to this? Stealing Erin’s Answer: Your Mom

Happy Thanksgiving

Breakfast of Champions Cake

2/3 cup cocoa
2 ¼ cups all purpose flour
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons instant coffee granules
1 1/2 cups unsweetened orange juice
3 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla (optional)
1 1/4 cups canola oil or vegetable oil

Set oven to 350 degrees F.

Set rack to second-lowest postion.

Generously grease and flour a 12-cup bundt pan

In an extra large mixing bowl, sift together flour, cocoa, salt, baking soda, baking powder and sugar.

Disolve coffee granules in orange juice. Pour orange juice mixture into bowl. Add eggs, oil and vanilla. Mix on medium speed until well combined.

Bake for 50 - 60 minutes (check it at 50).

Cool in pan for about 15-20 minutes before removing. Sift powdered sugar over the top.

Eat.

Variations: You could also, of course, slice this cake into three layers, melt some cherry or raspberry preserves, brush the cake with the preserves and spread whipped cream between the layers and cover the whole thing with chocolate ganache...just a thought...it's America...up to you.

My Super (Nauseating) Sweet 16

Question:

When your 16 year old child asks you for a twenty-five thousand dollar Fendi mink coat what should your answer be?

A. What did you just ask me?
B. Are you out of your tiny mind?
C. Hell no!
D. All of the above.
E. Anything you want. It’s your world, we’re all just living in it!

Apparently, much to my shock, the answer is E. Who knew? Not me. I did not know that.

I would have imagined, actually, that the correct thing to do would be to laugh in the childs face for about an hour . . . Possibly while slapping them, lightly, about the head and neck with a rolled up newspaper. That would, surely, be my response. But, what do I know? If you go by the dim bulb, lack wit, parents of the Super Sweet 16 crowd I’m wrong as wrong can be. Hu.

Now, I’m sure, twenty-five thousand dollars is chump change to these people. Good for them. Way to hustle! But, instead of spending it on a, frankly, ugly coat that little baby precious dumplin’ angel will wear for about a minute before she’s “over it” how about you take that chump change and, oh, I don’t know…do something crazy? Like making her do volunteer work and then donating the money to the charity of her choice! How about doing something wacky like that? Why not show her that sometimes we don’t always get every little thing our hearts desire and that some, hell, lots of people don’t get the essentials let alone the luxury items? Wouldn’t that be a hoot?!

No? Better to have her grow up believing that she’s entitled to any little thing she wants? Better she should never understand the value of a dollar or how, honestly, to get a dollar without pitching a fit and running to daddy? Better she should grow up to be a douche bag of staggering proportions? Well, if you say so I’ll . . . No. Come to think of it, I won’t believe you.

Two (2) Mini Blogs For The Price of One (1)

1.
It Costs Extra To Have The Word Schmuck Carved Into A Tombstone But For You? I'll Save Up.

Today at work a man told me, as part of his defense, that his daughter “isn’t that retarded.” Oh, OK. To think that someone honest to G-d thought that it was OK to not take care of their mentally challenged child because, hey! They’re not that retarded! So, what’s the criteria? If she eats dirt and sits in the yard all day tethered to a post wearing a helmet will you support her then? I’m not trying to be cruel, I just really want to know what the cut off is.

2.
Alvy Singer: Hey listen, gimme a kiss.
Annie Hall: Really?
Alvy Singer: Yeah, why not, because we're just gonna go home later, right, and then there's gonna be all that tension, we've never kissed before and I'll never know when to make the right move or anything. So we'll kiss now and get it over with, and then we'll go eat. We'll digest our food better.

Annie Hall is on. I believe that this movie should be used as a compatibility litmus test (I’m very scientifically minded when I’m motivated). If you are interested in someone you should make them watch Annie Hall. If they love it and you love it? Grand. Go ahead and accept that dinner invitation. If they hate it and you hate it? Same deal. If you don’t feel the same way just walk away right there. Seriously. Further, you should watch it together and if you laugh with glee/scowl morosely and back chat the screen at the same time? Get married, shack up, have babies, whatever.

Annie Hall is the only one it will work with. Bananas , Take the Money and Run, Zelig? Those are funny to everybody …or should be…actually, no. I tell a lie. You can use any Woody Allen comedy. Go ahead. Go nuts!

But, of course, if they’re from someplace like Utah you’ll need a New York to English dictionary. But, hell, what do I know? Maybe you’re from Utah. No offense.

The Cure For What Ails You, Part II

Mushroom Kugel

1 Package of Wide Egg Noodles
1 8 oz. Package of Mushrooms - Chopped
½ Cup Yellow Onion - Chopped
2 Cloves Garlic - Minced
2 Sticks of Butter
8 oz. Sour Cream
8 oz. Cream Cheese
6 Eggs
Salt & Pepper To Taste

Preheat oven to 375

Prepare noodles as directed on package.
In large sauté pan melt 2 Tablespoons of the butter.
Add the onion, garlic and mushrooms.
Cook until soft.
Add the rest of the butter to the sauté pan and melt.
In a large bowl (seriously, make it a BIG bowl) mix the mushroom/butter mixture, cream cheese and sour cream.
Add the eggs one at a time (the batter will be thick like a cake batter).
Mix the noodles into the batter.
Pour mixture into a large casserole dish.
Bake, uncovered, for approximately 50 minutes.

You can do a sweet kugel by changing the mushrooms to the fruit of your choice (I like apple), adding ½ a cup of sugar, ½ a cup of brown sugar and 2 teaspoons of cinnamon.

Obviously, you would leave out the onion, garlic, salt and pepper…unless you have weird taste buds. Hey, it’s America. Do what you like!

The Cure For What Ails You

Mushroom & Matzoh Ball Soup
1/2 Cup Yellow Onion, Diced
1/2 Cup Carrot, Sliced
1 Cup Frozen Peas
1 8 oz. Package of Sliced Wild Mushrooms
1 8 oz. Package of Sliced Baby Portobello’s
2 Quarts of Stock (Chicken or Vegetable)
3 Garlic Cloves, Minced
1 Package of Matzoh Ball Mix
3 Tablespoons Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper To Taste

In a large skillet sauté the onions, carrots, mushrooms & garlic in the olive oil until soft (about 20 minutes).

While vegetables are cooking prepare the matzoh ball mix as directed on the package.

Matzoh mix will have to be refrigerated for 15 minutes.

In a large stock pot bring stock to a boil.

Wet hands.

Roll small (important that they are small as they get bigger when they cook) balls of matzoh mix and drop into boiling stock.

Cover stock pot tightly & simmer for 20 minutes.

When matzoh balls are done transfer vegetable mix to stock pot and add frozen peas.

Simmer for 5 minutes. Ladle into soup bowl. Eat.
I love soup. It's so easy!

EDITED TO ADD: Baked Apples or Apple Noodle Kugel would be the perfect dessert after this. Why didn't I get apples, when I went to the store? WHY?! Damn cold medicine.

Well, Hey! How You? How's Yer' Mamma & Them?!

So, long time no blog, eh? Well, them’s the breaks. What’s been going on? Oy. So much! And, as we all know, I love a list….

A. The Saturday before last I went to my grandmother’s family reunion. I know, technically, that since it’s her family it’s also my family but come on! I can’t take them. What am I Job?

My grandmother’s family is white. No. Seriously. They make me look like a fine Nubian princess. They find Catsup spicy. I’m not kidding. They believe catsup to be some spicy, hot, fire in the hole hellishness. They’re nutty. But, hey! It takes all kinds to make a world so live and let live I say. . . Up to a point.

Conversation Overheard At Family Reunion:
Batshit Crazy 7th Cousin Once Removed #1: Who brought this?
Batshit Crazy 7th Cousin Once Removed #2: What?
BC7C1R #1: (pointing at container that is clearly marked “Garcia”) Who brought this?
BC7C1R #2: Oh. Teeny [my grandmother’s nickname…remember, they’re uber white] did.
BC7C1R #1: Oh! That’s right! I always forget that Teeny married a (whispering) Mexican…I hope it isn’t spicy….

Um, seriously? It was macaroni salad. Also? We’re not Mexican. Furthermore? If we were you wouldn’t need to whisper it. If we were Nazis? Sure, you go ahead and whisper that craziness. Mexican? Not necessary. It isn’t contagious. And if it was I bet you’d enjoy life a lot more. Welcome to flavor country! I know. I know, you thought mayo was a spice. You were wrong. But, once you catch the dreaded Mexican you’ll know better.

Why must people assume that all people with Spanish last names are Mexican (or, in Nuevo York, Puerto Rican)? There are a lot of Spanish speaking nations. Grab a map and concentrate on the Central & South American countries. Oh! And, also? Friggin’ Spain! Hence the word “Spanish.”

I really wanted to point all of this out but, since I was raised right, I decided that this was my cue to get the hell out of Dodge. I even said goodbye on my way out in a very polite manner. I said, because I may have been raised right but Mr. Garcia didn’t raise no fools, “Adios, ladies!” And, yes, I enjoyed the mixture of confusion and panic on their faces when I said it.

B. The Sunday before last I attended the wedding of my friends Stuart and Anne. Now, as we know, usually I could give a crap about weddings. I believe I’ve been clear. I’m generally the one in the back of the room making book on how long the marriage will last. What? I give fair odds and pay out when I lose. Don’t judge me!

That being said, I got a wee choked up at this wedding. Why? Well, partly because I’ve known Stu since G-d was a boy . To me he’ll always be the gangly, sadly long haired, hyperactive puppy of a lad I met way back when. But he’s grown up. He’s grownsed up and he’s grownsed up and he’s grownsed up! And, not only has he grown up, he’s grown up well. He’s a good man. Well done, luv, if you read this. And then there’s Anne. We like Anne. Hell, we love Anne! Could there be anybody better for the Stude? Nope. Not on this planet. So, yeah, that explains the robot getting choked up. That or I’ve blown a cog. Hmmm…must get that checked out. I knew I should have had my heart taken out when I had my soul removed to make room for more sarcasm. Oh, well, hind sight is 20/20!

And, besides the fact that I actually gave a crap about the people getting married, it was a super fun wedding! And, though I say it myself, we were the fun table. One problem? There were three flasks. That, in itself, is far from problematic. But two of them were wasted on Gin and Bourbon. Honestly! Who does that?

C. A few of my friends and I will be hitting up the Richmond Highland Games this weekend. Before you say it, yes, I know! It’s supposed to rain. I say bring it on! I’m a fool for authenticity. I bought a disposable camera so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to post and plenty of photographic evidence. I may have to bring a tranquilizer gun. Olivia gets…funny…around kilted men. There may be an incident.

D.Besides all this? I’ve been at work. I got my first performance review. Yeah, it’s official, I rock.

And . . . That’s . . . About . . . It . . . …..

Things We Lost In The Fire?

The urge to blog. But I'm working on it. Check back later. Hang in there. Be strong. G-d bless you and G-d bless America....Oh, wait. I'm not running for president. Woops!

No. There wasn't an actual fire.

It's Yom Kippur . . .

If you’re thinking of having a pork chop, reconsider.

What time is it, boys and girls? It’s atonement time! Once again it’s time to forgive and forget. I’ll start, shall I?

If, in the past year, I have pissed you off I offer a deep and heartfelt apology.* If, in the past year, you’ve pissed me off then I forgive you.**

There! Don’t we all feel better? Fantastic!

Tzom kal, everybody.

*Unless you had it coming and/or I found it amusing . . . In which case, host du bie mir an avleh!

*Unless you really pissed me off . . . in which case, gai tren zich!

Bedtime For Gonzo

You must see this movie. It's a documentary about Hunter S. Thompson. WATCH IT! That's all.

Cookies & Juice

How the debate would go if I were the moderator....

Moderator (me): Mr. McCain, is it not true that you are, in fact, a fibber and you are, in fact, fibbing right now? Do you need a moment to try and turn that into a personal attack on Mr. Obama? OK. I'll give you a minute.

When I get annoyed my blood sugar drops.

Tonight I watched the debate.

I listened to John McCain.

I'm currently having cookies and juice.

I think you see my point.

PS? Biden is going to hand Palin her ass in their debate...field dress that, Governor!

I Have Many Questions.

I just watched the news. So, sadly, I may not be so coherent or upbeat. My bank is looking for buyers. Great. That’s swell. It’s not as if I have a billion dollars so I can’t lose a lot but, ya’ know, it’s not actually about me (for once). What about all the people who have their retirement wrapped up in that bank? What about all those people? What happens to them if buyers aren’t found? It’s insured, you say? Oh, great! By who? Oh, right. The rocket scientists. Fantastic. I have a lot of faith in them. Seriously. I do. I have faith that they couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a flash light.

The state of the country is deeply depressing. As some of you may know, I am very patriotic. I love my country. I do. I believe, as I’ve said before, in the dream of America. I believe that we can be great. I believe that we have a duty, as Americans, to try and provide the American dream to any and all who want to grab that dream with both hands. How can we do that if we’re broke? How can we do that if we can’t get gas to get to work or to school or to, G-d forbid, the doctor? How can we do that when most of the world hates us? How can we do that when we’re told that the people who are in the highest tax bracket are the middle class? What does that make the rest of us? Why is making sure that two people who love each other can’t get legally married more important than the economy or an illegal war? What kind of people laugh at community organizers? In what world is the ability to field dress a moose of more importance than actual job experience? How can we be great if we’re a joke? How can our children hold their heads up if we raise them in fear and ignorance? How? Somebody, please, tell me. How?

BUT!

All hope is not lost. An election is coming. Go vote. If you love your country, you will vote. If you care about the troops, you will vote. If you want to hand over a better world to your children, then you will vote. If you’d like to retire and not have to live on dog food, you will vote. Hell, if you care about anything at all, you will vote.

Go register. Go vote. Go get involved.

Not someday.

Now.

Hmmm...Well, why not?

I’m watching “Failure to Launch,” a truly horrifying movie. I don’t know why. Well, that’s not true. I know why. Matthew McKindahigh is hot, except, of course, when you look at his arms which are entirely too short for his body but then, who am I to talk? So, let’s just say he’s a good looking man and leave it at that. That is all besides the point. Besides? Beside the point? Besides the point? Whatever! It isn’t the point. The point is that the only good characters in this movie are the sidekicks. It occurred to me that that is often the case in “romantic comedies.” Look at “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” His friends are much, much more interesting than the leads. And that isn’t just because one of them is played by Andi McDowell. Look at “Pretty Woman.” I’d much rather see a movie about her friend Kit.

Why are the sidekicks so much more interesting? And why doesn’t somebody write a movie where the sidekicks are the main characters? I mean, it would be interesting. Let the leads be the sidekicks for once. You’d still have the Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant types and they’d still be the catalysts for the action of the sidekicks but the movie would follow the sidekicks. I don’t think I’m explaining it well but I still think it’s a good idea. So sue me.

"Ducking for apples -- change one letter and it's the story of my life." - Dorothy Parker

My two favorite poems by my favorite poet (because a woman doctor is not a doctoress, that's why).

Inventory
by
Dorothy Parker

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

Love Song
by
Dorothy Parker

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled-
Oh, a girl she'd not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world-
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams-
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friend of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathways of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart-
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Oh, what the hell? One more!

Unfortunate Coincidence
by
Dorothy Parker

By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.

Where there is a sea there are pirates.

When Walter Somlug first set out to sea there was no way he could have known how profound an impact it would have on him. When his doctor suggested a little sea air would do his poor lungs a world of good Walter wasn't sure he could stand to be away from his family's paper bag processing factory in Little ShimSham on Thames. Of course, his Uncle Fred and Cousin Alf both said Walter's health had to come first and that they'd be well able to get a temporary accountant to come in and see to the books for a few weeks.

But Walter just felt that Great Grandfather Somlug's fine busines shouldn't be left in the uncaring hands of strangers. And he hadn't just been thinking of that temporary accountant. After all, what did the family really know about Uncle Fred, other than the fact that he'd married Aunt Mudgey...and wasn't that odd in itself?

Now, after just ten days at sea, Walter wasn't sure he could bring himself to go back to that nine to five grind. But, he consoled himself, he'd always have the memories and the tattoo to remember it by. . .and, naturally, all that booty would shore up the employees retirement fund nicely. He wondered what the tax codes would have to say.

"Pray for intestinal fortitude, work hard, and keep the faith. Oh, and pray for good luck, you're gonna need it." Jerry Reed

I’ve always loved “trashy” boys. Always. I can prove it.

When I was five or six, I can’t remember which, my mother came into the living room as I was watching TV. I was, she says, enraptured. I turned to her with the love light in my eye.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” I asked.
My mother looked at the television. I was watching “Smokey and the Bandit.”
“Who,” she asked, “Burt Reynolds?”
“No! Him!” I said, pointing at Jerry Reed without turning around.
“Sure,” my mother laughed. “He’s dreamy.”

Now, for those of you who haven’t seen this edifying and transcendent film, Jerry Reed was playing a good old boy trucker. Not much of a stretch I imagine. Who cares? I was, for once, not in it for the acting. I loved Jerry Reed’s character and, therefore, since I was five (or six) I loved Jerry Reed. And, lo, these many years later, I still do.

Of course, now I know the difference between an actor and a character. Still, for all that, the man apparently made a deep impression on me in my youth. To this day I love a man who was brought up rough, if you will, around the edges. A man who knows what a dollar is worth and how hard you have to work to get one.

Don’t talk to me about men who know which fork to use at every course! That is knowledge I can give them if need be. But you can’t teach somebody things that should have been instilled since birth. Respect for hard work, love of family and how to react when times get tough…’cause they pretty much always do, eventually. These are traits I admire.

I do not, let us be clear, want anything to do with an illiterate (or may as well be), slack jawed, hill billy, beats “his” woman because he can redneck. No. Thank you. I’ve had one of those. I don’t care to repeat the experience. Call me crazy! However, a blue collar man is a thing of beauty. A blue collar man who reads and doesn’t listen, exclusively, to country music? Indefinable joy. If I could find all that and he can make me laugh until I pass out? Book the hall, people, I just changed my mind about marriage! But, sadly, they are few and far between. And, as of September 1, 2008? They’re getting rarer.

Goodbye, Mr. Reed. You may not have been any of the things I thought or admired. You may have been all those things. But, whatever you may or may not have been, to this little girl, you were beautiful.

The Carrot & The Stick

Annie Pinchis sat staring at the ink blot. Her therapist, Dr. Lipke, seemed to think this was an important step in her “healing.” Healing from what he had, thus far, kept to himself. Annie thought Dr. Lipke was a douche bag but, thus far, she had kept that to herself.

If Annie had known that she would be subjected to an unholy mélange of Jungian philosophy. Freudian analysis and self help mumbo jumbo she’d have given therapy a pass. But, unfortunately, Dr. Lipke was the only therapist in her insurance network within fifty miles. He also insisted on her attending at least one session a month in order to get her prescription. Annie knew that medication was all she needed. So, she thought, my brain chemistry isn’t right. Big whoop. Give me a pill and leave me alone! Dr. Lipke continued to hold up the ink blot.

Annie began to panic. What if she said the wrong thing? How often would he require her to come in then? Oh, Christ, she fumed, they always find something wrong with your answer. They say there is no right answer. So, if there’s no answer why ask the question? Hu? Why? Just to mess with you.

Annie looked at the ink blot. It looked remarkably like someone had spilled ink on a white piece of paper. Wisely, she decided that that probably wasn’t the right not right answer. She leaned forward as if concentrating on it more closely.

“It looks,” think, she screamed in her head! “It looks,” safe. Safe. What’s the safe answer? “Like Bugs Bunny holding a carrot!” There! What could anybody possibly say about that? Annie felt a smug smile creep across her face.

“Is it,” Dr. Lipke leaned forward excitedly, “a large carrot?”

Annie sank back in her chair, smirk sliding away to nothingness, and resigned herself to twice weekly sessions.

I Didn't Fall Off The Wagon Today . . .

so much as I jumped off and flipped it the bird as it drove away. And, yes, if you must know, I feel pretty foul about it and the fact that I can't seem to quit smoking on my own. So, feel free to keep any shitty comments to yourself.

What can I say? I'm an addicted addict. I can't stop. Maybe next I'll try Wellbutrin and hypnotherapy. That last one would be good just for the fuckin' comic value.

In conclusion, I am a loser. I accept this.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIRTHDAY GIRL!

Happy 4th Birthday, Sadie!

How To Avoid Thinking Of Smoking

Step 1:
Go to the farmer’s market. Buy a roast, a pound of green beans, a pound and a half of peas (in shell), six ears of corn, a pound of potatoes and a pound of peaches.

Step 2:
Go home. Attempt to refrain from hitting other cars/pedestrians “accidentally”.

Step 3:
Season roast beef and place in preheated oven.

Step 4:
Snap the green beans.

Step 5:
Shell the peas.

Step 6:
Shuck the corn.

Step 7:
Peel the potatoes.

Step 8:
Cut up the peaches. Sprinkle them with sugar. Place in refrigerator.

Step 9:
Boil the potatoes.

Step 10:
Mash the potatoes. Cover bowl of mashed potatoes and place over a pot of simmering water to keep warm.

Step 11:
Boil corn, beans and peas (in separate pots).

Step 12:
Take meat out of oven. Leave to rest for 20 minutes.

Step 13:
Make gravy.

Step 14.
Move all vegetables to serving dishes.

Step 15:
Cut roast beef.

Step 16:
Serve dinner.

Step 17:
Whip a cup of heavy cream.

Step 18:
Place peaches in dessert bowls. Top with whipped cream

Step 19:
Serve dessert

Step 20:
Clean up.

Step 21:
Make chocolate chip cookies.

Step 22:
Clean up.

Step 23:
Clean bathroom.

Step 24:
Type up list.

That’s it. Now keep in mind that during all of this you will still think, constantly ,about having a cigarette and also about killing anyone who gets in your way . . . Or who is breathing within a six mile radius. But all of these separate steps will keep you from grabbing a cigarette, or a knife, for at least a few hours.

One day at a time. Oh, and let someone else do the carving. Seriously. You can’t be trusted.

Take Two (million and six)!

Today I cleaned out my car. It was disgusting. My car is clean and I am filthy. I found jackets and shoes I forgot I owned. Oy. So, yeah, maybe once a year isn't often enough. Who knew?

Also, as of today, I've quit smoking...again. I know. I know, I've tried before. I KNOW! But I'm feeling good about it this time. Last time I quit I just decided one day to do it and didn't prepare at all. This time I think I'm prepared.

• I cleaned out my car so it no longer smells.
• I threw away all my cigarettes and cigarette related paraphenalia (except my engraved zippo - it says "Dark Fury" I had to keep it. Besides, I've never filled it so how can it hurt?).
• I purchased the Commit nicotine replacement system. They're gross but we'll call the aversion therapy.
• I joined a quit smoking support group website.

We'll see.

Roll Up! Roll Up! Get It While It's Hot, It's Lovely!

Lately, I’ve been too bored to blog. . . too pooped to pop. . . um. . . . too nauseated to navigate? Hu. Yeah. Probably not that last one.

So, back by unpopular demand –

Stream Of Consciousness! And the crowd goes wild! Or just sits there and thinks, “ok.” One or the other. Up to you.

I’m getting a wrinkle. A laugh line to be precise. I suppose that that’s better than a frown line but it’s still a wrinkle. It still smoothes out when I relax my face. Nevertheless, I know it’s there. Waiting. Maybe Botox isn’t so bad. No. No. That’s probably how they sucked in Nicole Kidman and look at her now! Scary. I hate when men get Botox. Hate it. I like a lived in face. Besides, how do I know what you’re saying without facial cues? I don’t. You could be lying through your teeth and, without the appropriate facial expression, I’ll believe you. I’m kind of gullible. I need the cues to know what’s really going on. Maybe that’s why Nicole Kidman hasn’t made a movie in yonks. Because she can’t get the emotion across. Not that she ever really could but that’s a different story. I wish Craig Ferguson would write himself another movie. There, my friends, is a lived in face. Lovely. Or a book. Where’s the next book? Bloody hell, man! Get with the program. I need to quit smoking. I looked into Chantrex (sp?) but that’s not meant for people with a history of “mental illness.” I hate that expression. I want a different one please. How about “batshit”? Or “loopy”? Or “mad as a bag of cats”? That last one is my favorite. It’s so colorful. Imagine if that was the clinical term.

Doctor: Well, Mrs. Jones, we’ve figured out why Mr. Jones sits in his study all day listening to death metal and screaming obscenities at the dog.

Mrs. Jones: Oh, doctor! What a relief. The children were beginning to notice.

Doctor: Yes, yes, Mrs. Jones. We’ll soon have it sorted. The technical term for your husbands’ condition is “Mad As A Bag Of Cats.” It’s quite treatable. Pick up the six prescriptions at the desk on your way out.

Mrs. Jones: (weeping quietly in relief) Oh, thank you, doctor! Thank you!

Ain’t language grand? All languages are pretty. Well, ok, not German but I’m biased. Maybe it’s simply gorgeous but I’m a bitch who can’t let it go. Probably not but it could be. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. It honestly never occurred to me that I would live long enough to get wrinkles. When I think of it like that, I’m almost pleased. Almost. Vanity thy name is Dark Fury. Who knew? Luckily, I’m smart and funny. If I were just a pretty face, I’d be screwed.

Three (3) Random Things

OK, before we get to the scheduled randomnes or randomossity, if you prefer, I feel the need to briefly set something straight. I will never attempt to not be funny. That would be as fake as spray tan and I'm not OK with that.

On to the random!

1. The Jewish year is currently 5767 (I think. I forgot to buy a calender this year.). How does that work? Is it like leap year? When we started using the modern calender how did people know when it was their birthday? Did the just pick a day and go with it? Did they get two? I just wondered.

2. I have one of those Buddha glasses you get from Asian resteraunts sitting on my desk. I use it as a pen holder. It has a hole in it that was meant for a straw. I stick a pencil in it. At least three (3) people have walked by my desk - giggled - and said that it "looks dirty." The hole is in it's chest. Who have these people been dating and/or what's wrong with them that they find a sucking chest wound "naughty"? I mean there's kinky and then there's just creepy.

3. I hope that if anyone ever again offers me "E" (sucking on lollipops like an idiot while my spinal fluid dries up? Sounds keen! Wait. . . hold on . . . no.) that they do so on a Friday night. Just so I can tell them, "I don't roll on Shabbas!"

Yeah, I was booooored today and no, I didn't spell check.

On July 6th . . .

Elisa was born. To this day the only hippie I love. . . but she's still not allowed to hump me. . . just sayin'.

HAPPY (belated - I couldn't find the right picture) BIRTHDAY, GUUURL!

On This Day . . .

Patherine Kackard was born.

Leo Horoscope (Jul 23 - Aug 22)Your life should be humming along in the mid-Leo summer Sun, yet beneath the appearance of the fun and games, someone may be missing. But don't waste energy feeling sorry for yourself. Just because your soul mate is off making movies and missed your birthday doesn't mean it isn't meant to be . . . even if you've never met. . . .

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATHERINE!

Sometimes, I Hate My Job.

Today, as part of my job, I listened to about sixteen people tell the story of how they met and had children with their exes. They all met in different places. They all came from different backgrounds. They all had one thing in common (besides the fact that all their relationships exploded and the now hate each other). They had absolutely no courtship period. This led me to wonder - What the hell happened to wooing?

It seems that now-a-days people don’t date anymore. At least they don’t in any way that I recognize it. They “hang out“. They become “friends“. They drunkenly “hook up” and then, SHAZAM!, they’re an item. This repels me on so many different levels.

I am disturbed by this. I’ve always stood by the adage - “You don’t ask? You don’t get.” I expect, no, I demand, a wooing phase. A courtship, if you will. I expect and I expect that my friends expect and I expect that their friends expect that there will be an expectation of…OK, I got carried away. Where was I? Oh! Yeah! I expect that if a man is interested in me he will, oh, I don’t know, do something crazy. Like tell me or show me. I know! I’m a nut.

I feel that this whole hanging out thing as a replacement for dating is along the same lines of the other two things I hate. “The 3 Date Rule” and “Friends With Benefits”. The first, as you all must know, states that on the third date a woman will “give it up”. Too subtle? How about “bang like a drum”? That clearer? Great! The second, as you again know, is a situation where two people who aren’t really interested in each other have sex on occasion. No strings, if you will .

Both these and the hanging out instead of dating trend are for one sole purpose - to make it easier for men to get laid. I shouldn’t even say that it makes it easier for men to get laid. I should say boys. Because, honestly, a man steps up and asks for what he wants. A boy just let’s things happen. That way he can always say, “Hey! I never intended that!” Or, “Oh, it just happened.” Usually these things are said while smirking. Repugnant. It’s called responsibility. Look into it. We have many fine reference materials available. They’re called “dictionaries”.

Now, men, obviously, couldn’t get away with this if it weren’t for women. And the women who are going along with this crap are standing around feeling good about the fact that they’re “fucking like a man”! They believe that this is what the fight for Feminism was for. Well, in a way it was. But, in most ways, it is completely and totally apposed to said principles.

I can see where you’re confused. I’ll explain. Feminism is all about choice. It is your choice to do with your body, mind, life exactly as you please. And, hey, if you want to go out and fuck the neighborhood blind? That’s up to you. Go for it. It’s your right. On the other hand, Feminism is also about respect. And if you think that anybody respects anything that they get without work you’ve obviously never met a rich person. I mean somebody who was born rich. Real rich. I’m talking Rich. Capital “R”. I have. They have no respect for most of what they have. “Oh, that? What? It’s just money!” Or, my favorite, “I just don’t understand why people go to work“.

I mean, it’s America and it’s up to you. Be the catch or be the thing just came along so I took it. It’s up to you. But, please, remember that someday you’ll have children. Maybe you’ll have daughters. . .Think about it. . . I’ll wait. . . There it is! I knew you’d catch up. I have faith in you.

Now, let’s get back to expectations. Everybody should have standards and expectations. They don’t make you picky. They don’t make you high maintenance. They make you, well, a person with standards and expectations. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, we, as in humans, wouldn’t have survived this long without them. We want to pick out the best mate to continue the species. It’s in our DNA. Is the best way to do that to just take what you can get? To say, eh., you’ll do? No. It’s not.

So, in conclusion, ladies step up to the plate. Have expectations and standards. Gentlemen, step up to the plate. Give us a reason to have expectations and standards. Trust me, you'll be rewarded for it. Why, Dark Fury, I hear you cry out as one, What do you mean? I mean that since nobody out there is doing the right thing when you do you’ll be a king. You’ll be beating the broads off with a stick. I promise you this.

I shall close with a quote that is very close to my heart . . . .

“He that is more than a boy is not for me. He that is less than a man, I am not for him.”
Shakespeare, “Much Ado About Nothing”

There Is No Growth Without Pain. . .Or Something Like That

Hmmmmm . . . Deep contemplation time . . . .

This evening I had dinner with my best friend. Some of you may know her as Blonde Justice. I know her as my personal therapist. We had an informal two hour session in the parking lot. It made me thoughtful. This may not be the most coherent post. I apologize in advance.

I have, I realize, lived my life as a performer. I was raised to perform and I was good at it. I am good at it.

I was on stage from the time I was five years old until I was about twenty-five (that’s twenty years for the mathematically challenged). But, even before I went on the stage, I was performing. I have worked every day of my life (that’s thirty-three years for the Dark Fury birthday challenged) to make sure that I am pleasing.

As most of you know, my father left before I was born. I, therefore, have a severe fear of abandonment (shocker!). If it weren’t for my grandfather I would have no positive male role model at all. Be that as it may, I have used humor and my general talent for gab and snarky commentary to amuse and try to deflect interest from what was going on internally.

I am dark and twisty. I am broken. I have problems like we all do.

My therapist (Blonde Justice) believes that people want to get to know the “real me.” The me without the chatter. The me without the performing. I tend to disagree. I believe, as I always have, that if people see the dark, twisty, broken me they will run like the wind. I could give you specific examples of when this has happened. Or, worse, I believe that they will use what they find out to hurt me. I could, sadly, give you examples of this as well.

But, will me or nil me, I’m willing to give it a try. This will, I fear, cut waaaaaaaaaay back on my social, what shall we call it? My social coin? I don’t know. I am, as far as I know, invited to most of the places I’m invited to to act as court jester. Well, I’ll still be funny - I can’t change the way G-d made me - but the hat with the bells is coming off.

I was not put on this Earth to be your (collective use to signify all mankind) clown or dancing monkey. I’m allowed to have a down time. It will be difficult but I’m hoping we can all get through it together. And now, per doctors orders, I’m taking a deep breath . . . I’m breathing out . . . And I’m asking . . . Who wants to really know me?

I’ve had surgery that was less painful than that last sentence.

They Who The Lord Doth Smite Stay Smote.

I'm dieing. Seriously. There are only two options.

1. The devil has possessed me.

2. I have a virus.

If it's number 1 I'm screwed. If it's number two and I have inadvertantlt infected you I apologize. If it's number two and you've inadvertently infected me then I curse you. I curse you and I curse your children and your children's children down to the fourth generation and pray that the Lord, in his wisdom, will smite you with a mighty smiting and thou shalt know his anger through the fact of being smote. Amen.

Also, my prior will (from a couple of months ago - still posted if you want to refresh yourself on what you'll be getting) still stands.

Chaos, Panic and Disorder . . . My Work Here Is Done.

Today I had a panic attack. It felt like it lasted for an hour and a half. That, of course, is impossible. Panic attacks last for about twenty minutes tops. So, in actual fact, I had a series of them. Being a sensible human being didn't help matters at all.

At 8:30 I was looking over a file and, all of a sudden, I felt like I was going to die. Seriously. Die. Big "D". For about five minutes I thought about going to the hospital which made me think about the fact that I don't have health insurance which made me more agitated. Then I realized it was a panic attack.

I told myself I wasn't having a heart attack. Then I started thinking what if someday it is a heart attack and I mistake it for a panic attack and I die? What then, smarty pants?! Then I told myself it was a panic attack and it would be all over in twenty minutes . . . tops. I started watching the clock. Twenty minutes . . . twenty minutes . . . Twenty one minutes . . . Twenty one? Holy shit. Twenty one! Heart attack! Heart attack! Not panic!! OK, I thought, ok. It's panic. It's panic. DON'T PANIC! Maybe it's time to go back on medication. Then I remembered I don't have health insurance . . . again. BOOM! More panic.

Finally, at ten, a coworker came and asked me if I wanted to go on break. We went outside. I took some (more) deep breaths. We shot the shit. I calmed down.

Keep in mind this all happened, silently, whilst I was sitting at my desk pretending to go over some figures. Say what you will about me but I know how to behave in public. I really should have been born Lady Muck. I have mad stiff upper lip skills . . . um, yo?

I'm fine now. Relatively. The aftermath is almost as bad as the actual attack. I'm sleepy and shaky and want to go to bed. Ain't we got fun?

The point of all this is the following -

Anybody have any valium?

Memories Are Made Of This.

When I was little I used to throw up every Christmas Eve. I would appear, of course, perfectly calm and blasé. I behaved as if it was any other ordinary day. But inside? Oh, Lord. On the inside I was dying.

After all, I’d been watched, all year, by some old fat guy with a beard. He knew when I was sleeping. He knew when I was awake. He knew if I’d been bad or good, for goodness’ sake!

I never knew if I’d been good enough. I’d tried. G-d knows I’d tried but what about that time I wanted the prize out of the cereal box and dumped half the contents behind the couch. I’d attempted not to be wasteful. I’d eaten as much as I could but, after three bowls in a row, I couldn’t see another frosted flake. They had to go. What if the fat man had seen that? Was that enough to black list me?

Santa, to me, was no saint. He was a judger. He made up random rules and punished children willy nilly as he saw fit. He was a jack booted fascist. But I still wanted those presents. Did that make me a collaborator? Oh, Jesus, would I have to name names for that new Connect 4?! What if nothing was enough? What if it turned out to be random and this year was just the year I went on the list for coal?! Oh, the humanity. Finally, around ten or eleven, I’d throw up and be put to bed with a cool cloth on my forehead.

On Christmas morning my mother and aunts would run into the room and jump on my bed screaming, “get up! Santa came ! Presents!” So, I’d think, I made it through another year. Then I’d roll over and go back to sleep.

Later on in the year I’d think, what if there isn’t really a naughty list? What if he’s just trying to wind us all up? Sadly, we’ll never know so we’ll have to stay on our game. Well played, fat man, well played.

People (don't always) Make Me Sad

You. MUST. See. This.

If you aren't laughing like a mad thing until you spew sick within the first five minutes there is something wrong with you and you are, sadly, dead to me. I'll miss you . . . but you're dead to me!

Click below for more info.

http://www.amazon.com/Spaced-Complete/dp/B0019MFY3Q/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=dvd&qid=1217459210&sr=8-1

Three (3) Random Things

1 (one). There is one thing about working in an office I will never get used to - having to pretend interest in other people’s mundane shit. I mean, in retail, I used to just be able to walk away (look! A customer. Gotta’ go. Darn.). Or, working on the phones at GEICO, I could say “oops! I have a call!” There’s no escape in cubicle city. I hear everything from houseplant woes to why people hate paperclips . This, obviously, wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t expected to join in. But, sadly, I am. It is practically required otherwise people start shouting “hey! What about you? Are you paying attention?!” Um, yeah. I got nothin’. I too hate paperclips?

2 (two). On October 11 I may be singing . . . In Maryland . . . In public . . . At a festival. Hu. Weird. I haven’t performed in public in, oh, I don’t know. Yeah, many moons, young ones (Vivienne!). My cousin volunteered me. She’s pimped me out for her own amusement to someone she works with. It’s not definite yet. I have conditions. We’ll see if they’re met.

3 (three). I couldn’t find my glasses for three (3) weeks. This morning I looked in my purse, which I have checked no less than twelve (12) times before, and there they were. A blind person searching for the glasses which allow them to see is a funny bit . . . But not in real life.

Three (3) Things That Made My Week

1. Spending a morning studying the physical signs of various addictions. Because, let me tell ya’, until you’ve been innocently eating a granola bar and a picture of “meth mouth” pops up on your screen, well, kids, you just ain’t lived. Fun, good times! Please, ignore the fact that I screamed, jumped and almost spewed granola across my cubicle, go Google that shit! (don’t.) It’s pretty! (don’t.) Pinky swear! (seriously, just don’t.)

2. Spending two hours at DMV. You meet such great people there! The staff is super friendly. I may send them Christmas cards this year! Also, of course, it’s great for your self-esteem. There’s nothing like being “cat called” by random, dirty (literally) dudes outside of a government agency to really perk a girl up. It’s hot. White hot. Combine that with all the children who’s parents allow them to roam, free range, around the room and it’s a nice third world atmosphere. All they need, to complete the motif, are a few goats and chickens. I, as a tax payer and lover of a theme, am more than willing to carry the extra expense. Again, I love a theme! Which works out well since the DMV photographic equipment always manages to bring out my inner Mexican. Somehow, I wind up with a tan in any picture they take there. Not just any tan either. But a glorious, dirty tan! The kind of tan that can only be achieved by spending years out in the desert, harvesting cactus to make tequila. . . sans sun block . . . or a hat. Combine that with the fact that you’re not allowed to smile and I look like an angry deportee. Ay!

3. The hotness that is me when I leave the gym. Honestly, boys! Hang onto your control! I’m only one girl!

I do, honestly, heart PITAIYO and know that, in the long run, it’s a good thing. However, that being said, after an average class I look like I’ve been dragged, backwards, across the Serengeti. My hair escapes from my head band within the first ten minutes. Within the first twenty my head scarf is sitting forlornly beside my mat and, by the end, my ponytail holder has given up the ghost as well. Therefore, when I walk out my hair is loose and bigger than ever (it doesn’t like it when I try to confine it and gets . . . Angry).

That’s on a regular day. This week my instructor ate cake before class. We suffered for it.* So, in addition to the hair, this week my pale, sensitive, allergy prone skin was bright red. Which would be fine if it was all over but it wasn’t. It was just in two round spots on my cheeks. Picture it, if you will, stark white face, pink cheeks, huge hair, arms that barely work hanging limply at my sides. I looked like a demonic doll.

Again, boys! Give a girl some room to breathe! I know . . . I know, you can’t help yourselves. Totally understandable. Helen of Troy eat your heart out!

*I, it should be noted, did not have cake. It may be silly but if I’m going to be punished for cake consumption I’d like to be the one consuming the cake. I’m wacky like that!

I Wish I Knew How To Quit You . . . .

F gluten-free. F it right in the ear with a crooked . . . well, you get the point.

I'm A Stealer!

I stole this from Erin. I am, yet again, a stealer!

The rules (gotta' have 'em!):

1. Everyone leave a comment with a memory of me. Whether you've known me for a really long time or not long at all, you can add whatever you like! Something, anything!

2. If you continue it on your blog, then I'll come over and add a memory of you! And if you don't have blog, I'll tell my memory in the comments.

“If you are not in fashion, you are nobody.” - Lord Chesterfield

Bessie Mae Fontlow had spent the first fifty-seven years of her life with the kind of self confidence that can only be imparted to a girl growing up in a small Ohio town as the great-granddaughter of the original founding fathers and possessed of a reasonably attractive face and figure, along with a family fortune that was still pretty darn nice. Until that fateful day when Aleksandr Martel opened his little dress shop at 12th and Main. Yes, Bessie could see the handwriting on the wall with her first look in that shop window!

After twenty plus years as the local fashion leader and Junior League Chairwoman, her time of ascendancy in Port Fontlow was about to come to an end. Sure she'd be able to hold on to the reins for a little while longer by utilizing her well known powers of biting sarcasm after church and in the beauty parlor to belittle that upstart Martel. But Bessie was too much of a realist to imagine she'd be able to stave off the rampantly chic for long . . . and too long an Ohioan to think she'd be able to pull off the new look herself.

A Wee Slice Of Scots Cheesecake . . . Or Should That Be Deep Fried Mars Bar?

Craig Ferguson.

Funny.

Lovely.

Stay up till 1:30.

You know you want to.

"A library is not a luxury but one of the necessities of life." - Henry Ward Beecher

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.

The Rules:
1) Look at the list and put one * by those you have read.
2) Put a % by those you intend to read.
3) Put two ** by the books you LOVE.
4) Put # by the books you HATE.
5) Post.

I've read 71 . . . maybe when people say I read too much they have a point . . . .

**1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
*2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
*3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
*4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
**5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
*6 The Bible (parts of)
*7 Wuthering Heights
*8 1984 - George Orwell
*9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
*10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
**11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
*12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
**13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
**14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
*15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
*16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
*18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
*20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
*21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
*22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
*23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
*24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
**25 The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
*28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
**29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
*30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
*31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
*32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
*33 Chronicles of Narnia- CS Lewis
**34 Emma - Jane Austen
**35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
*36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
*39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
**40 Winnie the pooh - AA Milne
*41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
*42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
*43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
*44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
*45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
**46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
*48 The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
*49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
*52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
**54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
*57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
%59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
*60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
*61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
*62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
*65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
*#66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
*67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
*68 Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
*70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
*71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
*72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
**73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
*75 Ulysses - James Joyce
*#76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
*79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
**81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
**83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
**84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
*85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
*87 Charlotte's Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
*89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
*92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
**96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
*97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
**98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare (um, didn’;t we cover this under “The COMPLETE Works?)*99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
*100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

"Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway" - John Wayne

My mother says she knew what kind of person I was when I was six years old. She says everything she needed to know about my personality was clear in June of 1981. That’s when I got my ears pierced.

My mother took me, after much begging and annoying repetition, to have holes drilled into my head. I was, as I recall, vaguely excited as I climbed up into the chair. Most of the other girls in my class had already had their ears pierced. They wore little gold studs or tiny little crosses. I didn’t want those. I wanted silver hoops. What can I say? I’m a rebel and I’ll never ever be any good.

The teenager who worked the “gun” was, for a wonder, very nice. She chatted with me about school and what I had to do to keep the holes from closing up as she lined up the drill. Then she shot me.

Excitement disappeared in a red rage of pain and confusion. I screamed the place down. The teenaged girl dropped the gun and tried to put her arm around me. I jumped off of the stool and backed warily away from her. She had, as far as I was concerned, assaulted me violently and for no apparent reason. How dared she?! I took my mother’s hand and tried to lead her out of the danger zone. Who, after all, knew who would be next? Maybe I was just the beginning! Perhaps the big haired tart would now go on a rampage, running through the department store, screaming maniacally while punching holes in unsuspecting shoppers until the floors ran red with the blood of the innocent eared! We had, I knew, to get away from this crazy person.

My mother took me to sit down and have an orange juice. As I sat there, sipping my juice, I contemplated what had just happened. Nobody had told me getting my ears pierced would hurt. I had asked. I’d done research! I was that kind of a kid. Did it hurt was my first question. Everybody I’d asked had said no and looked at me like I was crazy. The world was full of liars.

I thought about kicking every girl in my class. My mother discouraged this by pointing out that there were more of them and they were all bigger than me. I thought about those pukey little studs and crosses. Who needed pierced ears? Not me! Let that one hole close up, see if I cared! Or it could stay open, I decided. I’d always kind of wanted to be a pirate. Maybe this was my foot in the door to a glorious seafaring career.

After about fifteen minutes my mother and I got up and started walking around the store. We shopped for clothes. We looked at house wares. We tried on shoes. Time, as it is want to do, passed. It had been an hour since my mauling. I reached up and touched my ear. It still hurt. A lot. When I looked at my fingers there were flakes of dried blood on them.

I thought about all those stupid girls. I thought about their twee gold studs and crosses. Screw them, I decided, and the horses they road in on. I told my mother I wanted to go back and get my other ear done. She, doubtful that I’d go through with it, took me back to the jewelry counter.

There she stood. My nemesis. The girl with the gun. She turned around from the display she was arranging and, seeing me, flinched. I walked back to the chair. Without looking at her I climbed up. I sat there as straight as Queen Victoria on a bad day. I crossed my arms over my chest. I looked straight ahead.

The gun slinger walked over to me. “Are you ready,” she asked. I nodded, eyes ahead, chin up, shoulders back. She raised the gun shakily to my unblemished ear. She pulled the trigger and recoiled immediately.

I didn’t make a sound. I climbed off of the chair, back still stiff as a board, and took my mother’s hand. “You didn’t have to do it,” she told me. “Yes, I did,” I said.

I Don't Know Why These Make Me Laugh But They Do!

Texas is called "The Lone Star State" because Texans know that compared to Chuck Norris, their other celebrities just don't measure up.

Scientists collected a single drop of sweat from Chuck Norris' leg after he performed a roundhouse kick. The resulting serum turned out to be the Polio vaccine.

Chuck Norris always knows the EXACT location of Carmen San Diego.

Chuck Norris' digestive system also functions as an oil refinery.

The gallons contained in Chuck Norris' hat rivals infinity.

Chuck Norris' beard is the modern day equivalent of chain mail.

Chuck Norris can grind metal with his stubble.

Chuck Norris' favorite cereal is Kellogg's Marbles 'N' Gravel.

When Oppenheimer said "I have become death, the destroyer of world." Chuck just laughed....then kicked him in the head.

Never play a game of Sorry! with Chuck Norris. It can only end in tears. Yours.

Chuck Norris can peel oranges with his eyelids.

In a fight between Batman and Superman, the winner would be Chuck Norris.

Upon being denied a McGriddle at McDonald's because it was 10:30, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the store so hard it became a Wendy's.

Chuck Norris knows how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.

Oxygen requires Chuck Norris to live.

Chuck Norris knew that Soylent Green was people.

Chuck Norris is the "I" in "team."

Chuck Norris once kicked a horse in the chin. It's descendents are known as Giraffes.

Chuck Norris never makes grammatical or spelling errors. He just invents new words and grammatical rules.

Chuck Norris CAN teach an old dog new tricks.

Chuck Norris wears bear traps on his feet instead of sandals.

Chuck Norris once took sleeping pills. They made him blink.

Chuck Norris expects the Spanish Inquisition.

Scientists recently found matter to have three states: Particle, wave and Chuck Norris.

All of Chuck Norris' white blood cells have black belts. This is why Chuck Norris never gets sick.

There's Kilo, Mega, Giga, Tera, Peta, Exa, Zeta, Yotta, and Chuck Norris. Nobody can count that high, however, so it isn't practical to use.

Chuck Norris spends hours staring directly into the sun. We call that "night".

Chuck Norris once took up gardening, and tried to "Hoe a row". We now call it the Grand Canyon.

John Donne was wrong:
Chuck Norris is an island.

Chuck Norris consistently wins at Monopoly owning only Marvin's Gardens as property.

When Chuck Norris was 7 seconds old he was reading at a 5th grade level. At 12 seconds he had already published a review of the entire Ayn Rand collection - he found it cliched.

The reason the aborigines won't let you take their picture ----> Chuck Norris.

When Chuck Norris stares into a mirror, even his reflection knows better than to stare back.

The best way to stop a Chuck Norris attack is to play dead. The only SURE way to stop a Chuck Norris attack is to BE dead.

Chuck Norris can breathe in and out at the same time, when he needs to breathe at all, which is never.

Chuck Norris once delivered a baby in the back seat of a taxi cab. He delivered it a roundhouse kick to the sternum.

Chuck Norris can win a game of Connect Four in only three moves.

Chuck Norris can slam revolving doors.

Chuck Norris is not afraid of the dark. The dark is afraid of Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris lathers and rinses, but doesn't have to repeat.

Geico saved 15% by switching to Chuck Norris.

Charity looks at the need and not at the cause. - German Proverb

When little Avebury Baume-Zwinglie first began seeing visions, everyone said it was probably just a phase he was going through. After all, Grand Uncle Pascalian had been known for his unusual water colors and, back in ‘o8, Great Grandmother Niemcewicz had collected fruit fly stationary long before it became fashionable.

Yes, it could be said that little Avebury was just another off leaf on a disconcertingly diversified family tree. However, when little Avebury began to insist that the Dies Irae could be heard sung by barn swallows and the Ascension viewed every day at 4:00 PM down by the falls people began to wonder if things had gone too far. His father, Gwent Lee, was heard to wonder what, if anything, his son could have been learning in Sunday School all this time; while his mother, HaytieMay, asked what difference that could possibly make once the neighbors found out what Avebury was up to. After all, passion plays were alright for others but the Baume-Zwingli family had been devout Anglicans for generations and everyone knew they just didn’t go in for such nonsense.

In the face of such family ferment, little Avebury decided to record his visions on film. Unfortunately, Avebury didn’t have much, or any, experience with cameras, he wasn’t able to get any color film and the exposures may not have been all that he could have hoped for. But, still, Avebury would like your opinion. What do you think he saw down by the falls that day?

In order to pursue this issue further little Avebury needs your help.
Please send your tax deductible donations to*:
What The Boy Saw & Why
C/A Guido “Fingers” Delgado
P.O. Box 666
Jersey City, NJ 07303

*Edited ICOI** - Don't actually do this
** In Case Of Idiot

"My life needs editing.” - Mort Sahl

A couple of you may notice that a few entries have been taken down. Blogger didn't go nutso I did it. Why? Because I found them both dull and poorly written.

Yes, I left up the stoned dental post. What? That didn't make me yawn.

I'm In Love . . .

With the person who invented sedation dentistry.

It's the dentist without fear and with a day long nap. Seriously. I love this person, whomever they may be, and I would willingly have their babies . . . if they're attractive. If not I'd at least kiss them with tongues. What? I'm shallow. Don't judge me!

I'm still slighly stoned on Triazolam & Valium.

Lovely.

Edited To Add: I long for toast.

To Quote Crocodile Dundee . . .

"You can live on it...but it tastes like shit."

All I wanted was a shelf stable protein bar (that didn't cost a stupid amount of money) I could take to court with me. We get stuck for hours without a break and my blood sugar gets low. Very. Low. This is not good. And, as it happens, neither are these damn bars. Feh!

PS I actually purchased the hazelnut variety but couldn't find a picture of that one.

It's A C-O-N-Spiracy

Why does it cost more for one person to go on vacation than two? What the fuck is that? If I want to spend a week in St. Maarten by myself it costs, for hotel and flight, $1033. If I go with someone it costs, for the exact same thing, $633 a person.

I ask, again, what the fuck is that?!

I'll tell you what that is. That, my friend, is a c-o-n-spiracy!

"Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist." - George Carlin

This is the first comedy album I ever listened to. I can probably still recite most of it. That's all I have to say about that.

"I think people should be allowed to do anything they want. We haven't tried that for a while. Maybe this time it'll work." George Carlin

"I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot more as they get older; then it dawned on me - they're cramming for their final exam." George Carlin

"I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, "Where's the self-help section?" She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose." George Carlin

"I would never want to be a member of a group whose symbol was a guy nailed to two pieces of wood." George Carlin

"I'm always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and I realize I'm listening to it." George Carlin

"I'm completely in favor of the separation of Church and State. My idea is that these two institutions screw us up enough on their own, so both of them together is certain death." George Carlin

Chivalry isn’t dead it’s just taking a very long nap.

I went to DC on Monday for a job interview (see post below). As we all know, I imagine, I have no sense of direction. If it isn’t on or near 14th , G or H St then I have no idea where it is. Now, given an hour or so, I can usually find it. It just takes a while.

On Monday the traffic was, in a word, sucky. No. It was beyond sucky to horrendous. I left at 8 and got into DC at 10:15. My interview was at 11. So, knowing that I have no sense of direction, I decided to park and take a cab to my destination.

I found a parking garage. I paid the nice man (not sarcasm, surprisingly), left my key and ran to the corner. I then proceeded to get passed by about six taxis.

Finally, after what felt like a year (keep in mind it was about 90 degrees and I panic if I think I’m going to be late), a taxi pulled over in front of me. Jubilation! Wait. No. Not jubilation. Wailing and gnashing of teeth! The cab had pulled up for a man in a grey suit standing behind me. Great, I thought, just perfect. I turned back to the street so that I could try and flag another cab.

Before I could raise my arm the man standing behind me tapped me on the shoulder. I turned; ready to be venomous to this usurper of transport. He smiled and held open the cab door.

“Take this one. I have time.”

I was stunned. Literally. I could feel my mouth start to hang open like a slack jawed yokel. I stopped it just in time. I said thank you, most politely, as I (attempted) to slide into the seat. Sadly, my perfect and graceful entrance was ruined by the fact that my shoe fell off as I was getting in. I grabbed it and attempted to fling it in to the cab without anyone noticing. As if. He held the door for me the entire time. I said thanks again.

“You have a nice day, miss.”

Then he shut the door and I was off. I arrived at my interview at 10:30. Thirty minutes to spare!

Thank you, Mister Grey Suit, wherever you are. If ever I think it’s time to give up on men and become a nun (would a convent take a Jewish girl?) I shall remember you came along and saved the day. Well done, sir. Well done.

9:30 This Morning

I’ve been looking for another (full-time, benefit offering) job. So far it’s going in a pretty weird and diverse direction. I’ve applied to be an application adjudicator for INS, an administrative assistant for the newsroom at NPR and for a full-time gig at my current place of employment (I shan’t hold my breath).

The first place I applied was at INS. Wow. It takes a while to get approved to even send in a resume to the Fed. First I had to take the test. I scored well. If I hadn’t you’d know I was clinically brain dead and that it was time to pull life-support. That was in May. I just got the results from the test yesterday. It came with instructions to fax over my resume. After they receive my resume they will look it over and, if anything is available and my skills meet what they’re looking for and nobody else scored higher than me, give me a call. Then, of course, there’s the poly (Would you allow known terrorists into the country and give them directions to Shoney’s and a star map? Um…no?). After that there is the clearance investigation (To your knowledge has she ever provided a known terrorist or illegal with directions to the nearest Shoney’s…and a star map? Um…no?). After that there is the physical and drug testing (If you saw a known terrorist or illegal running with a star map in hand to the nearest Shoney’s would you be able to outrun them? Um…no? Is that because of all the crack? Um…no?). Then, maybe, they’ll offer me a job. It’s a crap shoot.

Then I got a call from NPR. I applied there a long time ago. Who remembers when? Not me. I’ve been applying there and at PBS for years so it could have been at any time. I got that e-mail on Thursday of last week and went in for the interview on Monday. I think it went well but I’ve thought that before and never heard from the company again. Keep your fingers crossed. I want that one. They said they’d be able to let me know in about a week and a half to two weeks. I feel pretty good about it as out of six hundred applications they chose to interview six people. I was the first interview which makes me nervous. I prefer to be the last. That way my sparkling wit and personality are still fresh when they make their decision. Oh, well. You can’t have everything in this life, I suppose. Why not? Because if you had everything you ever wanted handed to you you’d be an obnoxious little weed like, oh, I don’t know…just off the top of my head…Paris Hilton.

As for my current place of employment? I have an interview there on Thursday. It’s not much money but it is a permanent full-time position with benefits. I enjoy what I do there but this would be different. I don’t know. I’ll take it if it’s offered and I can’t get anything else. They’ve irritated me with their stance that I’m unqualified to do my current job. The bloom is off the rose. What can ya’ do? Suck it up and move on, I guess.

So, that’s what’s going on in my world. How are things with you?

DO NOT Rent This.

Seriously. I don't have words to explain the utter, well, badness of this movie. It's horrible. G-d offal, really.

It hurts me to say it but it's true.

Rent This.

I know, I know. You think you won't enjoy it. You think I only enjoyed it because it has 4 things going for it that I enjoy anyway.

A. Vince Vaughn

B. Comedy

C. Documentary

and, of course,

D. Vince Vaughn

You are wrong. Rent it. Is it the best movie ever? No. Obviously not. Is it well worth your time? Yes, if only for the extras.

"They can conquer who believe they can." - Virgil

EDITED TO ADD: Yes, I know today is the fourth. Due to the storm on the third I was unable to post the below.

Journal Entry - 6/3

Today I went to work. I sat in my office. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move.

Oh, how I wish I'd been having a psychotic break. There was a large, ugly, vile, foul, disgusting and other adjectives which are synonyms for horrible things as well spider sitting in the middle of my desk. I jumped up and ran out of my office to find something heavy with which to murder, smash, kill and wallop it. When I got back it was gone.

I looked but I couldn't find it. I could, however, feel it looking at me. Hiding. Waiting for it's moment. Biding it's time. Ready to strike.

I text messaged a couple of friends to share my horror. One felt my pain. One wrote back and told me that no matter where I am I'm never more than five feet from a spider. Always. I contemplated this. I decided that he is a bastard and deleted him from my phone book.

Paranoid for the rest of the day. Conclusion? Let constant vigilance be your motto.

"A doctor can bury his mistakes but an architect can only advise his client to plant vines.”- F. L. Wright

Above: A Craftsman Style Bungalow a.k.a The Perfect Home

I must stop watching HGTV. It just makes me bitter. All the wrong people have all the money. And by that I mean all the people with horrible taste.

Somebody, please, tell me why a single person needs a 3000 sf home. Please! I need to know. You have four kids? OK. Fine. I'll give ya' that that amount of space is desirable (not necessary). But a single person? Come on!

Why do they all choose the mcmansion? If I see one more show where they pass up a pristine original craftsman style bungalow for a trashy, may as well be a pre-fab 4000 sf behemoth because they "need" the space I shall scream. Scream, I tell you!

How much crap do you have? Do you need it all? No. No, you don't. But, please, continue to spend millions of dollars on houses that won't last for more than fifteen years. Go for it. Sound investment. Well done.

Look At What I Found On My Car! Sweet.

Grrrr! I scanned the letter that I found on my windshield but it won't load! Damn. Damn. Double damn!

Oh, well. I shall have to type it out for you.

"If Clinton had did his job and took Oboma out during his administration 9/11/2001 would not have happened. USS Cole, the 1st bombing of the World Trade Center, US Embassy in Africa and Saudi Arabia all happened on his watch while he was having sex in our White House. Get Educated!"

Open Letter To The Lady (I assume from the writing) Who Wrote The Above:

For you to be so angered by a few bumper stickers that you felt the need to write a note I have to assume that you are, in some way, attached to the military or attached to one of it's soldiers. I want to be clear, I support our troops. The official death toll reached 4000 in March of this year. In April it was at a seven month high. Things are not getting better. I support our troops. I support their families.

I don't want anybody put in harms way for an illegal war. I say bring them home. Let them watch their kids grow up. A lot of them are kids themselves. They are so young they haven't even begun. Let them live their lives. Let them live. Bring them home.

I recommend you, and everybody, visit the following site - http://www.vaiw.org/ (Veterans Against The Iraq War).

That being said, and I do mean every word, I must take issue with the following points of your missive.

A. "...had did"? Really? I'm going to call that a gimmee Mrs. Anonymous Angry Person.

B. Oboma? Who the hell is that? I think you were trying to write Obama but, even then, you're wrong.

C. USS Cole -
Do you really expect President Clinton to capture and convict anyone in one month? Hu. President Bush has had how many years and trillions of dollars to capture Bin Laden? Oh, wait. I’m sorry. We don’t have standards for him. My bad. Well, that’s a good thing. Because the only confession they got for that was from a man who was tortured under the Bush regime. Yeah. That’s right. Regime. Did we want to give anybody more martyrs? Hu. That’s a stellar idea. Wait. Hold on. No. It's not.

D. The first WTC attack -
Ramzi Ahmed Yousef, the leader of this attack, was captured in 1995 and sentenced to 240 years in prison. A few more were captured and also sentenced. One man is at large and believed to be hiding in Baghdad. Um, has Bush captured him? No. Again, good thing you don’t have standards for him.

E. US Embassy In Africa -
President Clinton ordered missile strikes to try to not capture but kill Bin Laden in 1998. Republicans, in an effort to keep our country safe from oral sex, accused him of trying to manufacture a crisis to get attention away from the Lewinsky scandal.
PS? Four conspirators were captured & sentenced to life without parole. True, there are, I believe, 15 (I’m rocky on the exact number) who remain at large.

F. Saudi Arabia -
I can only assume you're talking about the attack on Khobar Towers which was used as military housing. The Saudis arrested 13 Saudis and a Lebanese chemist but didn’t allow US agents to question them. Where are they now? Has Bush used his “close” relationship with the Saudi royal family to have them extradited? No. They’re still in Saudi custody even though they were convicted by grand jury in 2001. US agents haven’t even been allowed access to question them as yet. What kind of information might they have? I guess we’ll never know.

G. Yes, President Clinton had sex in our White House. So? Most presidents have. Warren G. Harding, Franklin D. Roosevelt and, of course, John F. Kennedy to name three. I say, again, so what? That, my friend, is between them, their wives and their G-d. It's not my business. Nor, I feel I must point out, is it yours.

In conclusion, I believe in your right to express your opinion. I also believe you're wrong. Ain't America grand?

"I have a fine sense of the ridiculous, but no sense of humor.” - E. Albee

A little over a year ago, while I was still at insurance hell, I was standing in an elevator when an attractive man got on. The only one in the whole building it should be noted. I proceeded to make an ass out of myself when he spoke to me. It was a bad day and I was in a bad mood. It was bad. There was badness. We spoke a few times after that but, let me be clear, it was still bad. Comprende?

Today I saw him again at the gym. I almost said hi but then I thought what? What am I going to say? Hey, remember that time when I was a bitch to you? ‘Member that? That was awesome! So, needless to say, I did not say hello.

The point, if I may be permitted to believe I have one, is what the hell is wrong with me? I can talk to anybody. I am, I flatter myself, quite the social butterfly. I can shoot the breeze with anybody about anything. Unless, of course, it’s a man I’m attracted to.

If I’m not attracted to a man I can make him think I believe the sun shines out of his ass. This, most likely, explains why I’ve made out with at least two men I had no interest in. What? I hate to be rude. Don’t judge me. Did I sleep with them? No. Good manners can go too far.

Obviously I can at times speak to men I find attractive. Sometimes I am on a roll. I am the party and the party don’t stop! There we come to the second and, possibly larger, problem. I am funny. No. I am Funny. Capital “F”. I can’t make myself be less funny. Not for my own good. Not for some dude. Because, let us be frank, the essential difference between men and women is that women want a a funny man but men want a woman with a good sense of humor.

You think they’re the same? Wrong! If somebody is funny then they make you laugh. If somebody has a good sense of humor (to you, it’s subjective after all) then that means that either you find the same things funny or that they find you funny. Think about it. You see? Not the same. Different.

These are the reasons why I will, most likely, end up adopting a little girl from Asia . I shall name her Inga. Don’t worry, you’re all invited to the Bat Mitzvah.