Wrapping up 2006

I asked Team Lablogda to weigh in on the big event(s) of the year. Here is what they said:

Ironhuff sez:
Republicans have the hottest Gay Porn.
Mark Foley's instant messages will go down in the Gay Porn Hall of Fame. His folksy banter and "Coach" like demenor have a seductive quality that puts Michael Jackson to shame.  Perhaps he could team up and Michael could start with the boys when they are around 11 years and once they lose their last ounce of boyhood, Foley could take over.  That's the problem with sexual repression. I'll take a good old fashioned c__k sucking Democrat who revels in the sexual freedom of consenting adults, over a deeply repressed, closeted, God-Fearing, gun toting Republican who seems to grasp their guns in some sort of Freudian substitution for the man-rod they would rather be clasping. 

ViewfromABroad sez:
Event of the Year:
Rumsfeld stepping down.  No if ands or buts about it.
2nd Place: South Dakota voting out that nightmare abortion law (should try to get you some details on that). Ha.Ha.Ha.
What else puts the yippee in my skippee:
Jeff Skilling is finally going 'to the big house' - though I think he should've had time added to his sentence for Kenneth Lay's untimely death.  Those f____rs owe us all big time. 
2nd place prize for untimely death: Augusto Pinochet.  So pissed that he never had to stand trial by a jury of what couldn't possibly be his peers, they would've had too much integrity-

Word of the Year:  Schaudenfreude
the happiness I felt when I looked at the photo of Bill Frist leaving the building...

Frankie sez:
Event(s) of the year:
Demo's take control of the House and Senate -- the significance is just to obvious.
Stay the course in Iraq -- full steam ahead (catch phrases from the Pres and Veep).  This is similar to the "light at the end of the tunnel" phrase used by Nixon during Viet Nam.  Unfortunately the light at the end of the tunnel was a freight train coming at us.  I fear the same will be true of Iraq - only worse.  Americans finally come to grips with what happens when we try to "impose" US style democracies. 2006 really marked the turning point in the polls.  Iraq will be seen as another misadventure, but on a colossal scale.

Binx sex:
Event of the year:
All of the above. However, for me, it culminated this past Thursday. I was home from work, watching "The View," which I have only seen a couple times during its run. The only two people I recognize are Barabara and Rosie. There is a skinny Republican chick, and a chunky Democratic chick. The Chunky one is going off on Bush, how he doesn't read the papers, doesn't seek advice, doesn't listen to anyone, and is basically a huge loser. The Audience APPLAUD WILDLY. I may not know a lot abou "The View," but I know Middle America likes it. And that applause in the studio audience was Middle America, namely the women, giving a big flip off to George W. Bush. It's official. The country has shifted. We are done with Redneck Republicans. Happy F_____g New Year, everyone.

Word of the Year: It's a cliche, but I gotta go with Truthiness. It may be a real word, but coming from W, it was just downright funny. And that's the god's honest truthiness.

The Amazingly Bad Neighbors

Half-way down the block from my house, past the former porn star, across the street from the interracial lesbian couple, lives the biggest white trash ever to escape the hills of Arkansas. I don’t know their names. They are so damn trashy even I won’t speak to them. Yeah, they are THAT bad.

They have two little boys who are about four feet tall and three feet tall, respectively. I figure that means the kids are not even in first grade, but I don’t know how to match kids age with their size.

They play in the middle of the street unsupervised a lot, which means I like to drive past them fast, like I am going to hit them, then honk my horn and flip them off. Their parents’ are not around, though the interracial lesbian couple can often be seen standing in their front doorway looking concerned for the kids. So far, they haven’t turned me in to the police, so I keep up the antics.

For Christmas this year, the bad parents took things too far. They got the kids one of those mobile basketball hoops – it stands about nine feet high. They put it at the end of the driveway and the kids played hoops in our street, as if this were a charming Brooklyn scene, circa 1950. They also got the smaller tyke a motorized tiny tot car that HE DRIVES IN THE STREET. Did I mention they did all this unsupervised?

Needless to say, I felt in my element. I tried to run over the kids, but Hubby kept admonishing me, telling me that it would not be as fun for me as I imagined, and that I would not look good in prison orange. He doesn’t get it. I wasn’t really going to plow them down. I just wanted to scare them into therapy that would last into their fifties.

At the same time, I was deeply concerned about property values for the homes on my street. That hoop really trashed up the place. I could not get over the parents’ thoughtlessness for their neighbors. First, their kids make a tricky obstacle course, and second, that hoop devalues my home by a good 100K. I go from living in a respectable neighborhood with a former porn star and a mixed lesbian couple, to living on a dead-end street littered with tots and hoops.

I started to write a letter to the neighbors, as well as the neighborhood association, and hubby was going to call the police, he said, if he saw the tinier tot in the street again driving around in his midget car. Alas, someone must have beat us to the punch, as the kids are now inside, the hoop is gone and my street is looking semi-middle class again.

Of course, it is an insanely windy day in Vegas. Hubby thinks the parents’ simply are keeping the kids inside. I think he’s wrong, personally. They let the kids play IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET, did I mention, UNSUPERVISED? Why should some hurricane force winds suddenly cause them to have parenting skills?

Please God, or W, or Frank Sinatra’s ghost, or whoever is in charge, please change this one thing in the world: you have to have a license to buy a gun, but you don’t need anything but sperm and egg to have a kid? Controller of the Universe, please right this wrong.

But What Were You Thinking?

Whenever I opened up a really bad gift that someone had given me, my husband used to say, "Well it's the thought that counts." Now he says, "It's the thought that counts, but what were they thinking?"

I'm someone who believs that Christmas is all about the gift-giving. It's not a holiday for the religious, it's a bonanza for the retailer, and, with luck, for me if I get a bunch of gifts.

I used to be grateful for any gift I got, but over the years, I've come to spot the gifts that had some thought put into it versus the ones given by people who just felt obligated to get me something so therefore, just got me any old thing. Hence, the freaking coasters with birds on them someone gave me from New Zealand. Or the bad CD I was given that came out of a discount bin at Target. It was a compilation of stars that I like to make fun of (Whitney, Celine, etc).

Since I'm into the lists thing these days, here's my list of Lessons I've Learned from Gift-Givers' Mistakes. Or, as Hubby would say, "What were you thinking?

1) If you are going to regift, know that I'll know it's a regift. If you didn't like it, why would I?
2) Remember what you gave me last year, and please don't give it to me again this year. Someone I know has given me the same FREE WITH PURCHASE make-up bag two years running. I get it, you think I'm vain, and you don't think much of me. Next year, how about you not give me a gift? It would hurt less.
3) Wrap it up. Don't hand me something unwrapped and go, "Here."
4) If you are going to buy clothes, for God's sake, at least shoot for the proximity of my taste. Have you ever seen me wear a peasant blouse? No? Why would I want to start now?
5) Nothing says, Merry Christmas like a gift card. If you are really feeling lazy and don't want to get someone a gift, yet feel obligated to (maybe because they give you one) just give them a $25 gift card from a store that you think they might like. If they don't cook, don't buy one from Williams Sonoma. If they haven't picked up a book since Junior High English, a certificate from Borders is a bad idea. If they drink, a certificate from the liquor store is perfect. Which leads me to #6
6) Nothing says Merry Xmas like hooch.

Ugly Kids Make for Bad Xmas

I open the bright red envelope, excited that my pal in Wisconsin sent me a card. I haven't heard from her in years. I have no idea how she got my address, but I'm glad; now we can be in touch again. Then, I see it. Two ugly children on the face of the card, wearing bad Santa sweaters and their faces stained with Christmas punch. The Baptist kind.

I place the card next to the one a co-worker sent me. Her kids are wearing white t-shirts and underwear. I'm not lying. One is squatting as if it were in the middle of the woods and needed to go to the bathroom.

Every year, I get these cards: Photos of people's ugly children. Miss Paris, my co-worker, has the good taste to dress her miniature dobermans up in Santa outfits. Those dogs are cute in red. The kids, though, oh God, the kids. If they aren't fat their faces are smudged with something. They beam at the camera as if to say, "Damnit, I'm cute and this photo is going to make your day."

Your choice of Christmas card says something about who you are. One year, I sent out a card of some Biblical guy standing in a room. Jesus stood in the doorway. The guy says, "Jesus Christ, shut the door! What, were you born in a barn?

That's says something about me, right? It sums up my attitude about Christmas, and hey, if my card offended my religious right wing relative in Memphis, so much the better! I call that an added-value Christmas card.

This year, my card said, "Naughty is the New Nice." Now that we are wrapping up the card season, and I count at least a dozen in my collection that have photos of kids on the front, I think of all those happy, loving parents I sent my card to, and I can only hope that their kids read the card and go, "Mama, I don't get it. What does she mean Naughty is the New Nice? Santa Clause doesn't like it if you are naughty, right? Can I be naughty, Mama? It says here it is the new nice."

I wonder how they will answer the question. "Don't listen to her, Junior. She's crazy. She never had children and it made her insane." Or, "She was just being funny but it doesn't work. Her humor isn't that good. She was always the last kid to be picked for softball teams."

It's no matter to me. My cards say I'm irreverent and have Christmas in perspective. Cards with kids on the front say you are a tad maniacal, because you think your fat, dirty kid sums up your life. Dogs in Santa suits are starting to look real good, huh?

I Love Tara Conner

Poor Miss USA. All she wanted was a good time while wearing her tiara, and what she got instead was Rehab. It sounds like a typical day on the job for me.

I think Tara is an inspiration to young girls everywhere, kinda like Tonya Harding and Vanessa Williams. Hey Tara, if you are going to be bad, be Vanessa bad, okay? Look at how good her career has turned out. On the other hand, Miss Nevada, Katie Rees, hasn't had such good luck when it comes to photos of her with girls.

Since people love lists this time of the year (wish list, best-of list, etc) I am inspired to write a List of Things You Shouldn't Do While Wearing a Tiara.

Here goes:

1. Don't blow. No coke, no men. You will get caught.
2. Now is not the best time to experiment with the same sex. Somewhere, photos of the event will turn up on the Internet, right next to illicit shots of Paris Hilton.
3. Do not, I repeat, do not over-eat. People will talk about you the way they did about poor Carmen Elektra when she befriended Rachel Ray. Speaking of that, see number 2 above again.
4. Do no under-eat. Two words: Nicole Richie. You will be all over the damn news as being this week's new Anorexic.
5. If Lindsay Lohan is doing it, do the opposite.
6. #5 pretty much sums up everything bad you could do so live by #5.
7. One last thing: to be safe, stay away from gay Republicans who are in the House or Senate. Any association can be really bad for your career.
8. Okay, one more: whatever you do, do not pull on the Donald's hair.

It's Starting to Blow a Lot Like Xmas

I am sooooo tired of the holidays. What good do they do anyone? Seriously?

The holidays are expensive, there are parties to go to that NO ONE wants to attend, gifts to buy for people you may not want to buy for but feel you have to because they sit in a cube outside your office and handle your expense report, there's food to eat that isn't on your diet, there are people to deal with who are in bad moods because it is year-end and there is too much work to do still and let's not forget holiday music. It's starting to look a lot like Christmas should be rewritten. It's starting to feel a lot like He-ll.

Last week I blogged about my new Mini Cooper. Well, that little bastard still isn't in my possession. The kind people in charge finally took it off the boat and got it to Vegas, however, it has been in the Mini Cooper shop since Friday. There have so many other cars ahead of mine that they have to check out, they said. How many damn people are buying a Mini Cooper? And it is baby of a car, how long can it take to "check them out?" So Maybe on Monday I will get it. Maybe Tuesday. My God, how can a tiny car be so much trouble? Oh I know. The cars is not the trouble, the Mini Cooper people are the ones who are trouble.

Okay, so I am grouchy about the holidays. Sue me, but I'm tired of the fuss, I'm tired of the campiness, and this year, even Christmas lights don't cheer me up. So slap a floppy hat on me and call me the Grinch. Wake me when it's New Years.

Mini Cooper Mini Hell

About six weeks ago, my hubby and I plopped down some $$earnest money on a Mini Cooper. We were told that it would arrive in 6-8 weeks from England, as it was being special ordered. I am a RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW type of gal, but I thought I would try out this thing called patience. So I restocked my Xanax and I sat back and waited.

Last week, it arrived at the Port of LA and is on its way here. Hubby went down to Mini Cooper to pay. He was paying cash, or to be specific, with a check. They made him fill out a credit history! He asked why, and they really didn't have a good answer, other than to say that it was policy and must be done. Then, they tried to do the hard sell on a bunch of warranties and crap. He told them, "I will not buy anything new." They kept trying to sell. He walked out, pissed. Our first real experience with Mini Cooper was now a bad o ne.

Then, over the weekend, he was notified that they had run a credit check on him. He didn't sign any papers releasing them to do that, and again, just let me say this: we paid cash for the car. He called up, bitched them out and again, was not told any real answers. Hubby is blowing them in to the BBB.

Meanwhile, he has been trying to sell my PT Cruiser. So he calls up Chrysler here in Vegas, tells them about the car and they are interested. They set up a time for him to come down. He arrives on time, no one is there. Some young slacker girl shrugs it off and says, "hey, you know, we were doing you a favor to begin with." Hubby says, "I think the words you are looking for are, 'we're sorry so, there must have been a mix up in the schedule.'"

Since when did sales people make the transition from simply an ass to uber-ass? Make that Full Throttle Ass. The root component of sales is marketing, and the root component of marketing is a good brand - followed by word of mouth. I'm talking. I have a big mouth. You don't want me bashing your brand - which is composed of your people, services and products. So, Mini Cooper in Las Vegas and Integrity Chrysler, guess what guys? This is marketing backfiring in motion. Your people are rude and Full-Throttle ASSES. Time for training classes.

Big Bones Grammarian Whoops Iraq

There is so much I could blog about these days: the uncivil war in Iraq, our failures in Iraq, W's cliche of the day regarding Iraq, W's folly involving Iraq, someone in W's administration resigning over Iraq, Iraq itself, Saddam, Iran and Iraq, terrorists and Iraq, Iraq, Iraq, Iraq.

Instead of blogging about that, I need to blog about the Big Bones Grammarian, a woman I work with whom I've blogged about many times before. In what is living proof that life is cruel, Big Bones Grammarian and Psychic HR (another often blogged about coworker) are now best of friends. BBG likes to visit PHR, whose office is next to mine, and drone on and on about how she's gone from 220 pounds to 210 pounds (no lie), how flexible she is because she used to be a model in London (she's got to be lying), how her freelance career is booming (for an alternative weekly), and I'm sitting in my office eavesdropping and marveling at the irony of being an American. Citizens in Iraq get to worry about car bombs blowing them to bits or being randomly shot on the street. Meanwhile, back in the USA, I obsess over the fact that two people get to me like no others: BBG and PHR. Both are arrogant, delusional, and have overblown images of themselves, which, I hope stems from low self-esteem and is not sincere self-love.

So I keep thinking about Iraq to put things in perspective. It occurs to me that everyone has annoying co-workers. Why can't we ship our annoying co-workers to Iraq? Imagine the results. The fighting would stop because all the Iraqis would LEAVE THE COUNTRY. Hell, they'd rather be in Israel than have to put up with Psychic HR or BBG. If each company in America would pick their 2 or 3 most loathsome employees and ship them to Iraq, this war would end, American productivity would soar, and I could stop taking Xanax.

But without BBG, Psychic HR or Iraq, what would I blog about? Oh, that's right. W is still in office for another 2 years.

Stop! In the Name of W

Sometimes I like to post images of George W. Bush when I have nothing else to blog. After all, a picture says a thousand words. Here's a pic of the Prez singing "Stop in the Name of Love." His rendition brought down the house, the White House that is.

The Law of Diminishing Return

I've been thinking a lot lately about the Law of Diminishing Return. Not in the economical sense. For those who need a refresher in the law, Jack Aaronson on clickz.com gives this definition, which of all the definitions, I think he hit it head on best: "The Law of Diminishing Returns (anticipated by Anne Robert Jacques Turgot and implied by Thomas Malthus in 1798) states that increasing one variable of an equation while keeping the rest of the variables constant will eventually yield a result opposite the intended purpose of the variable change. In plain English, it simply means sometimes, you can push an idea too far."

I am quite experienced in the practice of pushing an idea too far. Overstaying my welcome is another skill I have, right up there with not knowing when to shut-up. In their way, they are all examples of the Law of Diminishing Returns outside the scope of economics.

The US involvement in Iraq is a political example of the Law. At first, many people were more or less happy we were there. Then after it just wouldn't end and kept getting worse, nearly everybody has grown unhappy. You could say that the 2006 elections were the Law of Diminishing Return in action: people voted their dismay over Iraq. For that mattter, they voted their irritation with the Evenagelicals' influence during the last six years of W's presidency; the Law of Diminishing Return can bite you in the ass if you push your idea too far. Remember Terry Schiavo? The voters did.

On a personal level, here’s how the Law of Diminishing Return works in my social life: I go to a party. I have a drink. My tongue is loosened just enough. I strike up a conversation. The person I’m talking to is laughing. Maybe S/he think that I’m actually charming. I have another drink. “Oh dear, she’s not so charming, after all,” the other person thinks. The wine has loosed up my tongue, my brain, and my ego. Maybe I’m bragging about something useless. Maybe I am hogging the conversation. S/he is bored. S/he see a wadded up napkin on the floor across the room. “Excuse me,” S/he says. “I need to do something.” S/he leaves me for the wadded up napkin, throwing it in the trash. S/he would rather do house work (and it’s not their house) than talk to me. Hence, Law of Diminishing Return.

As I reflect back on my Thanksgiving Holiday, I naturally recite the things I’m grateful for. Toes. Fingers. Breath. Moderately good health. Gilmore Girls. 2005 Acacia Chardonnay. Aspirin. Finally, though, I am grateful for those who stick around even when the Law of Diminishing Return on knowing me kicks in.

Say Hi to a New Member of Team La Blogda

My pal F______ is cantankerous, opinionated, acerbic, and can make your toes curl with his commentary on politics and society. So naturally, I invited him to be a member of Team La Blogda. He accepted, asking if I would mind if he stirred the pot up. I said not at all, as long as you don't comment on any of my "cat has herpes" posts. That's the only sacred thing to me, everything else if fair game.

Oh, and I forgot to add that if I lean to the left a bit, he leans to the right a tad. So we'll probably never completely agree on squat, but we may come close.

Welcome to the neighborhood old pal.

Stupid Guy Rocks Literary World

There's a story floating around the blogosphere about exiled Kenyan Novelist Ngugi wa Thiong'o, who was in San Francisco promoting his novel, "Wizard of the Crow". The author was staying at the Hotel Vitale, which, as a former San Franciscan, is a place I'd consider staying due to its great location. Anyway, a Kenyon paper reported that the author was sitting in a common area of the hotel and was confronted by a hotel employee who said, "This place is for guests of the hotel. You must leave."

It's been reported that the author asked, "what makes you think I'm not a guest." I can't find an answer to the employee's answer. The incident has been described as racist, and the hotel is under fire from critics who want an apology in a local paper.

The management responded by apologizing to the author, and by promising to review its diversity policy.

I don't mean to be insensitive, and I am aware of Nguigu wa Thiong'o literary contributions and the fact that he's fought racism all his life, but this seems to be quit an over-reaction to the acts of one individual. Everyone has stupid employees. My company, which has about 50 employees, has about 45 that are really stupid, and on any given day, they screw things up but good. However, I live in Vegas so the per capita ratio of stupid people is unfair comparison to a town like San Francisco - we clearly win.

Comparisons aside, I have trouble with the criticism's against the hotel. They've distanced themselves from the act of this employee, but they need to take in one step further and fire him (and they may already have, I don't know, I can't find anything on the Internet). If they have not, then that is what they should be criticized for. Not just because he went up to an African gentlemen and told him to leave. The employee should be fired for being stupid. For jumping the gun. The first question or comment should have been something to ascertain if the gentlemen was indeed a guest, if there was any doubt.

So once again, someone does not do his or her job right and all hell breaks loose. Next thing you know, I'm blogging about it.

Um, Is It April 1?

Are ya'll pulling my leg? The news today is too good to be true. I was a happy camper when I found out the Dems took over the House and was content to leave things there, but . . .

The Dems take control of the Senate?

Rumsfeld steps down?

W admits he lied about Iraq and then takes a swipe at Rove?

Come on. I am not a strong person. I could stroke out any minute.

If this were a musical, I'd break into song. Oh happy day . . . .

I Could Cry I'm So Happy

Thank you you wonderful voters.

I admit, I did not follow the election results past about 5:00 last night as I had one horrible headache. I was asleep from about 6-7, woke up, forgot there was an election, watched my usual reruns of Gilmore Girls (an addiction worse than dope) then went back to bed and started reading. I completely forget it was election night at that point.

So I woke this morning, remembered, went online and saw the glorious headlines about the Dems taking the House. Maybe there is a God. Maybe Jesus does love us. As for Justice, I'm becoming a true believer.

Wow.

It's a good day.

Hussein Gets Death

After all that has happened in Iraq, today's news that Saddam is to be hanged is definitely a bright spot for a lot of people, Shiites and Americans, and most everyone except for his nutty supporters. Normally, you would never hear me say that someone being sentenced to death is a good thing, but come on, it's Saddam Hussein for crying out loud. Even the most ardent opponent of the death penalty has to be okay with this.

An article in the NYT describes the elation the Shiites are experiencing: "Spontaneous celebrations broke out across Iraq in spite of an around-the-clock curfew imposed on the capital and other regions. People fired pistols and assault rifles into the air in a common gesture of jubilation. Residents of Sadr City, a Shiite bastion in northeastern Baghdad, flooded the streets in defiance of a curfew, whooping and dancing and sounding car horns. Even some Shiite police officers joined in the revelry, firing their weapons in the air."

It's a good day to be alive. Unless you are a crazed maniac like Saddam.

Stuck in the Middle with You

I have been thinking a lot lately about that song, "Stuck in the Middle with You." I didn't like it 100 years ago, and I can't say I like it now.

It does, however, seem to sum up the feeling of many tried and true Republicans these days. With the upcoming elections, they will vote Republican, again, because this is all they know. Forget Iraq, forget that their leaders are being proven hypocrites caught in silly gay sex scandals, forget Terry Shiavo and all the false morality that in its darkest hour is never as satisfying as an old episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

I've voted Republican. I was embarrassed, but I've done it. Never in a presidential election, but in Senate races.

I've voted Democrat.

There is something about voting Democrat that makes me proud, even amidst chubby intern sex scandals and whatever wimpy half-hearted policy they are promoting.

It says I'm an idealist. It says I have hope. Sometimes, it says, I'm stupid.

Voting Republican says you are angry. You have a lot of hate issues. You don't like change, you want the status quo. You want your gay sex in the closet, and you wear your Jesus on your sleeve.

I read a good line recently in a book of short stories, "The Littlest Hitler," by Ryan Boudinot. I can't remember word for word, but it was something to the effect of "I knew then what if felt like to be Bruce Springsteen."

As a serious music lover, voting Republican is a little like voting for Jessica Simpson. Good package, bad music.

When I cast my ballot for a Democrat, usually (not always - it depends on the person) I feel like Bruce at his best - in Badlands. "I don't give a damn, for the same old played out scenes, baby I don't give a damn for anything. I want the heart I want the soul I want control right now."

Now that's passion. Okay, no Democrat is that good to inspire such great lyrics, except Carter and in glimpses, Clinton, but it's the feeling I get voting for those other lovable losers. That sense of hope, that sense that everything will be okay, and that life won't beat you down, and that the fat chick who heads up operations in my office will get fired, along with her fake laugh, her delusions, her numerous and cheap diamond chips and her in-your-face Republican attitude of "I'm rich, spoiled and entitled."

Voting Democrat is not about voting for the Democrats. It's about voting against the Republican. It's that feeling that the bad guys will go down and you, my friend, will be skimming down Thunder Road like a Spirit in the Night.

We'll see what the upcoming election brings. My guess? More bad music. Stuck in the Middle with Voters Making Bad Choices.

Haggard Prefers Meth to Gays

What a statement Ted Haggard has made. He would rather confess to doing meth than to doing men. Now, maybe he is telling the truth, but wow, if I were him I'd say, yep, I like guys. Beats admitting that you do Meth - truly, only the lowest of life forms do meth, that and college kids out for a little experimentation. I can't even think of a funny angle on this, so I'm just going to have to play it straight. Oh, pardon the pun.

I Hate the Chinese Government

Can someone tell me what China is good for? They have a superior race complex, their government is greedy, corrupt and frankly, their attitude towards women is third-world. And pork knuckles and jellyfish may be a delicacy to them, but my Southern grandma would have called is slop and fed it to the yard dogs.

I have to work with the Beijing government on a trade show that we want to do in a week, and in the last five days, our packages for the show can't clear customs. We were asked to fill out forms, massive forms, which was done promptly. Then tonight at 8:00 (Friday!) I get a call at home from one of the contacts over there saying there is an error in the form, they won't tell me what, and that we have to resubmit them. And by the way, we also have to pay 3K to get the boxes released because of all these last minutes "fees" they have, which amount to nothing more than blackmail.

When I think of Beijing, I think of tanks running over students. I think of grime and graft. I think of men with small penises and women who are either submissive or dragon ladies - both reactions to the men with small penises. I think of bok choy, the only vegetable that smells worse than cabbage. Now, add to that, I think of the most inefficient, bumbling yet some however evil government officials -- Barney Fife meets Damien -- I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. Thank you, China, for making me proud to be an American. Get Toby Keith on the phone, we are going to sing a duet.

I have suggested to my boss that we not pay the fees and walk away from the show, not paying them another dime. Asia is huge, and it is a great market to explore if you have the stomach. Me, I'm still on antacid from my last show in Asia 6 weeks ago.

Bible Thumper Thumps Guys

What is it with evengelicals and sex? They really, really, really like to get their groove on, especially if it is with a hooker, or if it gay sex.

Have any studies been done to show that there is a link between a Jones for Jesus and well, a Jones?

Ted Haggart, paster of New Life Church, has allegedly paid for sex 3 times over the past three years with a guy.

Haggart, a married pop of five is one of the evangelicals' top dog bible thumpers. He also has been an opponent of same sex marriages.

I think the media is being too hard on him personally. Come on, maybe he's just a player - loves to play but doesn't want a commitment. Except for that wife thing with the five kids.

Post-Halloween Confession

If you've read this blog, you know I'm not a fan of kids. Babies, toddlers, children, teens -- they bug me. Yeah I know, I was once a kid. I'm sure I had horrible self-loathing issues, but I don't remember because it was 100 years ago.

Last night, I did not want trick or treaters at my door, so I kept all the lights off in the house, and watched reruns of Gilmore Girls (Rory annoys me, but I watch it anyway. Like any addiction, it hurts).

Today, I find out that in Vegas -- and maybe this is everywhere -- sex offenders cannot turn on their lights in their house on Halloween or answer their door. So I'm wondering, of all the misperceptions and bad impressions I've given my neighbors, do the now think I'm a sex offender? Or just that grouchy witch at the end of the street?

Things W Find on the "Internets"

Remember when George W. Bush referred to the "Internets"?

Well, the prez has come a long way. He is using Google Maps to look at his ranch in Crawford, and to find WMDs in places where evil-doers dwell. Okay, I'm kidding about the last one. I think.

"Occasionally," W told MSNBC's Maria Bartiromo when she asked if he uses the Internet(s!). "One of the things I've used on the Google is to pull up maps. It's very interesting to see that. I forgot the name of the program, but you get the satellite and you can - like, I kind of like to look at the ranch on Google, reminds me of where I want to be sometimes."

That's funny. It reminds me of where I want you to be all the time, W!

Speaking of the Internet, W also told George Stephanaopoulous this week that "we've never been 'stay the course,' George!"

Um, Mr. President, Google this: Stay the Course. That's a lot of hits quoting you as saying, "We will stay the course in Iraq."

Complaining is my God Given Right

My boss told me this week that for the sake of my own career, I should stop complaining about people I work with. He simply cannot fire all the people I want fired because there would only be a half dozen people left. He missed the point: that half dozen are the fun ones in the bunch.

Okay, so I won't complain anymore at work. I'll complain here.

Office Hobags: Girls, I do not want to see your cleavage. You are so skanky even the MEN don't want to see your cleavage. Cover up and develop some real skills. Also, considering getting a new job.

Bats-in-the Belfry Overgrown Brat with the dyke haircut: you look like a drag queen. You demand as much attention as a drag queen -- an aging one. Please, take the hint that we are all ignoring you because we dislike you and for God's sake, get another job.

Wimp Ass Boy: yeah, you know who you are. You've got big ears, an annoying voice and why, why, why do you talk so much???? Please take the hint that we are all ignoring you because we dislike you and for God's sake, hook up with Bats-in-the-Belfry Overgrown Brat with the dyke haircut and get another job.

Guy who smokes too much and has the booming voice: no one likes you. Not even Bats-in-the-belfry Overgrown Brat or Wimp Ass boy. How horrible is that? Get another job.

Big Bones Grammarian. Sweetie, do something with that hair. Putting a bowl over you head and snipping is not anyway to get a haircut. Supercuts would even be ashamed of you. Get another job.

Hotjobs.com: Please get a hint that I need a well-paying marketing position where there are no lunatics and help me get another job.

Disclaimer: The above statements are not complaints but facts. Just ask my labor attorney.

Fly Me to the Croon

Just in time for Halloween, it is the Ghost of Las Vegas Past.

Last night, Hubby and I went to see the fabu Tony Bennett at the Hilton -- that's right, the old stomping ground of Elvis. Lore has it that Elvis's old stomping ground is his current stomping ground, at least for his ghost.

Being a second-rate Sinatra has paid off for Tony. When I'm 80, I wanna look as good as he does. And sound as good as he does. My only complaint is that he didn't finish the show with "I left my Heart in San Francisco." He did it mid-show, and thinking it should be the finale, I clapped my heart out, then grabbed my purse to go. Imagine my surprise when he then started in with "Fly me to the Moon."

Tony was great, and it made me wonder what Vegas was like in the 70s or earlier, the Hey-Days. Hubby lived here from 1971-1976 and had stories to tell, mainly about the Trop, one of the last of the old great hotels. Along with Hilton, they make up the two best of the old ones that exist today.

So tonight, we went with our pal Kym, who was a dancer in the Lido de Paris at the Stardust, to the Celebration Lounge at the Trop. A great cover band called Friends played, and we stayed for two sets while Hubby and Kym waxed nostalgic about old Vegas. They told me about the Moby Dick Room at the Dunes, with its faux oyster shell booths, and mighty lounge acts whose names they can't remember, as well as Sassy Cats, an act that played in the lounge at the Trop 40 years earlier, and the 1:00 am shows that the headliners put on just for the Strip entertainers, comps galore, great dining, friendly faces,the manners of the past, and so much more. Vegas today, in their eyes, is nothing like Vegas of yesteryear. Sure, the mob may have run the town, but they were nice about it. As long as they didn't blow up your car.

A week from this Monday, we are going to the Stardust, as it closes its doors forever the next morning. We'll drink vodka tonics, stop in at Charlie B's, and check Kym's reaction as memories come back to her of the 20 years she spent as a dancer there, hanging with Siegfried and Roy, drinking champagne that Sinatra and Sammy sent after the show, and just remembering what it was like to pull up to a casino's valet and the respect you got from the Valet parker for being a dancer at the Stardust in the Lido.

So I'll take your Vegas, baby, and raise you the bittersweet memories of when a good town was great. Viva, well, you know the rest.

Too Pooped to Pop

I have not been blogging much lately because I am pooped. Let me be blunt. I work with pedestrian people who figure that since they get up early, we should all be at work at 7:30. There was some sort of vote/non-vote that I did not have a chance to participate in, or rather, no one cared what I thought (marketing people, who cares?) and now our hours are 7:30-4:00. I actually had to go to the doctor because I've been so tired that I thought I had some deadly disease. I may still have one -- I never rule out the worst possible thing happening to me, but for now, my doctor thinks I'm tired because 1) I work with sick people who think that going to work at 7:30 is civil and 2) I'm middle-age and smack in the midst of peri-menopause. Damn old age and damn early birds.

So that's why I haven't been blogging much. I'm tired.

In the spirit of the old LaBlogda of yesteryear, I'd like to say that I still hate George W. Bush. There. It's just like old times.

When Binx met W

Writers are always encouraged to write "what if . . .."

With that in mind, I decided to write a flash fiction piece about me and George W. Bush having a brief affair.

An Affair to Forget

Binx met W in Crawford. She was passing through, on a road trip where she stopped at Southern diners, ate their fries, then blogged about the experience. It was mid-afternoon, and the diner was empty. W came in with a secret service team. The boys were hungry. They ordered pot pies, shakes and apple pie. W set across the diner. Binx thought he was making eyes at her, but she couldn't tell. His eyes were too close together. He was either looking at her, or looking at her beer. She decided to test the situation. She raised the bottle to her lips and looked at W. Sure enough, he was looking at the beer.

She wiggled the bottle in his direction, and he walked over. "Mind if I join you," he asked.

Binx was sure he was looking at the beer, not her.

She motioned to the waitress, "Dos," she said.

"Oh I couldn't," he said.

"Kinda like you couldn't make the right decision on stem cell research?"

W looked confused. Had she just insulted him? No one had ever done that before. Who was this strange girl? Was she, could she be, no, it wasn't possible . . . was she a terrorist? Or was she just one of those annoying Democrats? He studied her face. She had a long nose. Ah. That explains it. She was French.

The waitress came and put the beer down. "They'll see me," W said, referring to the Secret Service.

"I'll divert their attention."

Binx walked to the middle of the diner, stood on a table, and started chanting "F^&! You, Mr. Cheney! F^&! You!"

The Secret Service were on her like W alone in a booth with a beer.

Later, W made sure she was released from jail and invited her over to ranch. Laura was away, doing something useful with her time. "How can I repay you?" he asked, the smell of Miller heavy on his breath.

"Let me show you, Neocon boy," she said.
It was awful, but she had a greater purpose. As she predicted, he left in the middle of the night, abruptly ending his Crawford vacation for a Camp David vacation.

Three months later she got the news. She leaked it, of course. Then she went down to Planned Parenthood and walked past the throngs of right-to-life protestors. She went into a sterile little procedure room and later, when it was all done, she told the press about her experience.

"Hah," she said to W when he confronted her. "Your reputation is ruined. I've exposed you for what you are and put you in the middle of a scandal."

"Hah back," he said. "You may have proved it, but it's an election late and a lot of funding short. I got re-elected in 2004. Damage is already done. I've ruined my own reputation."

"Oh hell," Binx said. She hadn't been thinking clearly. It was her perimenopause, which caused fuzzy thinking, but unfortunately, didn't stop women from getting pregnant. W was right, the damage had already been done. She had wasted her time and efforts on nothing.

She lived out the rest of her days in a cramped apartment in Bakersfield that sat behind a Burger King. She got fat on fries and lived out her life watching reruns of Gilmore Girls. The end.


Note from writer: my stories never have happy endings.

Love Letters: The New Gay Republican Porn

If Jesus and Mohammad are indeed gay, then Mark Foley is in good company, so Republicans, take heart. Of course, I never accused Jesus or Mohammad of being perverts. Mark Foley, well that’s another story all together . . .

Mark Foley is THE buzz today. My friend’s Robby and Sean, actors in LA, are doing their version of Love Letters and are reading the Foley/16-year-old mail page email exchanges aloud, appropriate voices and all.

Robby made the point that when you read the emails, it’s disappointing because even when Republicans are pervs, they are still pedestrian. What’s the lesson here? Leave perversion to Democrats. We have so much more experience at this.

But back to Foley. He is so much in the news that I decided to Google “Mark Foley” and then Google “I’m angry” to see which keywords had more hits. As I have blogged before, I’ve noticed that if you Google “I’m angry,” you get a wide and varied response. After all, we’re all angry about something. Mark Foley gets about 9,490,000 hits, while “I’m angry” receives 40,100,000 hits. More people care about anger than they do about Mark Foley, but a lot of people are interested in Foley. So for fun, and to make a useless and obscure point, I then decided to Google “I’m Angry, Mark Foley” and I got 251,000 hits, with the number one hit being crooksandliars.com. I have not bothered to visit the site yet, but geez, it sounds like the type of site La Blogda might want to link.

For more pointless fun, when you Google “Love Letters,” it gets 34,500,000 hits. Way more than Foley and close to “I’m Angry.” Ahh, we are a race of angry people in love.

Jesus and Muhammad - Gay?

Okay, just a thought: both Jesus and Muhammad are control freaks- check out their biographies if you don't agree. They are both very picky about what you wear, think and do.

Oh. My. god (pardon the pun): Jesus and Muhammad must be gay!

It makes total sense.

No offense to homosexuals. They deserve better than religious comparisons, but honestly, I think the two leaders of modern theology were total girlfriends. It's such divine retribution for the gays, and if religion has taught us anything, it is retribution.

I only wish the dynamic duo's followers had the good taste of gays. Of course, if you compare in-the-closet homosexuals to religious fanatics, there is such little difference. Except religious fanatics cant' dress to save their souls.

Jesus and Muhammad: gays. Nothing in my life has ever made more sense. Not brown eye shadow, not collagen, not fiber supplements, and not even Gilmore Girls. This explains everything. Whew! What a relief.

I can now sleep at night.

Lay Down These Old Bones

When my grandma was nearing ninety, she used to say to us, "I just want to lay down these old bones and die."

After nine days in a time zone that is 15 hours ahead of ours, and after 42 hours of travel time round trip, door-to-door, I understand how Grandma felt.

International travel always sounds fun. Unlike a road trip to say, Vegas, however, the getting there is the least part of the fun, even in business class. Then, once you are there, dealing with the time zone, eating lunch when you should be dreaming about fairies and pink zebras, is not so much fun either. What's less fun? Traveling East to West. I've been sleeping past noon the last two days and staying up till 3:00am. My muscles are so sore from the plane trip that I have feel there is an anchor in my back, and for some reason, I have a headache that won't go away. Does Asia cause brain tumors?

Anyway, I'm back from Hong Kong, much worse for the wear. I'd blog on something like rude people or W's latest folly, but really, who cares. I'm going to take an Advil and wait for the season premier of Gilmore Girls, then go to bed, after popping an Ambien. So if you don't hear from me for a while, I'm no doubt taking a very long nap.

Happier travels to you. Don't forget the aspirin.

Ann Richards on How to Be a Good Republican:

1. You have to believe that the nation’s current 8-year prosperity was due to the work of Ronald Reagan and George Bush, but yesterday’s gasoline prices are all Clinton’s fault.
2. You have to believe that those privileged from birth achieve success all on their own.
3. You have to be against all government programs, but expect Social Security checks on time.
4. You have to believe that AIDS victims deserve their disease, but smokers with lung cancer and overweight individuals with heart disease don’t deserve theirs.
5. You have to appreciate the power rush that comes with sporting a gun.
6. You have to believe…everything Rush Limbaugh says.
7. You have to believe that the agricultural, restaurant, housing and hotel industries can survive without immigrant labor.
8. You have to believe God hates homosexuality, but loves the death penalty.
9. You have to believe society is color-blind and growing up black in America doesn’t diminish your opportunities, but you still won’t vote for Alan Keyes.
10. You have to believe that pollution is OK as long as it makes a profit.
11. You have to believe in prayer in schools, as long as you don’t pray to Allah or Buddha.
12. You have to believe Newt Gingrich and Henry Hyde were really faithful husbands.
13. You have to believe speaking a few Spanish phrases makes you instantly popular in the barrio.
14. You have to believe that only your own teenagers are still virgins.
15. You have to be against government interference in business, until your oil company, corporation or Savings and Loan is about to go broke and you beg for a government bail out.
16. You love Jesus and Jesus loves you and, by the way, Jesus shares your hatred for AIDS victims, homosexuals, and President Clinton.
17. You have to believe government has nothing to do with providing police protection, national defense, and building roads.
18. You have to believe a poor, minority student with a disciplinary history and failing grades will be admitted into an elite private school with a $1,000 voucher.

I think the best way to honor Ann Richards' life is with her own words. Here's to a great Southern gal.

What Do W, Terrorists, and Irish Coffee Have in Common?

In the last five years, September has become the month for bad memories. The beginning of the month starts off with Katrina and, of course, on Monday, we have 9/11.

As I was getting ready for work on the morning of 9/11/01, my friend Robby called me.

I said Hello, and he said, “Don’t go to work. Terrorists have slammed planes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.” Not that there could ever be anything funny about that, but I thought he was making a bad joke. He had to convince me he was telling the truth. “Turn on the TV,” he said. I thought I would click on the TV to find a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, our favorite show. Instead, I saw the first tower collapsing.

I remember saying, “huh, you’re right,” as if he had just told me some fact, either scientific or trivial, like, if you rub your bare feet against the carpet then touch metal you’ll get a shock.

My friend Shannon called me next. “There are several more planes that have been hijacked,” she said, “they can’t find them all. In fact, they believe one is headed for San Francisco.” I pictured a silver plane, streaking across the blue sky, filled with terrorists and hapless passengers who may or may not know their fate. I could see someone looking from their window seat out at the patchwork of land below, a bank of fog looming ahead, hiding our City from their view. That fog always struck me as something that looked impenetrable, yet you know it is no shield.

Shannon and I worked together and were driving in that day. We worked in San Francisco and lived in Marin County, meaning we would be crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, which, on that morning, might as well have had a “Slam the Plane Here,” sign on it as far as we were concerned.

“I’m not going in,” I said.

“Yeah, me either,” she said. Then she added, “wanna start drinking?”

“It’s 7:00 AM.”

“Irish Coffee.”

She came over and I made coffee. She pulled a couple of mini-bottles of Irish Cream out of her purse. She had collected them from some of the many flights she had taken, an ironic note. We were consoling ourselves with liquor from a United flight. We foolishly wondered if the hijacked passengers had started chugging the bloody mary’s after they realized they what had happened.

“My guess is that there is no in-flight service,” I said, needing to state the obvious.

It’s strange the things you say and think in times of profound crisis. Here we are wondering if hijacked passengers can at least get an early morning buzz on.

We went to Sam’s in Tiburon for lunch. My husband, who had left for the city earlier, returned. By now we knew all planes were accounted for and flights everywhere were grounded. We sat on the deck and looked out at the bay. We were still drinking. I think I was now slugging back cabernet. The mood on the deck was somber and quiet. The place was packed, and everyone was drinking, and oddly, eating French Fries, which would in another couple years suffer a period of disgrace under the moniker of Freedom Fries. We were all looking for comfort, whether it was beer or food. I heard a woman at the next table say, “it’s the beginning of WW III.” We smirked. Then I asked Shannon, a financial expert, what she thought this would do to the economy.

“Oh forget about it,” she said, waving her hands in surrender. “It’ll be in the toilet.”

“Oops, I guess are jobs aren’t safe,” I said. She nodded.

Later, we went back to our house, and I remember Shannon saying, “You know, I’m just so angry at Bush. I mean he’s just flying around in Airforce One, trying to stay one step ahead of the terrorists. What a chicken s&*t. Rudy Giuliani is running the damn country right now.” It was true. That day, for a few hours, too many hours, Bush was a no-show on TV. Not even a press statement to be delivered via someone else. You know, he acted the same way he did when the levies broke.

I don’t remember much of the day beyond that point. I would imagine it was spent in front of the TV, listening to reporters and pundits talk about the meaning of this and that and what would happen next and yadda yadda yadda. I'm sure alcohol was involved. And junk food.

Shannon and I later found out that both our departments were due to get laid off on September 11, but the company had thought better of it, and decided to wait a month before giving us the heave ho. She moved away and every now and then I get a Christmas card from her. She’s married and has a baby, something she always wanted to do. Her Christmas card is always a family photo, and in it, she smiles large and looks hopeful, like good years are ahead of them. I hope they are. Five years ago we didn’t feel so lucky, but here we are, down the road looking back. All this makes me realize something. I didn’t like George W. Bush or religious fanatics then, and I hate them now. I also don’t really like Irish Coffee.

What a Relief. My Name Doesn't Pop Up.

In case you haven't already heard about this, go to google.com and in the search field, type in Failure. It's pretty funny.

When Large Egos Happen to Bad People

In my career, I have worked with some really, really bad people who have made it their job to makes other people miserable. The buzz word for those types these days is "Toxic."

Chickpea, a boss who picked his nose, passed gas, burped in management meetings, told his staff to shut-up, snapped his fingers at them to get their attention and threatened to fire someone at the drop of the hat, is a toxic person. He's got waste coming out his eyeballs.

Then there was the woman I called "Bats-in-the-belfry Bitch." TOXIC. She turned every one-on-one meeting into a brag-fest, whether it was about how much money she had, how all the clients loved, loved, loved her or how many (imaginary) friends she had.

I've written recently about the snitty slacker and Big Bones Bore, so no need to rehash them.

Lately, a different breed of person has been annoying me. Stupid people with large egos. Just because they are stupid doesn't make them bad. The large ego does, however, throw them in the same category as the people above.

I remember once when a stupid person I worked with confided in me that her boss, Bats-in-the-Belfry Bitch (BBB) was too much to handle. I sympathized with her, because no one hated the triple B more than I did. Anyway, BBB and I worked together on a few projects, and that day when work finished, I saw her in the parking lot and went up to her to ask her something about a project. The stupid chick confronted me the next day, assuming I must have been telling BBB what she had said. I had forgotten about what she had said. It wasn't that important or interesting or nothing new.

I've noticed that since then, many dumb people I encounter actually have large egos, which puts them in the same category as really smart people with large egos - people behaving badly. Usually, you associate a highly successful person with having a Rumsfeld-sized ego. Not that being smart and successful always go hand-in-hand. So at middle-age, I have finally learned a lesson: just about everyone, smart or stupid, seems to have a large ego.

So if everyone would just be a bit harder on themselves, and be their own worst critic, maybe the world would be a better place to live in. Of course, I wouldn't have anything to blog about. I know, I know. That wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Katrina: a year later

New Orleans has been in my thoughts today. As a kid, it was more than the closest big town to home. It was the place to go to when I grew up, the place where dreams would happen. New Orleans was the cultural oasis, the city to go to for cool. My favorite memories are two road trips from college. On one trip, my friend CW and I walk up to two officers in the French Quarter after we learned her car had been towed. The officers were talking to two men. The men, as it turned out, were handcuffed. Just as we approached the cops, they got a call on their radio that another crime was taking place. For some odd reason, they uncuffed the two men and took off. CW and I stood next to the would-be criminals; they leered at us. CW and I took one look at each other and took off behind the cops.

Another time, a slew of friends drove down in my 1979 Dodge Charger. Too much alcohol and other substances were consumed and I remember all of us sitting in Cafe Du Monde at some ungodly hour, devouring beignets and trying not to pass out. On the drive back to Jackson, the car windows were rolled down and Bruce Springsteen blasted from the tape player. I remember looking out the windows, and up at the dark sky overhead and then seeing the glow of New Orleans behind us.

That's how I think of NOLA, as this town that just glows, and I don't mean from industrial waste.

So tonight, as I sit many miles from the place I have always thought of as my second home, I'd like to suggest two songs for those of you who miss New Orleans the way I do. The first one is "Louisiana 1927." Aaron Neville sings it, but I think Randy Newman wrote it. The second is that classic sung by Louis Armstrong, "Do You Know What it Means To Miss New Orleans." Download them from iTunes, listen, remember the good times you had in New Orlean, and if you are like me, the songs will make you a little misty-eyed and give you a powerful yearning for a town worth loving.

Katrina's Poster Boy: Master of Disaster

With the one year anniversary of Katrina approaching us, there has been much talk in the media about the problems that still linger in New Orleans. Having family in NOLA, this is one topic that has personal meaning to me. So for today's post, I've uploaded a photo to Lablogda that represents two icons of people behaving badly. A baby (especially when they are on planes or in restaurants) and George W. Bush, the posterboy of the Katrina disaster. To be fair, babies have nothing to do with the Katrina disaster, except of course those that were affected by the flooding and resulting chaotic aftermath.

Bush, while not solely responsible, sure didn't help matters. Remember the image of him strumming guitar in San Diego during that time? Remember Heckofajob Brownie? Those were just the minor infractions. His approval rating took a plunge and a year later is still hovering around the 30% mark. He wasn't alone in his folly: the flood devastated the city and unrooted local, state and federal governments flaws. The only person who came out of Katrina a winner was Anderson Cooper.

The Feline Version of a Lap Dance

Sammy Davis, Jr. and Liza Minnelli are great examples of people behaving badly toward each other. I’m talking about my two cats, not the entertainers, by the way. I’ve discussed Sammy and Liza on this site before. They are Korats, sleek oriental cats with short gray fur and the kind of green eyes that launch acting careers.

Liza is a bit like her namesake. She’s old, overly dramatic, and squawks way too much. Likewise, Sammy is like his namesake. He’s entertaining, lovable and prone to excess. While one did drugs, the other eats too much and throws up. My cat is the latter of the two.

Sammy and Liza, the cats, hate each other, where to hear Liza the celeb dish, she and her Uncle Sammy adored one another.

Mostly Sammy and Liza the felines co-exist without incident. During the day, Sammy is upstairs, hiding under the night-table, sleeping the sleep only the very rich and house pets get to have, and worthless teens, and my sister’s ex-boyfriends.

Liza can be found downstairs, in the far corner of our office, huddled up between two bookcases, her butt facing the door so that if someone should walk in, she doesn’t have to look at them.

At night, if Hubby and I are sitting on the couch watching TV, the cats like to sit on someone’s lap. Usually, it’s the same person’s lap. This is where the trouble comes in. If Liza is sitting on Hubby’s lap, Sammy will walk up to her, pretend like he is about to happily lick her head, then chomp down on her ears with his teeth. She hisses and runs or fights back, and she’s even been known to completely ignore him. On those occasions, I notice, he backs down. She is victorious most at those times.

Liza doesn’t bite Sammy. He is the alpha cat. She usurps his territory quietly. He may get up from my lap to go take a sip of water, and she sneaks onto my legs so covertly that I don’t even notice the cat switch till I seem Sammy at my feet looking up, his face forlorn.

I know someone wrote a book about everything they learned they learned from their cat. I believe it was a huge best seller. I can see why. There’s something to be said for my cats and they way they best each other. Sammy may be the dominate of the two, but Liza is more often the silent winner in their battles. Of course, you could say that is just like any woman – or any crazy old lady.

Part II: the Snitty Slacker and Big Bones Bore

They won't leave me alone. They can't let bygones be bygones. They must torment me. Xanax. I need Xanax. Where's my bottle? Oh, there it is. Can I have a Stoli's on the rocks with that, please?

After the Snitty Slacker hung up on me as I was demanding respect, he actually did the work I had wanted him to do, then proceeded to email telling me that I was a client he was happy to let go as I was disrespectful to his admin and to him. Of course I was, they are twenty-something arrogant, terse twits who need a spanking. Mama never whipped them. Mamma didn't give them enough time-outs. Mama is a bad Mama and should have never been allowed to breed.

Then, I realized I had a deadline due with Big Bones Bore so I emailed her and asked her when it is due. She wrote back, "Today."

What? Today? I never got any notice that the deadline was even approaching. I emailed her and told her this. I then called her to see if we could work it out. I pitched an idea to her, but tell her I need more time.

"Not gonna happen," she said. She really isn't attractive enough to say "Not gonna happen." I've given it some thought. Super skinny tall models with tiny noses and Liv Tyler lips can pull off "Not gonna happen." Fat, ancient hags with haircuts they gave themselves by putting a bowl over their heads cannot. I am proud to say that I am not a fat, ancient hag and I have a darn good haircut, just ask my stylist, but I cannot pull off "Not gonna happen." You have to be screeching beautiful, okay?

I asked for an editorial schedule. She acted like I was a moron, and should know that there wasn't one -- after all, what decent magazine would have one of those pesky things? I tried to explain that her deadlines always caught me off guard and I was then forced to turn in dull, uninteresting articles.

She then lectured me on plagiarism. Long story on how we got there, but it involved some in-house copy that was given to another magazine for an article. She is an expert on plagiarism laws. I know, she told me in detail. I filed my nails while she droned on and on. I tried to picture her eyes, which are too close together, and how they would look if she would only get a new haircut. Maybe she could wear a head band and push those bangs back. Maybe my gay stylist could layer her head so the ends weren't as blunt as her demeanor.

She finally paused and I jumped in, saying, "look, all I'm saying is that I don't want to dial in the stories. It's like I'm just lying there in the mission position." I laughed. I got nothing from her. "That's a joke," I said. She doesn't speak. I don't speak. I'm offended yet at the same time curious. How long before one of us would speak? I couldn't stand the silence so I continued on, pleading that I was just concerned about the quality of the content I submit and needed more time.

"I sent you and email two weeks ago reminding you," she said.

"I didn't get it. Or maybe I did. I'll confess to senility."

"I would agree with that," she said.

Oh Big Bones. You are an awful person. You've made me believe in Heaven and Hell, just because I want you, after you die, to wake up in the middle of a bunch of terrorists and toxic bosses, all of you roasting in a large fiery pit. I hope the first thing you think about it is all the co-workers you offended, Big Bones, all the friends you could have made. The people who could have loved you if only you were a person worthy of love. But you weren't and you aren't. And at your age, you never will be.

The Snitty Slacker, the “Not-Responsible” Muslim, and the Big Boned Bore

Now today was what I’d call a bad day. To sum it up, I threatened to choke a Muslim, I had a slacker hang-up on me after I demanded respect, and the gal we call the Big Bones Bore told me I need to move past my anger, and that my problem was that I am short, and she didn’t have this issue because she was tall. She’s 5’5 – do you know how short I would have to be for her to think she’s tall. I'm short but she's delusional. And she doesn’t merely have big bones, she’s fat. But tell her that. Actually, don’t try to tell her anything. She knows it all. She knows more than God, she knows more than that all time winner on Jeopardy. Evidently what she doesn’t know is that you do NOT put a bowl on your head to cut your bangs.

Let me start at the beginning . . .

Our website is down, at least part of it – the part where you log on and get free info. Our programmer and our hosting guy have been duking it out for days blaming each other on the problem. Both are outside contractors. Both got their degrees evidently from some online school.

So after an exchange of emails where each blamed the other for the umpteenth time, I called the programmer. I got his annoying admin on the line who told me he was not available. We were on speaker as there were numerous people in my office who wanted to speak to him. The marketing group and the IT person. The Admin insisted on having my name, though I kept telling her to tell the programmer to call the IT guy. We hung up, we called the hosting guy, the Muslim. He started blaming the programmer. He said the programmer loaded something to the site that screwed it up. I know the programmer didn’t load anything. I lost it.

“I am so tired of you blaming him and him blaming you. Honestly, I’ve never worked anywhere where the site goes down so often,” I said, rather, almost screamed. Okay, screeched.

More words were shared and I said, “here’s what I want to do. I want to board a plane to California and go out there and choke you.”

Oddly, he got really contrite.

The programmer then returned my call and started screaming at me. He’s a little turd in his late twenties, and is under the impression that he is above reproach. I hope his peeppe falls off when he turns 30, you know, many years from now. He actually said, “the web problems have never been my mistake. Ever.” And I said, “Oh, you have never made a mistake.” He said, “That’s right.” Then he started yelling at me, saying, “you are too small of a client for me to take this kind of behavior. I’m happy to let you go,” to which I said, “yes, finish this job and have no fear, this relationship is terminated.” Then I said the line about how I didn’t care how small a client I was, I demanded respect and the bastard hung up on me.

Then I went to visit a friend and vent my woes, when his pal, Big Boned Bore walks in and plops her big boned, yet well-cushioned, tush down. She’s listening and she says, “you need to move on past this anger.” I said, “Life is short, I’m short, and I just got to get it all out. Besides it makes me feel better.” She said, “ahhh, I see. I know why I am never phased by anything.” Beat. “I’m tall.”

I then asked her did she really want to rumble with me given my morning and that I wouldn’t mind putting her in therapy. She assured me I could not insult her, she was above insulting. I should have said, “because you’ve heard it all,” but instead I said, “well you are insulting me.” She said, “no I’m not.” I ignored her. She repeated it three times and I continued talking to my friend. Finally, when we finished, I said, “well I better go make someone else miserable now.” To which she said, “if you tried to make me miserable, you have failed horribly.” I said, “I promise I will keep trying.”

Of course, there is a reason I can’t make her miserable. She’s already there. She is a mean-spirited, humorless, wretch with a bad haircut and an enormous ego. The question I have is why are there people like her in the world, or the haughty programmer who thinks he is above reproach, or the Muslim who can’t take responsibility. All these suicide bombing Muslims and I get the one who doesn’t want to be responsible for anything.

Lesson learned: not all men are created equal. Those are just pretty words designed to give marginalized school kids hope. D. H. Lawrence said that we are not equal, we differ in our spirit. I must be at the bottom of the heap, because those bastards today have sucked my spirit bone dry. My ass may have dimples, but my spirit, it’s downright anorexic.

Now where is my Xanax?

Let's Get to the Point

Dear Israelis and the Middle-Easterners they fight:

Leave fighting over religion to the experts: Christian fanatics.

Leave fighting over land to the experts: lawyers.

Thanks,
Binx

P.S. Neither of your cultures have very good food. Anyway, just thought I'd throw that in.

Rude at Red Rock

There is a new hotel/casino in Vegas called Red Rock Station. It was much hyped prior to its opening as the most luxurious casino off the Strip -- and it is. It is also the rudest off the Strip, which is why it gets special mention in my blog.

They cater to locals, and all the locals I've spoken with about it have at least one bad experience with rudeness either in the bars or the restaurants. As far as the gambling tables go, the service isn't much better. The other night, a pal went there, sat at the black jack table, started playing, ordered a glass of wine and got wine served in a water glass. When she complained, the waitress shrugged and said, "that's how we do it here."

Let me tell you how else they do it there.

This morning, hubby and I ate breakfast at the Grand Cafe, which should be renamed Grand Screw Up Cafe. There was a child inside screaming aimlessly, with white trash parents who were incapable of even thinking of disciplining the child. I complained to a waiter as he passed by, and asked him to talk to management. He did. I'll give him that. Then the waiter, and two managers stood there and stared at the child, sometimes glancing at me to see if I left yet. They did nothing but stand there and stare. It was a classic case of "do nothing and maybe the problem will go away." The child kept screaming, customers kept shaking their head, and the white trash parents sat there ignorant as can be. The two manager, never even offered me an apology, not even an apology laced in truth: "I'm sorry, lady, but the happiness of the ignorant white trash parents and their horrid, screaming child is way more important to us than you repeat businesss."

Earlier, when we had ordered, my husband asked for the "egg skillet with bacon." The waiter said, "the egg skillet with bacon. Right?"

"Yes."

Many, many moons later, he brought out the egg skillet, sans bacon.

"I asked for bacon," Hubby said.

"But you ordered the egg skillet. That doesn't come with bacon."

"But I ordered bacon."

The waiter said, "then you should have ordered the bacon skillet." The waiter never heard the maxim that the customer is always right, especially when they are wrong.

Hubby got his bacon, but afterwards, when the bill came, the waiter felt he needed to educate us. He brought out a menu. "See, next time you want to order the bacon skillet," he said.

"That's okay," I said. "You don't have to do this." That was my attempt at being nice. "This isn't college, dumbass," is what I wanted to say. "Don't lecture us you sniveling moron," is what I should have said. Instead, I got up and walked out, leaving Hubby to fend for himself. Besides, I really couldn't hear as that horrid child was still screaming aimlessly.

We will never go back, as this is our 2nd bad encounter at the Grand Screw Up. We may gamble at Red Rock in the future, and we may even drink at the Onyx Bar (because they treat us right), but I will not drink wine from a water glass, no matter "how they do things."

I have many more stories about this casino, like how they gave away my pal's charge card at the Lucky Bar to the wrong customer and didn't even apologize - this was after he had run up a tab of $1,000 bucks. If this were Iran, I'd say that was fine behavior, but for the swankiest hotel/casino off the Strip? That is just jackass rudeness.

They say God is in the details. I say Good Service is in the details. Red Rock Casino in Las Vegas, you may look glamorous, but you lack the needed details.

Is Rude a Disorder?

Duh, I spaced for a few days. I meant to post another entry from my NCY travel journal. For you repeat visitors, you'll be happy to learn this chronicles yet another bad experience with a kid.

August 3, 2006, Day 5 of My NYC Trip
Non-smokers have it easy. If someone is smoking around them, they can say, "Excuse me, would you put that cigarette out, please? It's bothering me."

For those of us who find kids annoying, we are not as lucky. I think child perverts are regarded more highly than we are. After all, they love kids, albeit, too much and in the wrong way. For people like me, who would rather stick thorns in our eyes than have to sit next to a kid on a plane, there is no sympathy. There must be something wrong with us, people think. We have unresolved issues, we are told. Yadda yadda yadda, would you put that kid out, please?

I sat in row 42A on Continental Flight 569 today. It is the window seat on the last row. A 12-year-old girl sat next to me and she felt that the armrest between us belonged to her. She didn't actually mind sharing, to her credit, we just had to have our arms touching. I didn't want kid cooties, so I huddled over as far as I could to the far side of my seat. It didn't matter, she kept elbowing me. I counted. She invaded my space 36 times on a 5-hour flight. I kept saying, as politely yet frostily as I could, "Excuse me." Meaning, "Excuse you." She kept saying, "Sorry," in a tone that suggested she resented having to apologize. Her mother kept talking about me as if I wouldn't hear. "Just give her room. She's one of those." I'm not sure what 'one of those" meant but I assumed she meant I was either a) weird or b) a child-hater. By the way, I don't hate children. I loathe their parents for having them and then forcing them on me. Big difference.

At one point, the kid got up and the mother leaned over and said, "I'm sorry if she moves around so much. She has a condition."

The child seemed fine to me, just rude. Perhaps that was the condition the mother meant.

The Nefarious Art of Cutting

August 1, Day 2 of My NYC Trip
“Are you just going to stand there and look cute are or you going to help me?” The bellman at the W Times Square asks the taxi driver. I’m in line for a taxi, and one has just pulled up to unload a passenger with luggage. The bellman is trying to pull suitcases from the trunk while the driver stares passively.

A young thin woman cuts in front of me.

“Excuse me,” I say. She turns and looks at me like I’m lunchmeat.

“I’m next.”

She says something in Spanish. She must be from Latin America. I’ve decided long along, from experience, that they are famous for cutting in line.

The bellman notices the occurance, though, and he motions me to take my rightful place in the empty taxi. I look back at the woman, who is looking away, as if she is trying to ignore not only me, but also her guilt and her etiquette crime.

I arrive at my destination. The Javitz Center. There is a trade show going on. I walk up to registration where a minor line has begun. I’m talking to someone I know as we wait to get our badges. It’s a man who has been in our industry for thirty years. I am complaining about the humidity in New York. Before walking inside the trade show, I could see a bank of moisture, barely visible, hanging above the street, an almost translucent cloud.

“Toughen up,” he tells me. He is trying to be nice in the way New Yorkers try to be nice. It is obvious he does not want to hear my complaints. There is an awful lot of humidity in the air. That much is obvious. Why belabor the subject?

I have been facing him and when I turn back for a moment in line, I see that a man has cut in front of me. He does not appear to be with the person who was in front of me, as she is in deep conversation with someone else. And frankly, it’s obvious by looking at the two of them that they aren’t together. She wears a hair band in her blonde pageboy and is dressed in lots of primary colors. She wears chunky gold jewelry, and speaks with a slow drawl. This woman is from the South somewhere. The man wears a white shirt, black pants, and a yarmulke. He stares off into nothing particular, as if he is avoiding eye contact.

“This man just cut in line,” I say to my friend, loud enough for the offender to hear.

“That happens all the time,” he says. “Israeli,” he whispers.

What is it with foreigners? Americans take cutting in line to be a vital sin. It’s right below cheating on your wife and right above running a red light. Everywhere I go in NYC, someone is cutting in line, and they aren’t American. Has the rest of the world banded together and decided that the way they will get back at us for whatever ill we’ve caused on their country is by cutting in front of us in line?

I can jus see a secret session at the UN – minus the American delegation. “Forget war,” some foreign diplomat says, “you know what would really piss them off? Cutting in front of them in line at the airport.”

I remember once, I accidentally cut in line in San Jose, California at the Winchester Mystery House. I cut in front of a woman with blonde wash and wear hair. You would have thought I had spit on her child. She berated me up and down. The reason I inadvertently cut is because she had been standing off to the side and a few feet back from the person ahead of her. I thought that person was the last person in line.

“Honest,” I said, after explaining the situation to her.

She gave me a look, suggesting I was not a skilled liar, which I’m not. Evidently, I’m not skilled at telling the truth either. I exist somewhere in between, in a world of half-truths, due to my own inability to see things as they are. Rather than call a spade a spade, I tend to call it a metal thing you can use to dig or to hit someone over the head with.

I learned a lesson that day. Scope out the line. If you see someone who might be next but you are unsure due to their stance, ask this question. “Excuse me, are you in line?”

Life is often gray. Some things are certain, such as death and taxes, some things are not, like: is that guy across the bar looking at you or is he looking at the hunky guy standing next to you? One thing we all have in common, at least in America, is that we at least want our rightful place in line.

The Perils of Flying

July 31, 2006. Day 1 of my NYC Trip
Some kids want ponies when they are growing up. I had a pony. Some kids want dogs. I had two. Some kids want a play house. My grandfather built me one. It was the size of a dining room. I had a lot as a kid, but we weren’t rich. Having so much, I naturally wanted more. I wanted to fly places. I wanted to see the world. Mainly, I wanted to climb aboard a silver jet, sit in first class and order stewardesses around. “Get me a coffee,” I imagined barking. “I want caviar.”

Only a kid would think coffee and caviar were an exotic combination. As I grew up and started flying places on my own, I realized that air travel was not at all what I had dreamt of as a child. In fact, the number one problem with flying was that planes were full of kids. And tall people. Really tall people who don’t quite fit in coach. Or fat people. Fat people don’t go out of their way to get good seats. It’s one of those psychological phenomena, the way poor people started voting for Republicans even though it wasn’t in their best interest. Fat people always end up in the middle seat next to me, their legs, spilling over into my space so that we sit knock-kneed from Vegas to New York.

If the person next to me is not fat, they are a squirming Cantonese child, spoiled by her aged grandmother sitting in the aisle seat. Cantonese children like to sit next to me and stare at me. They like to pull on my hair while they sleep. When they wake me, and I stare nastily at their grandmother, the grandmother puts a Cantonese hex on me or gives me an evil eye. “Do not criticize me or my grandkid,” they seem to be saying with the evil eye.

If the person sitting in the middle seat next to me is not a fat person or a Cantonese child, it is a young man who wants to talk. And talk. He has confused the plane for a fern bar from the seventies. He thinks the plane is a place to meet women, or score.

“I know you,” one guy said to me once on a flight from Dallas to San Francisco.

I looked at him, searching his green eyes, trying to find something familiar. I had never seen this man. He had sandy hair and a mustache that wouldn’t quite grow in though he must have been thirty.

“I’m afraid not,” I said.

“Oh we know each other,” he said, quite serious. He seemed slightly hurt that I didn’t remember him.

“I’m really sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

He shook his head, my vacuity clearly annoying him. “Not in this life, silly,” he said. “We knew each other in a previous life.”

What was truly scary about this encounter is that the young man was not hitting on me. He believed we had known each other. I was his sister, Mirabelle. We lived on a plantation in Virginia. I’m so glad our past life was nothing cliché.

In my job, I fly a lot. I fly to Hong Kong, to New York, to small towns like Orlando, which I guess is not so small, but seems that way in comparison to New York of Hong Kong. I fly all over. I have learned many things from flying. Bring a jacket on board, even if it is the middle of summer. Airplanes are cold. Bring a water spritzer on board to freshen your face. Don’t drink alcohol when flying, it makes jet lag worse. Don’t drink caffeine either for the same reason. Of all the things I learned, there is one large pervading truth: people are jackasses when they travel. They are rude, self-centered, loud, smelly, inconsiderate, arrogant, and thoughtless and if they have brains, they forget how to use them.

As I write this, I’m on a flight to Newark. The plane is a pungent algorithm of smells. There’s flatulence, mixed with smelly feet and armpits, and the sharp scent of burned coffee. The movie has just ended and people who didn’t want to watch the flick, a show about a teenage mermaid, sleep, or try to. Behind me somewhere sit two women from what I imagine is Brooklyn or Queens. I’m not good with accents. One of them has not stopped talking for the last twenty-five minutes. Her voice hits our ears, an aural invasion. I think, “Go ask her to be quiet.” I don’t. I shift in my chair. I think, “Go slap her.” I don’t. I look at the woman across from me, who has plugged in her iPod and is listening to music of her choice. I envy her and wonder why I can never remember to pack my own iPod. That’s what they are for, to block out the world you don’t want to hear.

Oh great, the woman next to me is now snoring. The man in the seat ahead of me and across the aisle has removed his shoes. He really should not have done that. He stretches his long legs, bumping the back of the seat ahead of him. The person, a young man with spiked blond hair, a Billy Idol almost wannabe, turns around and gives him a look. The long legged man does not se it. I think of myself, as I strike these keys. Is the click click click annoying the people around me, as they are all annoying me. We are out to get each other, we people in rows 19-21, just as the people in the rows 22-24 and so on are doing.

When I boarded the flight, the attendants had stuck one pillow in between the aisle and middle seat, and laid a blanket over the aisle seat. One blanket, one pillow per row. Presumably, the winners of the prize were the people in the aisle seat, if they got their first. When I reached my seat, 20c, an aisle, there was no pillow or blanket. Someone had taken it – not my row mates, as they had not yet arrived. A kid sat ahead of me in 19C. She did not want her blanket, and for two hours, it lay where the attendant had left it, over the top of her seat. I grew cold and debated taking that blanket. But she is just a kid, and she might want it, I thought. I sat there and thought about it, but I was afraid if I took it, someone would say something to me. “God, you’re so rude,” the long-legged man might say. “That blanket is for that little girl.”

Just as I had almost convinced myself that I was not cold, and the even if I was, cold was good for you as you burned more calories, the woman sitting next to me leaned forward, and casually lifted the blanket from the back of the kid’s chair. She took it for herself. She did this in a way that I could tell she did not give it a second thought. She did not have an internal dialogue between her inner angel and devil. She just did it. No regrets. No looking back. “How selfish,” I thought, with utter envy.

I got up and walked down the aisle to the bathroom. I had to wait, and wait. There were two restrooms, both occupied by people inside who were evidently writing a novel, slowly. There’s a little boy behind me, holding his treasures in his hand and stomping his feet back and forth. I think of offering him my place in line, but my middle-aged bladder wants immediate relief, too.

As I stood in line, between the woman in the aisle seat in 30 D and the woman in the aisle seat in 30C, they started talking around my body.

“This is so rude,” 30 D said. “I have no privacy back here. People just stand in line and crowd us.”
I looked around, uncertain where else I could stand. I thought of crawling in her lap. Would that be less rude?
“And then I have this big Norwegian goof ball who is crowding my tray,” 30 D said to 30 C who acted as if she didn’t know her. “Look how far I have to lean over.”

I stole a glance. I recognized the Norwegian goof. He had been in front of me in the queue to board the plane. The boy knew tall. He must have been 7 feet. Seriously. I imagined that he had pituitary gland issues. I did not even come up to his elbow. He sat in 30 B, the middle. His knees crunch against the back of the seat ahead of him. I looked at 30 D, and she returned my look with the evil eye. This flight had more people giving the evil eye than a Turkish Knitting Circle. I think, "this is what flying has become. A plane full of people giving each other the evil eye." It's the best response we have to noisy kids, smelly feet, flatulance, burnt coffee, all circulating in a flying can.

On The Road Again

Willie's tune seems to be my theme song lately, though I like to think of myself as more a Born to Run type of girl. I'm off to NYC, where I am sure there will be much discussion about Israel, Lebanon, and the general sad state of the world today. I'm bringing my laptop with me, so I'll try to blog from my hotel room. But I say that all the time, and I never do.

For a peak at the trials and mishaps of a struggling novelist, check out the link to the left for Bourbon Decay.

Googling to Feel Better

When I travel, I spend long hours sitting in airport terminals reading magazines or eavesdropping on conversations. The writer in me turns on when faced with long waits in a public place. One thing I’ve noticed, is that people like to talk about what they are angry about when they are waiting. They are angry about flight delays or the trip behind them, perhaps the trip ahead.

When I returned home, inspiration struck and I Googled the words, “I’m Angry.” It turned out to be an interesting experiment. What the search yielded were many links to blogs where bloggers had written the words, “I’m angry.” There are many angry bloggers out there, let me tell you.

Some were touching. A parent was angry at losing a child. Most had to do with broken hearts, particularly scorned lover. “I’m angry that he left me for a whore.” “I’m angry I spent so much money on me and she left me for a ripped hard body.” “I’m angry that I made him my obsession for four years and he dumped me like a used carton of milk.”

Republicans were angry at Liberals. No matter what Republicans say about Liberals, one thing is certain: they hate liberals more than liberals hate them. Maybe that is why they keep winning political offices.

In my Google search, the word “Hate” kept cropping up. Hate is a strong emotion, there are times when it is stronger than love. I have had to work with certain people over the years that I have truly hated. They are without merit. They are demons in human form, albeit, they are not very attractive humans. The thing I hate about these demon/humans is their inability to see themselves as they are, their incapacity to take responsibility for their shortcomings.

Point is, those people make me angry. Maybe when you are in a stable relationship, rather than obsessing about your love life, you obsess about your work life. Your annoyance with your coworkers becomes amplified when you are content with the rest of your life. I got curious just how many people out there felt that they either now, or had in the past had bad coworkers. I Googled, “I hate my coworkers.” 4,920,000 hits came up. When I Googled, “I’m angry,” I got 43,400,000 hits. Lots of people hate their coworkers, but even more are angry in general.

Madonna once said something along the lines of “Life is too short to be bitter and I’m too short, too.” If she didn’t say that, it would have been a good thing to say.

So tonight, as I write this, I’m not really angry about anything. Life, like me, is just too short.

Grumpy in Vancouver

Greetings from Vancouver, a very clean city. When you live in Vegas, traveling to other cities can pose a rather annoying problem: most are not 24/7. Las Vegans tend to do well in New York, the City That Never Sleeps, but up here in pristine Vancouver, you tend to forget that you can’t get a drink at 11:00am (not that I drink at 11:00am. My husband does, sometimes, but that’s another post) or go shoe shopping at 10:00pm (yeah, okay, I do that).

The thing a desert dweller like myself can’t get over is the water. It’s everywhere. This city loves fountains, and they have some spectacular ones. The only place I’ve seen with fountains this pretty, and abundant is Rome. But the ones here are modern, of course, as Vancouver is a baby of town compared to creaky old Rome. Can a person have fountain envy? I think I do. When I first moved to Vegas four years ago, I remember laughing because even the gas stations had fountains, one in particular was rather large and garish. Then, we started realizing that, gee, we live in the desert, and there are nearly a million of us, so perhaps we might to conserve water. So bye-bye fountains.

It’s true what they say: Canadians are a friendly lot. Their cheeriness punctuates my bitchiness. I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West in this town. I’m all in black, I don’t want to greet complete strangers, and I really don’t want to make room for this in crowded elevators. There is another convention in this hotel beside the one I’m attending, and I don’t know what these folks line of work is, but good lord are they annoying. It’s easy to recognize them. They wear little brown badges that hang from lanyards around their neck. They pile on charter busses to go do group activities, like gondola rides. I have no idea where they go on gondola rides, and maybe they are talking about gondolas that take people up mountains, as opposed to the Venetian smelly canal kind. Either way, when they go on their gondola rides, there is a line to get on the elevators. Numerous times, I’ve been sandwiched in with these friendly people, who talk loud when they chit chat about gondola rides, and we stop at every floor because there are more people waiting to pile on. It never fails, two or three cheery jackasses on the elevator – almost invariably in the back, call out, “hey get on, we’ll make room. The more the merrier.”

Yesterday, I had had enough, so I responded with, “No, not the more the merrier. This is ridiculous.” A woman with a frosted hairdo, the kind that you get at the hairdresser and then have to sleep in for a week, gave me a look, then turned around to her husband and made a face indicating, “What a grouch.” Of course I’m a grouch. I have a fat, bald man standing on my feet.

I’ve come to realize that being polite can be rude when multiple people are involved. If Dick and Jane are on an elevator with the entire membership of the Elks Lodge, and the car stops on a floor and Dick and Jane say to the three people standing in the hotel hallway of that floor, “Hey, get on!” then they have been rude to the Elks Lodge, but polite to those people.

This kind of behavior is an oddity that I have only seen in Vancouver. Maybe it’s the fact that this town is so clean and cute that it brings out the best, hence the worst, in people. I’ll tell you though, it’s enough to make you want a drink at 11:00am, or even 9:00am.

The Other Beck

I just finished watching Glenn Beck on CNN. I've never really watched him before and I really don't know anything about him, other than he is a conservative who thinks that the latest middle-east development is the beginning of WWIII.

Honestly, I have to admit when I first heard what Israel did, the thought crossed my mind. I haven't tried to think about it too much, because, yep, I'm shallow. I'm also scared. I also tend to over-react, so I hope that Glenn Beck and I have this in common.

Work tends to get in the way of me getting to obsessed with matters of the world. For a change, I'm glad I have a hectic job that keeps my life unbalanced. Later this week, I get on a plane and fly to Canada, a place that seems like a fitting retreat in the middle of a war crisis. So I won't be blogging, but I will be reading the papers and watching the news. I have a feeling the Lebanon war will be a big topic of this blog in the upcoming weeks.

On a lighter note, I have not commented on W saying the "S" word in public. A lot of people take this as proof that his faith is all show. Uh-huh. It took him uttering a four letter word to prove that? I've said it before and I'll say it again. The guy uses Jesus as a marketing tool. It's an old trick used by lots of folks. Having said that, I don't see how saying the stronger version of poopy makes anyone less faithful. But that's why religion can be so silly, or dangerous, as in the case of what's going on in the world these days, and for that matter, what has happened throughout history.

Brittle Bones and a Fragile Mind

I think about Sin a lot. I’m not talking about biblical sins, cheating on your spouse, murder, lies – hey, those are in the Bible, right? I haven’t been to Sunday school in thirty years. I’m talking about your run of the mill bad habits that these days are considered sinful. Drinking too much wine. Guzzling caffeine. Eating French fries. Neglecting exercise.

Okay, those things aren’t technically sinful. But I know I shouldn’t do them. Three years ago, I got a dexa scan, which showed I had ostepenia, the precursor to osteoporosis. My doctor prescribed 1500 milligrams of calcium a day. She told me to cut out coffee, limit alcohol, do weight bearing exercise and eat healthy.

I have a stressful job that requires lots of travel. Do you have any idea how hard it is to eat healthy on the road, much less avoid wine at mind-numbing business dinners where the only salvation to the evening is a good buzz? Then, of course, the next morning, I’m exhausted from the late night entertaining, so I drink either coffee or everyone’s favorite industrial waste, Diet Coke. On top of that, I don’t stay on top of my calcium and truly, sincerely, do not have time to go the hotel gym as my days begin early and go straight through to night.

When I return home from these trips, I’m often on a health-kick binge fest, though I can’t seem to eliminate the caffeine, no doubt, because I am one of those people who wake up at 3:00am and ponder the previous day while fretting over the upcoming day – plus I throw in these memory games I play with myself to prove I don’t have early-onset Alzheimer’s, such as, “what was the name of that boy I dated for three months when I was in the 11th grade? It was during that phase where I had blackheads on my nose.”

If you play, you pay, the saying goes. Today I went in for another dexa scan. Over the course of the last week, I’ve avoided wine, I did an hour of weight-bearing cardio each day, plus yoga, and I took 1500 mgs of calcium, you know, because that would rebuild my bone density – wouldn’t it? But alas, I could not avoid my beloved Diet Coke, though I did compensate somewhat by drinking only half a can and also had green tea, which may have caffeine, but is supposed to be good for something else, I don’t know what. I can’t keep up with the prevention methods of all the disease I may have or may get.

I won’t know if my T score has gotten worse till Monday, maybe Tuesday. In the meantime, I’m googling Osteoporosis like a hypochondriac who just learned about a new life-threatening disease. So far tonight, I’ve google Osteoporosis and Ambien, Osteoporosis and Elliptical machines, Osteoporosis and yoga, Living with Osteoporosis, I’ve got Osteoporosis – now what?

Don’t hold me to this, but I may now be an expert on Osteoporosis. Or insanity.