I went 37 years without seeing an NFL game, and after today, I'm hoping to go 37 more. Today I discovered that I'm more of a baseball kinda girl. Tony and his brother split an order of season tickets to the Redskins this year, and today was the wondrous event known as Washington vs. Buffalo.

Within minutes after exiting the shuttle bus, we were walking behind three Bills fans, and sure enough, one was wearing Zubas. Not the old zebra-striped variety, oh no. These must have been the new, reinvented Zubas. Guess what? JUST AS UGLY AS THE OLD ONES.

On the four mile walk up to our seats, we passed: a) more litter than I have ever seen in my life. Is it that hard to throw your garbage in a trash can? b) four drunk guys screaming fat slurs at an overweight guy walking up to his seat. I hate drunk people. c) Lots and lots of smokers who didn't seem to care that they were walking in a crowded area blowing their foul smoke in everyone's face.

The seats were great - we had a birds'-eye view of the entire field - but soon we found ourselves surrounded by more screaming drunk people. There were four men in front of us who were screaming and having a good time, but they were able to manage to keep it on the fun side. I didn't hear one "fuck" or "suck" or "bullshit" from them the entire time. Not that I care, but it gets old after a while. Of course all the kids around us kept turning around every time the two drunk dudes next to us yelled "Bullshit!" They were clearly enthralled with the fact that their ears were not restricted from hearing these wonderfully naughty words-o-contraband. "Bullshit" is, after all, very exciting to hear when one is ten.

After the touching tribute to Sean Taylor, the game started, and it was all over for me. Even with the annoying DJ announcer explaining every play, I have NO IDEA what the hell is happening on a football field. Run. Throw. Catch. Jump on eachother. Get up. Repeat. And what the hell is a "down" anyway? Why is it called a down and why are their four of them? Is it called a down because it ends when someone puts the ball down? I don't get it. And I didn't get to see any good pileups, which really stunk, because I couldn't make any homoerotic jokes to pass the time.

Here is what I was able to do, though, to pass the time:

1. Make annoying chewing sounds with my mouth in Tony's ear every time something happened in favor of the Bills. You can imagine how much he enjoyed that.

2. Try to make a Luna bar last an entire quarter by eating it very, very slowly in tiny bites. (Didn't work.)

3. Zip my coat up completely to the chin, cover my head with my hood and tighten it so that every breath I took fogged up my glasses. Goal: Completely obscure scoreboard. (Goal achieved!)

4. Make jokes and laugh incessantly over anything that sounded remotely like a body part or bodily function. "Cooley," "pass," and anything involving "ball" elicited the most silliness.

5. Wiggle my toes to the lyrics of some of my favorite songs.

6. Scan the crowd for anything Zubas-related. (Counted one hat and one pair of pants.)

7. Inform Tony that we could leave whenever he wanted to leave.

Surprisingly, these little activities made the time fly, and although I was glad when Tony suggested we watch the rest of the game from the concourse due to the rain, I still had a good time. After all, any time we're together, I'm happy.

I'm just more happy when we're watching football games from the couch.

Heathen that I am, you'd think I wouldn't be big on decorating for Xmas. Au contraire, mes amis. I freaking love it.

Yesterday I dragged the boxes of decorations out of the garage, loaded up Hanson's Snowed In on the iPod, and went to town. We lit up the bushes and tree in front of the house with rainbow-colored lights and then dragged our asses to Lowe's to buy a $29 pre-lit artificial tree. I expected it to be a piece of crap, which it basically is, but with some extra lights (it only came with white lights - we added some color) and ornaments all over it, it doesn't look half bad! Cute, even.

In 2003, Tony and I spent our first Christmas together. He didn't want to decorate, but I forced my holiday cheer upon him and we emerged from Target with a multi-colored tabletop tinsel tree and a handful of ornaments. This is what it looked like:

As we started hanging the ornaments, we noticed this one was a little unusual:

"Hmmmm," we thought, "Is it us, or does that angel look pregnant?"

Indeed, she did, and she sparked in us the desire to begin a holiday tradition.

Each year, while other shoppers search for the perfect gifts for their loved ones, we scour the holiday section of the stores for the most hideous, tacky, offensive/politically incorrect ornaments we can find. If they're damaged, all the better. Let's take a look at just some of the ornaments we've collected that fit this criteria:

The flying sneaker:

Um? Why? Is this the ornament for the modern-day Achilles? I don't know. All I know is it's shiny and I'm a gay man living in a straight woman's body, so I had to have it.

The three-legged iguana:

This guy has it a lot easier than some of the others on the tree.

Like this guy:

Poor thing. Looks like Santa was on the sauce again during flying practice. (Also see: shiny.)

These two reindeer need to stay away from Tylenol PM and heavy machinery:

He's supposed to be sitting on a snowmobile, but all that's left are the handlebars. Apparently he was a little too reckless because he's also missing an antler.

This guy

is supposed to be riding a motorcycle. Instead he just looks like he's pooping.

Someone's going to have to break the news to him:

It might be time to start thinking of another sport to pursue. Chess, perhaps.

There are plenty more on the tree but I'll leave you with these. From now on, just remember: whenever you see a broken ornament in a discount bin, you can cheer up, knowing there's someone out there who'll give that sad little ornament a home for Christmas.

You're probably sick of looking at pictures of our food, so I'll try to amuse you with a regular occurrence at our house - gaming phases. Since Atari and Nintendo were phased out by the Playstations and XBoxes of the world, my gaming days have dwindled. Sure, I'll play Hexic for, oh, 2 or 3 hours at a time, but I'm just no good at the kinds of games The Kids These Days are playing. Halo and Gears of War can get off my lawn.

Tony, however, LOVES these games and is damn good at them, too. Example: in a matter of two days, he finished the game "Timeshift". Twice. And if I never hear that troll guy from "Overlord" say "You choose ALL," again, it will be too soon. The thing is, you'd never actually KNOW that he enjoys these games as much as he does, and that's because of the phases of gaming. The phases of gaming go something like this:

• 1st hour: Enjoyment.
• 2nd hour: Frustration begins to build.
• 3rd hour: Screaming that the game cheats. Followed by me walking through the house, closing windows.
• 4th hour: Difficulties in game play are blamed (loudly) on poor programming and/or shitty coding.
• 5th hour: Arguments that "I'd pass through the door if the game would let me pass through the door."
• 6th hour: Threats, including snapping the game in half, throwing the game out the window, never playing the game again, getting rid of the entire gaming system.
• In extreme cases of a 7th hour, video game cases may or may not be thrown forcefully into the sofa cushions.

I know. It sounds like fun, right? We just got "Assassin's Creed" today and we're still in the 1st hour phase. If you want to come over for a gaming party, though, you'd better hurry up.

Throughout the night, the cats float around the house - eating, sleeping, and chasing fuzzballs. The minute one of us wakes up is when the Kitty Convention begins. All four cats converge upon our bedroom for complimentary petting before the official events begin. At this morning's convention, the following keynote speeches were featured:

7:00 am - Living as a Gay Cat in a Straight Cat's World: Linus
7:15 am - Stinking Up a Litterbox (And an Entire Room) in 3 Simple Steps: The Smoosh
7:30 am - Bitchiness and A Nasty Attitude Can Still Get You Treats - Ariel
7:45 am - How To Be A Bully (Even if You Have No Balls) - Emmett
8:00 am - breakfast break (translation: we got out of bed)

When we have overnight guests, KittyCon can be found in alternate locations (the guest room). Reservations and keynote topic requests can be made in the comments section of this post.

Over the last year or so, I've really gotten into Norwegian music. It started with Kurt Nilsen, and blossomed from there. (Kurt, by the way, has a new CD out as of Monday - it's called Push Push. I'll be ordering it from Norway, so if anyone wants to place an order, too, let me know and we can share the shipping costs.)

Standing in line at Whole Foods today, I overheard the people in the next aisle having a conversation with their cashier. They were from Norway, visiting the United States on a three-week tour. Of course, their English was impeccable. Shy one that I am, I butted in.

"You're from Norway?"

"Yes, we are!"

"That's cool. I love Norwegian music."

"Really?! Who do you listen to?"

"Odd Nordstoga, Kurt Nilsen, Sissel, Thomas Dybdahl." (How could I have forgotten Espen Lind?!?)

"Wow! I am very impressed. We will tell them when we go home that we met an American girl in the shopping mall who listens to our music!"

"Haha, ok! Enjoy your stay in the U.S.!"

"Thank you very much!"

How hot is that? I love thinking that Norway is so small that when this nice couple returns home, they'll just ring Kurt or Odd to tell them about "the American girl in the shopping mall." I love Norway.

The conversation on the ride home? Also hot!

"That was so funny. I love that they're going to 'let them know' about me. I love meeting new people. Especially foreigners."

"I hate people."

"Hahahahahahahaha! That's why I love you."

Here's the video for "Heim te Mor" by Odd Nordstoga.

I dare you not to tap your feet or clap along.

How lame are we? We drove to the MINI dealership today, which was closed, to see if our car had arrived on the lot. Driving down the aisle, we spotted it instantly. We opened the car doors, and jumped out, motor running, to examine the Greatest Car Ever. Oh my god, it was even better than we imagined, all bright and shiny and blue. We expected one minor screwup to occur at the factory, due to the change in model year, and it looks like that did happen, but it won't warrant a new order. Tomorrow we should be tooling around on four little British wheels by suppertime!

Do you hate junk mail as much as I do, especially catalogs? I am amazed each week at the amount of paper we recycle - paper that was unnecessary in the first place.

This website, Catalog Choice, allows you to opt out of receiving unwanted catalogs easily. I registered today. Now that my account is active, the next time I receive a catalog I don't want, all I have to do is enter my customer number and exact mailing name into my Catalog Choice account, and...bye bye catalog!

Suck it, junk mail!

As promised, I have pics from the Hanson Walk in Richmond. You can check them out here:

Hanson - The Walk in Richmond

We also uploaded one of the videos we took of Taylor addressing the crowd.

In other celebrity news, we went to see Jennifer Garner in Cyrano de Bergerac last night on Broadway. The show is still in previews, but with a short ten-week run, they have a LOT of kinks to work out of this production. Kevin Kline basically carries the whole show, and is marvelous, but one man can't carry an entire Anthony Burgess adaptation of the classic tale, y'know? At several points, when Kline wasn't on stage or speaking, I felt like I was watching a high school theater club. After one scene change, the translucent curtain got caught and the entire production had to stop for ten minutes so some crew guys could come out and fix it. Quite hilarious and a first for me. We think we even caught Jennifer Garner starting to laugh. Even with all of its missteps and faults, the audience rose to their feet for curtain call, cheering Kline's worthy performance.

And now, pictures! We hung out with the rest of the crazy loons at the stage door after the show to get a glimpse of Jennifer Garner. Had we gotten there a few minutes earlier, Tony could've gotten his Alias trading card autographed. Oh, well. Next time we go to New York, we plan to be there for more than six hours, so maybe we'll just stage door it one night after dinner with friends.

Jennifer Garner on Broadway

And while we're at it, here are the pictures of Tim Gunn from the Baltimore Book Festival. I LOVE TIM GUNN! Sorry. Got a little carried away.

Tim Gunn at the Baltimore Book Festival

Until next time!

Today we drove to Richmond to take The Walk with Hanson. Before each concert, Hanson joins fans for a one-mile walk to raise awareness and money to help fight poverty and AIDS in Africa. They've paired up with former Amazing Racer Blake Mycoskie, who created TOMS Shoes. When you buy one pair of TOMS shoes, another pair is donated to a child in poverty. Hanson is going to deliver shoes from The Walk Tour to children in South Africa.

The fact that Hanson is willing to brave a couple hundred pushy fans nearly every day on this walk is a testament to their dedication to the cause. All along the walk, Taylor stopped periodically to remind people that global problems like AIDS and poverty aren't as insurmountable as they seem. Simple acts, like walking a mile, giving a child a pair of shoes, buying a CD, or volunteering for a few hours a week in one's own community are ways to make a difference. It may seem like a drop in a bucket, but that one drop stops the bucket from being empty - instantly.

Philanthropy and puppies aside, walking with Hanson was one of the most entertaining experiences of my life. I saw a girl sneak up behind Isaac and run her hand down his entire back. Creepy! I saw two girls running, sweat pouring down their faces, to get next to Taylor, who by the way, has chest hair. Taylor! Has chest hair! WTF!?! I also saw enough muffin tops to last me a lifetime. Girls, girls, girls. Take my advice. I, too, have curves. Low rise jeans were not made for us. Stop wearing them. You can be adorable without your entire ass hanging out. I promise.

At one point, I found myself serendipitously walking next to Ike. He asked where folks were from, so I chimed in.

"We're from DC," I said.

"Oh, cool. And you guys are from? Richmond, cool. Wow, you guys are all the way from Arizona? We definitely have full geographical representation here today!"

"I think we're the oldest people here who aren't supervising a minor."

"Ha ha!" Ike laughed. "How old are you guys?"

"I'm 37 and he's 34. We represent the over-30 fan base," I said.

"Cool! I'm getting pretty close to 30 myself," Ike said.

"Welcome to the club," I replied.

I asked him how he was feeling after a recent health scare that I'd read about in the news. Ike has a rare condition that makes him prone to blood clots, which can be extremely serious and definitely quite scary. He said it was a good thing he was in good health, and I replied that I hoped it didn't happen again. Then someone pushed me out of the way and that was the end of that. Too bad I didn't have time to tell him how much I loved their interview and performance on a recent Howard Stern show. Or run my hand down his back. NOT!

I did end up walking right behind Taylor and Zac at one point and I couldn't help but fixate on how alike they look from the back. They have the same exact incredible head of hair. Seriously, it's a crime that two married dudes should have such good hair. My examination of their follicles came to a halt when a young girl, about 11 or 12 years old, tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could walk in front of me."

"NO!" I said jokingly. She looked horrified. "Of course you can!" I told her, and let her scoot ahead.

As the walk came to an end, Taylor, Zac and Isaac hung back to sign autographs and pose for photos while people purchased TOMS shoes and chatted them up. We didn't get a chance to get up to them before they had to head back to the tour bus and prepare for the evening show, but it was nice to see them interact with fans. They seem like a genuinely nice bunch of guys with good priorities and even better intentions in this life. I couldn't help but feel encouraged by this. Hanson warms my cold, cynical heart.

(We took a ton of pictures, including some closeups that will make the younger Hanson fan swoon and keel over, so I'll post a link to the flickr set once I have them up.)

This was the scene across the street as I returned home from work yesterday...

A mother is walking down the street with her toddler son in hand. Her older son, probably four years old, runs on ahead, toward the intersection with the stop sign that 9 out of 10 drivers in this neighborhood ignore.

"Finn. Finn. Stop, Finn. Finn. Mommy said stop. Mommy said stop, Finn. Finn, stop. Mommy said stop. Stop, Finn."

Finn runs on ahead, ignoring his mother's sing-song commands.

"Finn, stop. Stop, Finn. Finn. Finn. Mommy said stop. Finn, Mommy said stop. Finn, I'm counting. One...two...three."

Finn stops.

"Thank you, Finn."

Before she can get the last word of that sentence out, Finn books on down the street, and the whole thing starts all over again. Finn, stop. Mommy said stop. Stop, Finn. Mommy said stop. Mommy said stop, Finn.

It took every ounce of self-restraint within me not to run across the street, grab Finn by the arm and yell, "JESUS CHRIST, FINN, LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER. SHE SAID STOP, NOW STOP!"

This scene was the cherry on the sundae of wonderfulness that I observed at work with a few kids who are learning from home that they aren't responsible for their own actions, that everything is always the result of external forces, and that mommy and daddy will fix it all.

What is this generation of children learning? Stop means run, counting disguises empty threats, it's not your fault. I'm not saying parenting is easy or that every parent has to make the "right" decisions all the time, but what the hell happened to common sense? Did your parents send you to school with a note every time you didn't do your homework on time? Did they demand to move you to another classroom because you weren't placed in a class with the friends you wanted? Did they teach you to blame the kid whose ANSWER YOU COPIED when the teacher points out an incorrect answer on your math paper? With the exception of extenuating circumstances, I highly doubt it. They probably taught you to suck it up and deal with the consequences that you deserved.

I'm encouraged by people like my brother and his wife who are teaching my nephew Alex the meaning of the word "no." Guess what? His self-esteem is just fine. In fact, he's one of the happiest, most well-adjusted kids I've ever seen in the twenty-one years I've worked with children. Like any child, he's curious about the world around him and tests his boundaries. When he goes too far, Jim and Kelly let him know. And he understands. He even says the words "I'm sorry," unsolicited.

So, give me your thoughts: How did we get to StopFinnMommysaidstopMommysaidstopFinnStopFinnMommysaidStop?

So I'm a snot who gets a new car every few years. So what? The truth is, I've been leasing cars for the last several years because I don't particularly care about cars and therefore do not maintain them very well. "You mean there's a reason behind tire rotation? I thought it was just a money-making scam." See what I mean?

While it may appear that my new car habit is a direct result of some Veruca Salt-ish foot stamping and whining, that's really not the case. If I didn't drive around in a fairly new automobile, it's likely that I'd be standing on the side of the road, flagging down police cars. (There's a good chance my cell phone battery would also be dead.) So, I've been leasing.

A little less than three years ago, I turned in my leased VW Passat and leased a new VW Jetta. Leasing seemed like the perfect option for me. While I realize it's not in the consumer's best interest, I don't really care. I get to drive around in a warrantied vehicle which requires little to no maintenance, and my monthly payment is lower. And it worked well until we moved out to Kingdom Come, and I started putting 60 miles per day on my car. It's pretty safe to assume I wasn't going to stay within my miles limits on the Jetta.

I was going to lose money, no matter what, to the tune of around 1500 to 2000 dollars, depending on how many miles over my limit I went. I didn't put any money down on the Jetta, so I decided to chalk the whole thing up as a learning experience and eat the loss. Yesterday, we went shopping.

Shopping turned to buying. Impulse control is not my best quality, so I walked onto the VW lot, saw a black 2008 Jetta and said, "That's my new car." Tony, who is much more analytical and thoughtful, reined me in temporarily and helped me weigh the pros and cons of this hasty decision. Thank god for him, or I'd have to dedicate a room in our house just for As Seen On TV crap.

We ended up driving home in the black Jetta, somewhat to Tony's dismay, because the interior of the car is like a camel-beige color, which he hates. I believe the word he and his twin brother John used to describe this combination was "ASS." Yes, yes it was. When I said, "I don't understand why you guys don't like this combination," the reply was, "Because it's ASS."

The most hysterical thing is that I still have the old Jetta. I'm selling it to CarMax on Monday. The next two days will most definitely be the only time in my life I will EVER have two cars. I feel like a temporary yuppie.

Today was hotness times infinity. My friend Jen and I drove to the Baltimore Book Festival to see Tim Gunn speak and attend his booksigning. The day seemed innocuous enough as we visited display booth after display booth, with jazz music sung by a large woman with plum hair in a matching plum dress as the soundtrack.

We sat down in the Literary Salon about an hour before Tim was to take the stage. We were early enough to hear ABC correspondent Martha Raddatz speak about her book, The Long Road Home, in which she describes a 48-hour period of time in Sadr City, Iraq. She spoke eloquently about the effects of this war on the soldiers and their families, focusing on the emotional rather than the political aspects of battle. Martha Raddatz was an unexpected and fortunate surprise.

Toward the tail end of Martha's speech, the Gunnites began hovering around the tent. Thankfully, we'd procured a decent aisle seat and decided not to attempt anything closer. A wise decision, considering the swarm that followed Raddatz' exit from the stage.

Tim's speech was exactly what I'd expected - engaging, charming, funny, and completely unpretentious. He was genuinely flabbergasted by the number of people who showed up, saying that this was the largest crowd he'd ever spoken before. He talked about the trials and tribulations of writing a book while working as Dean at Parsons, and discussed the book's journey from print to screen, as the impetus for his newest show on Bravo, Tim Gunn's Guide to Style.

Tim shared amusing anecdotes about some television moments that never made the air, including a dressing room exchange between himself and a frustrated client on his new show (he basically told her that if the show wasn't working for her, and she wasn't having any fun, they could just pack up and go home - he can't want her to succeed more than she does!), and another involving a moment on the season 2 reunion show for Project Runway (the curse word heard 'round the world was the start of a revolution - or at least two phone calls - one from mom and one from Bravo's director, offering him the opportunity to create a show based on his unique personality and perspective).

The Q&A that followed Tim's speech gave us some very interesting nuggets, including updates and opinions about some of Runway's past contestants (He used the word "infantilize" at this point, which was thrilling for us. One thing we love about Tim is his exquisite vocabulary.), hints about the upcoming season, and fun trivia tidbits that I'd never known before. Did you know one season of Project Runway is filmed in thirty consecutive days? I didn't! No wonder he said they all needed a hospital gurney around day 25. Tim also shared fashion tips with curious audience members, and he didn't miss a beat when asked for advice on too-short tunics, best ways to dress a boo-tay, and finding petite clothing that's not juvenile.

The audience cheered, and then ran outside to queue up for the booksigning. We stood in line for about an hour and as we approached, I began to shake. I knew that the inevitable was coming. My articulate, composed self was about to be overtaken by my starstruck, blathering self. It was only a matter of time before my Hyde usurped my Jekyll.

Sure enough, it happened. But what resulted made all of my foolish idiocy worthwhile. The conversation that follows is an accurate representation of the exchange I had with Tim Gunn, but as you read it, please know that I was talking a mile a minute, and gesturing wildly throughout.

Tim: Hello! Thank you for coming out today! (looks at sticky note on book cover) Are you Danielle?

Me: Yes, I am.

Tim: (begins signing book)

Me: I have to tell you. I bought your book because I am such a huge Project Runway fan, but I never expected it to inspire a fashion awakening in me. (Yes, I really did say this.) So I want to thank you for this.

Tim: ( looks up at me)

Me: See, I hate to shop. I hate shopping for clothes. For as long as I can remember, I've shopped like this: find one thing that looks decent on me and buy it in every single color available. But then I read your book and you made it seem so easy with the ten essential items every woman should own.

Now pay attention, because here comes the good part.

Me: So I've set a goal for myself. I'm turning 38 in January and before that happens, I want to use your list to create a new, grown up wardrobe for myself.

Tim: (looks up again, this time over the frames of his glasses, at me) What? No! You are not turning 38!

Me: (flipping my hair and acting like a total idiot) Yes, yes I am!

Tim: (hand to chest) I can't believe it! What are you doing?

Me: Uh, not having children?

Tim: What are you doing? Are you bathing in blood every night? ( laughs)

Me: ( after the most fabulous comment in the world goes right over my head) It's my Sicilian grandmother's genes...

Tim: Well, Danielle, if you start with the ten essentials, you will build the foundation for a wardrobe that will last a very long time!

I don't remember anything he said after this, I was so completely in awe that Tim Gunn said I didn't look my age, everything else is a blur. I just remember leaning in for a picture, and shaking Tim's hand as he thanked us again for coming out to see him. I took my book and camera and walked away while Tim snapped a photo with Jen.

Thank god Jen was with me today, because she was able to decipher my inarticulate mumbo-jumbo.

Jen: OH MY GOD! TIM GUNN ASKED IF YOU BATHE IN BLOOD EVERY NIGHT! THAT IS THE GREATEST THING EVER!

Me: What? He did? Oh my god, what did he say?!

Jen: You told him how old you are and he asked if you bathe in blood! I bet no one else can say Tim Gunn has asked them if they bathe in blood! I bet you're the only one!

Me: Hahahahaha! Do you think?

This is where Jen exudes awesomeness that cannot possibly be measured or explained...

Jen: Yeah! As soon as he said that to you, I was like, that's a Bathory reference?

Me: (fascinated and intrigued ) What's that?!

Jen: Elizabeth Bathory was this Hungarian princess. The legend is that one day she was angry and bitch-slapped one of her maids-in-waiting so hard that she drew blood. The blood landed on her face, and when she looked at herself, she thought she looked younger. So from that day on she began summoning her servants to collect the blood from young girls for her blood baths.

Me: Oh my god! I love that you know this story! You are a walking encyclopedia of cool knowledge! AHAHAHAHA! Tim Gunn asked me if I bathed in blood! AHAHAHAHA!

Jen: AHAHAHAHAHA! Tim Gunn asked you if you bathed in blood! AHAHAHAHAHA!

For the rest of the night, Jen and I repeated Tim's question to me about fifty million times. And we had plenty of time to do this, because on the way back from Baltimore, I ran over something in the road, which caused my rear passenger tire to explode and reduce to a pile of dust.

We sat on the shoulder of I-95 waiting for roadside service. First, the Maryland Transportation Authority and a state trooper came by and tried to help us. We discovered at this time that my car has anti-theft tires which means there's some special little tool required to remove the wheel. Called VW Roadside. That guy came out. No special little tool. We searched the car, to no avail. Our tender adventure became the adventure of a lifetime when Jake, the tow-truck guy, came to our rescue.

Jake was awesome. He put the car on his light-duty flatbed and let us ride up front with him back to the VW dealership in Virginia, where Tony was picking us up. Before we left, he asked me if I had the tools to change the tire, because he could take care of it before we left for the 45-mile drive. I assured him we had searched the car several times, and there were no special anti-theft tire-changing tools to be found. (ahem)

For the next forty minutes, Jake entertained us with stories about his wife, daughters, and grandson, as well as some of his more memorable moments as a tow-truck driving accomplice in undercover police stings. He talked and he talked and he talked and we bounced on the seat next to him, laughing when he mentioned how fast the ride went with such good conversation to pass the time. We pulled into the dealership parking lot.

Tony opened the trunk and within five seconds, procured the very tools that would have allowed the tire to be fixed more than two hours before. I tried to pass the blame off on the two roadside assistance dudes who searched the car with me, but Jake wasn't buying it, and kept shooting me knowing looks. He stuck around to change my tire, even though he didn't have to, and in spite of the fact that his wife waiting at home, keeping his supper warm.

We gave Jake a wad of cash to thank him for his trouble, and it's a good thing, because this is what we heard on his walkie-talkie cell as we pulled away:

Wife: Where you at?
Jake: Virginia.
Wife: WHERE?
Jake: Virginia.
Wife: Well, we got an issue here.
Jake: Yeah? What?
Wife: SLIM CALLED, AND HE WANTS HIS MONEY NOW!

OMG. Who was Slim and what did Jake owe him money for? We didn't wait around to find out. We gave a final wave of thanks to our hero, and headed out into the night.

After all, I needed to get home before my blood bath got cold.

This is my favorite Hanson song. I'm in this crowd somewhere singing at the tops of my lungs.

Reminder: I am 37.

After months of deliberation and drooling, we finally broke down and added this little guy to our collection of Stuff We Absolutely Do Not Need But Want Really Really Like A Lot:

Apparently when you become a MINI owner, it is customary to name the car, so I'll let you know when we decide on a name for him. Right now all we know is that he's definitely a boy.

Is there any week of the year more exciting than this one? No, it's not my birthday. I'd be lamenting and whining instead. No, this week is a glorious one because teevee returns!

We watched a bunch of pilots On Demand this week (Bionic Woman, Journeyman, Chuck) and I'm happy to say that the new fall lineup looks promising. I was a teensy bit disappointed in the Bionic Woman episode, but I think it's only because my expectations were so high. And I'm so used to Michelle Ryan's British accent that it seemed like she was having some trouble acting around the American accent. Then again, how many people can replicate an American accent as well as Hugh Laurie? I'm giving Bionic Woman time, because it has just enough of the Alias-meets-XFiles factor to keep me interested.

I'm already missing The Amazing Race, but the recent Emmy win gives me great hope for the show's future. It's wonderful to see the best show on television get the recognition it deserves.

In other news, I'm on a huge Broadway kick of late. After we saw Rent with original cast members Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp, I can't get enough of the stuff. I'm especially addicted to this horrible song from Legally Blonde: The Musical called "Omigod You Guys." It's probably the worst song (and show) ever written, but I can't stop singing it. At the tops of my lungs. All day and night. Also in heavy rotation are YouTube videos from Spring Awakening and Wicked.

My school year is off to a great start, but I'm swamped with work right now. That's typical for this time of year, but it's a good kind of busy. I could do without the alarm going off at 5:30 every morning, but such is life.

In between work and tv and my new fun writing gig, my JoeParadox friends and I are in the beginning stages of organizing an elementary school reunion. It'll be 25 years this spring that we 'graduated' from eighth grade, so the timing seemed right. We went to a small private Catholic school - the kind of school that only has one class for every grade level. For eight years we saw the same faces every day of the week. We took camping trips together, shared many "firsts" together, and I can't speak for the rest, but these people are a huge part of my personal history. For years, Kelsey, Sheri, Seana, Rebecca and I wondered what happened to many of the childhood friends with whom we lost touch, so we decided to do something about that.

Hmmm, what else? I'm going to a Tim Gunn booksigning next week (eeee!), we're planning a trip home to Buffalo to see my family, and we have tickets to see Jennifer Garner in Cyrano de Bergerac on Broadway in October. What's new with you?

These people are all YOUNGER than I am…how is that even possible?

Queen Latifah
Vince Vaughn
Uma Thurman
J-Lo
M. Night Shyamalan
Giada deLaurentis
Ethan Hawke (who looks 100)
Kid Rock (holy shit!)
Mary J. Blige
Ewan McGregor
Tom Green
Lance Armstrong
Denise Richards
Ricky Martin
Shaquille O’Neal
Carmen Electra
The Rock
Jenny McCarthy
Ben Affleck
Snoop Dogg
Rebecca Romjn-Whatever She Goes By Now
Dave Chappelle
Tyra Banks
Penelope Cruz
Ken Jennings (OMG)
Derek Jeter
Hilary Swank
David Beckham
Charlize Theron
Kate Winslet
Tiger Woods
Colin Farrell (by more than six years!)
Taylor Hicks
Katherine Heigl (by almost nine years)
Heath Ledger
Venus Williams
Paris Hilton (by over 11 years)
Beyonce
Kirsten Dunst (by more than 12 years)
Keira Knigtley (by 15 friggin’ years!)

I don’t know, people. Do I have a totally twisted sense of how old I look? I mean, I know I don’t look as young as Paris Hilton or Diana DeGarmo (who, by the way, was born the year I graduated from high school), but I am pretty sure I don’t look as old as Kid Rock or even Penelope Cruz. I’m ok with getting older (sort of…not really) but fame really does age a person, doesn’t it? Except in the case of Ken Jennings, who I think started looking 40 when he was about 15. Also, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me totally happy that Kirsten Dunst looks worse than my 93 year old grandmother on her best day, and she was born the year I completed eighth grade.

We took the cats in this week for annual checkups. We asked our vet what we might do to curb Emmett's overall assholery - he relentlessly chases Linus at every available opportunity, and squeezes his enormous seventeen-and-a-half-pound frame under the bed to get at The Smoosh. One minute he's a cuddly mess, curled up in our laps purring, and the next, he's awful and a huge source of stress for the other cats.

The vet suggested we get a harness and leash, and take him out for walks to help expend some of his excess energy. We're willing to try whatever it takes for a modicum of peace with this cat, so off I went to the pet store today for a black pawprint harness and matching black leash.

After a slight struggle with the harness, we leashed him up and tried to get him outside. On any other day, he would be poking his fat head through the door, trying to sneak out, but not today. Today he flopped down on his side and tried to chew off the leash and harness. So we carried him out.

We put him down on the porch and he flopped back on his side. After several minutes, he decided he was ready to sniff a holly bush. More flopping. We carried him to the sidewalk. At that very moment, three or four cars drove by, staring at us through the windows. Yes, we are "those people" - the ones who walk their cat on a leash! That's us! The crazy cat people! Don't stare at us too long or you'll turn to stone! Boogedy boogedy!

Emmett still wanted nothing to do with the great suburban outdoors, so I picked him up and walked with him. I'm not sure what I was thinking at this point. Would he suddenly become inspired by the scenic views of rows of identical townhouses and leap from my arms, eager to walk briskly down the street to see what the world had to offer a simple cat? I was probably saying stupid shit like, "See! See the big cars and the houses! And what's that? A mailbox! Let's go see the mailbox!' but I can neither confirm nor deny those allegations.

We walked back to the house and upon returning to the porch, Emmett found his first burst of bravery. It was the funniest g.d. thing I have seen in quite some time. In stealth position, he would crawl, belly to the ground, about two feet, and then flop over to his side. Ten seconds later, same thing. And again and again until he managed to make it three houses down the street! Victory! A few bugs inspired him to leap off the ground, straight up into the air, but then...immediately back to stealth mode. It started to rain at this point, and he was confused and irritated by the droplets, so we brought him in.

So far tonight, we've had no chasing, no hunting, no jackass behavior from him in general. Hopefully the fresh air, exercise, and change of scenery each night will help calm him down and keep him from bullying the other cats so much. And if not, we'll just be content in our role as "the crazy neighbors who walk their cat on a leash."

Phase One

I don't even want to know what it's going to look like around the door frames when I finish painting and remove the tape. The door casings have a LOT of nooks and crannies. Eek!

Who needs weekends filled up by parties, clubs, and socializing? It all seems so empty and pointless when this is the alternative:

We recorded Jekyll so we could finish watching the first season of Extras on DVD. After Extras, Tony played a little Madden '08 while I created color palettes on the Internets. We stayed up past our usual ten o'clock bedtime and hit the sack around midnight. Jekyll was replaying on BBCAmerica, so we switched it on. About halfway through, we heard The Smoosh go into her litterbox for her evening...constitutional. The foul stench took seconds to waft its way into our bedroom from the adjacent bathroom. We knew this meant an ugly situation was at hand.

She was in the middle of cleaning herself when Tony picked her up to survey the damage, and it was worse than we expected. For starters, she had a huge poop clump hanging from her haunches. Worse, though, was the fact that she managed to smear poop all over her mane while she was cleaning herself. Tony held her still while I cut the poop from both areas with scissors and cleaned her up, gagging the whole time. And I missed 15 minutes of Jekyll!

Now don’t you wish your weekend was as exciting as that?

My mother teases me about the odd childhood habits I brought with me into adulthood. I hate to clean, but will spend hours organizing small spaces. In childhood, it would take me mere minutes to shove a week's worth of mess under my bed, but hours to catalogue and re-catalogue my record or book collections. Today, I can spend a weekend organizing a closet to hold our volumes of memorabilia, but can't be bothered to put a tape measure back in the toolbox. And that very tape measure is what's preventing me from starting my latest home-improvement-on-the-cheap project.

Look, if you come to my house, be prepared to see a dust bunny or four rolling across the floor. Don't sit on any upholstered surfaces unless you are okay with a few cat hairs on your clothing, and we don't have a basement, so you're going to see the litterboxes. So we're not the greatest housekeepers on the planet, but I do like our house. We're not fancy and we don't spend a lot of money on our stuff, but we've managed to create really fun, colorful rooms in our home that you definitely won't find in a magazine or a storefront, but definitely reflect us and our interests.

We started with our office - The Hokie Room - as an homage to Tony's alma mater, Virginia Tech.

Then we moved on to The Neon Bathroom. Tony picked the color, and I'll admit that I was skeptical at first. As soon as we slapped that paint on the wall, though, I was hooked. I think it's my favorite room in the house.

Next came the more subtle living room. The paint color is called "Hopsack," but of course it took us about ten minutes to filthify that lovely name and change it into "Nutsack." Accurate? No. Funny? Absolutely. Especially when you're standing in Home Depot asking for another gallon, trying to remember the actual name of the paint you need.

After a year of dealing with plumbing problems and torn-up drywall, we were able to finish the red hallway and yellow kitchen. Framed posters of our favorite movies, musicians and television shows, along with a portion of our collection of records from the 80s cover the walls - our version of art. Now that our main floor is pretty much done (although I'm sure the acquisition of more posters is inevitable), I'm itching to work on two more rooms: the rec room on the ground floor of our townhouse, and the guest bedroom. I'm starting with the latter.

I've been known to burst into song on occasion, thanks to my penchant for Broadway musicals. Packrat that I am, I've saved almost every playbill from every show I've seen, on Broadway and elsewhere. I still have the program from the first musical I'd ever attended - Annie, at Shea's Buffalo Theater - a special birthday gift from my Aunt Ro. I'm sure la-de-da designers would scoff at me for this, but I love a room with a theme. (So suck it, designers and pretentious people!) So here's my plan and my palette, but I need some input from you guys! Help a sistah out!

This is the color palette for the room:

I'm going to paint the room with the pale green.

Around all four walls (including across doors), I'm going to paint a wide stripe in the dark pink. All of the framed playbills are going to hang inside that stripe.

The back wall of the room is going to be painted in stripes of varying widths with the wall color and the remaining colors in the palette (including the wide dark pink stripe).

Stark white bedding, colorful pillows, blah blah blah...

Ok, so there are two things I can't decide...

1. Should I paint the closet doors and the back of the bedroom door the pale green of the walls or leave them in the off-white? (Either way they're going to have the pink stripe, I just can't decide on the background color.)

2. Should I leave the ceiling off-white, or paint it? If 'paint it', which color?

I'm going to go make some summer rolls now, but when I get back, I want answers, dammit! Just kidding, I'll appreciate any comments or suggestions you give me. I'll post pictures of all our fun rooms soon, too!

(Don't forget if you have trouble leaving a comment to make sure you've answered the spam-prevention question at the bottom of the comment form!)

Thanks a bunch!

ETA: I forgot to add that my new addiction is the ColourLovers website. You can go to my Colourlovers page to see my obsession in action. My goal is to create color palettes of all my favorite albums from the 80s. Yes, I am lame that way.

want vegan jello
hmmm. orange or raspberry?
let's make raspberry

set up overnight
today, ready for eating
tony had a bowl

oops, look at the box
beet powder makes red color
tony can't have that!

allergic to beets
makes him really jittery
what will happen now?

tony starts to talk
very fast. makes no damn sense.
running around, too

he acts just like me
after i have had eight cokes
beet powder is bad!

let's go for a ride
maybe side effects will fade
if we go somewhere

uh oh what is this?
HOA is warning us
can't leave trash can out

all of our neighbors
have warning tickets on cans
must put them inside

tony has a fit!
calls the HOA on phone
screaming and yelling

HOW ABOUT INSTEAD
OF GIVING US DUMB TICKETS
MOW THE FREAKING GRASS!

WHY DO I PAY YOU
MONEY EVERY SINGLE MONTH
NOT TO DO YOUR JOB?

on and on it went
for over twenty minutes
screaming on the phone

i got on my phone
called tony's twin brother john
so he could listen

ha ha ha ha ha!
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
ha ha ha ha ha!

we had a good laugh
while the screaming continued
at the HOA

beet powder wore off
civilized conversation
began to appear

john and i got bored
not funny without screaming
we hung up our phones

today, we learned this:
nothing with beets for tony
unless we need laughs.

Tony stayed home this weekend to nurse Ariel, who is suffering through her first-ever UTI. Poor guy, this kitty has never been sick before, and she's not the easiest of patients, especially when he's trying to stick a digital thermometer in her butthole or an antibiotic tablet down her throat. While he took care of her many orifices, I was off gallivanting in New York City with five of my best childhood friends, commonly known as JoeParadox.

Friday night we gathered at The Slaughtered Lamb - an homage to one of our favorite movies, An American Werewolf in London. The incessant group laughter began there on the patio and continued through Sunday, where we headed back to our individual lives and families. Hoarder of nostalgia that I am, everyone was able to select their favorite Police pin from the collection that once graced my well-worn jean jacket for a decade beginning in 1982. Pins in place, we headed over to Madison Square Garden for the event we'd been waiting for since 1984: The Police reunion concert.

Through a series of serendipitous events and connections, a very generous editor at New York Magazine's entertainment blog, Vulture, let me take a crack at reviewing the show. This was my first foray into the pro-blogging world, and I learned, among other things, that editors are incredibly skilled at making amateur writers sound really, really good in print. You can read the article here, if you're so inclined: Sting Still Can't Play Well With Others.

The Police concert was everything we'd hoped it would be - a giant karaoke show of all our favorite songs, save "Spirits in the Material World." Bastages. We skipped into the pouring rain on Seventh Avenue, singing the chorus to Regatta de Blanc, before heading into the West Village for a nightcap of ice water - at our ages, we weren't used to jumping up and down for two hours straight, let alone staying up past 11 o'clock at night.

The next day we had a fantastic brunch at Seana's apartment before heading to the Met for a couple of hours. We were joined by two of JP's six husbands/boyfriends and two of the six total kids in our bunch. A subway ride and a street festival preceded the final event of the weekend: dinner in Tribeca. Despite the restaurant's trendy location, we didn't spot any celebrities, but we were so rapt in conversation, some might have brushed up against us walking down Hudson Street and we wouldn't have noticed.

~ Finished Harry Potter. OMG.
~ Spent weekend with friends in Columbus.
~ went to Clay Aiken concert,
~ went to Showtunes night,
~ laughed until my face ached.
~ ADDICTED to Rock of Love.
~ Parents came to visit.
~ Got Hanson tickets! WOO~
~ Going to see The Police on Friday. FRIDAY!
~ New movie quiz coming up soon!

How you?

On Saturday's "Confessions of a Matchmaker," one of the dating dudes started a sentence with "If I were's to..." Were's. And he wonders why he has trouble getting dates. Patti Novak, however, continues to rock with statements like, "You can get out there and take a chance or you can continue to suck your thumb!" Love her!

***

My two-and-a-half year old nephew is obsessed with The Presidents. For a few fleeting moments (whew), his favorite President was George Bush. Currently? Rutherford B. Hayes, whose name comes out sounding more like Rubber B. Hayes. Now he thinks everyone with a beard is Rubber B. Hayes. The other night, on the phone, my brother asked him:

"Who's the president?"

"George Bush HAYES!"

Heh. The kid is funny.

***

If you've met my parents - who, I should mention, have been married for decades to each other and no one else - you know that they are two of the most hysterical people in the world who often find themselves in the most unintentionally funny situations. Like the other day, when they went to the Cadillac dealership to look at cars. There was some sign posted about a "GM deal," so my dad inquired.

Dad: "How do you get the GM deal?"

Salesman: "You have to be a GM employee or related to a GM employee."

Mom (to dad): "Oh, well, what about your ex-wife?"

Dad: *confusion and disbelief*

My mom was born with the gene that prevents her from buying anything that is not on sale. If a sale is available, but does not apply to her purchase, she will try to figure out a way to MAKE it apply to her purchase, as evidenced here.

They didn't purchase a Cadillac.

When I am at the computer for long periods of time, my eyelids feel sweaty. And then I need to take a shower.

Summer vacation has officially begun and I am already officially bored! Which means lots and lots of blog entries!

True to form, I spent the first eight months of the school year maintaining a nice, steady pace with my life and the final month in complete whirlwind mode. In the last four weeks, we had hardwood floors installed in the main level of our house, which meant moving every bit of furniture to the upper and lower levels, only to put it all back and clean up less than 24 hours before my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my nephew came to visit for five days. I finished report cards, piles of paperwork, put the finishing touches on the performances of the school musical that I directed, and got my hair cut. I'm tired just typing it all out.

The five days that my family visited made all of the craziness worthwhile, because my two-and-a-half year old nephew entertained us non-stop with his antics. The child is hysterical. Living so far away, I don't get to see him as much as I would like, so I thought he would be a bit shy and reserved coming into a strange house for the first time, with his crazy loud aunt behind the door, fingers poised at the ready for some serious cheek-squeezing. Nope.

He barged through the front door, demanding to see the four cats, and calling for them by number in his signature lilt:

"WHERE NUMBER ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNE? WANNA SEE NUMBER TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WHERE NUMBER THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE? WANNA SEE NUMBER FOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUR!'

Once he had seen them all, he started cloning Emmett and The Smoosh as Numbers Five and Six, before he came to the realization that Five and Three were the same cat, as were Four and Six. This led him to begin to try to herd them all into one room, so he could point at them and greet them as only our family welcomes others. With screaming.

Alex was particularly enamored with The Smoosh, probably because she spent a good deal of time under our bed, deflecting the frightening din coming from all areas of the house at all time. Alex banished Tony from the bedroom, "TONY GET OUT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!" and made it his personal challenge to lure her from beneath the bed whenever possible. My brother called me from the road on Tuesday, informing me that Alex insisted, "WANNA GO SEE SMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!" about an hour before they arrived back home in New York.

There was little need for toys this weekend. Alex found great entertainment placing each morsel of cat food into the water bowl, until he discovered that dumping them all at once was much more efficient. We went through two full bags of cat food that weekend. Lesson learned? When Alex comes to Aunt Dea's house, Alex is allowed to do whatever the hell Alex wants.

While the guys took a field trip to Philadelphia on Saturday, I taught Alex the joyous game called Standing on The Pool Table and Rolling Billiard Balls While Screaming Numbers in Italian. My dad taught Alex some completely made-up version of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and soon the child was picking up billiard balls, looking at the numbers, and screaming them out in Italian before slamming them down on the slate tabletop. Smartest kid ever!

In between trips to the National Zoo, a Washington Nationals Game, playground and pool adventures, and lunches and dinners out, the entire weekend was really relaxing and laid-back. It was the first time we had guests at our house for more than one night, and definitely the first time we had filled both guest rooms with people. My mom was The Towel Fairy all weekend, supplying us with clean, fluffy towels, despite our malfunctioning dryer. We ate and talked and watched episodes of Dora The Explorer (oh, god, not Berry Hunt!) while Alex giggled and marched and called out for more bluebeyyies.

While the house today is a bit quieter without my family here, there is definitely less life in it. I'm going to continue to nag them all to move down here, or at least visit again soon, because everything is a lot more fun when we get to see it for the first time through Alex's eyes.

HOW 'BOUT COME BACK SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!

Well, I'll tell you...

1. The cats are having fun sliding at top speed across the new bamboo floors.

2. When trying to make a little extra money at a block sale, it's a good idea to try to prevent a tall bookcase from shattering the next-door neighbors' car window and denting their car door. In the end, we basically paid people to haul our stuff out of our driveway for us.

3. A kid said to me the other day, "You know what? You can't make someone love you, but you can stalk them until they give in." Heh.

4. American Idol held a songwriting contest and the winning song sounded EXACTLY LIKE EVERY OTHER SONG in EVERY OTHER FINALE for the last few seasons. Idol, shark...shark, Idol.

5. All our shows are ending for the season. We may actually have to interact with society. Nah.

6. I'm ready for summer.

And you?

As many of you know, ours is a Hokie house. Today's events are such a tragedy. Words cannot begin to express the sadness I feel for the students, faculty, and families of Virginia Tech. My heart goes out to the victims and families of this senseless crime. I am so, so sorry.

Everyone go hug someone you love today.

Let me catch you up on my life...

Barney on How I Met Your Mother makes me laugh out loud.
But not as loud as the American Idol group numbers.
I miss House almost as much as I miss Lost being any good.
Thank god for Heroes, which is the best non-reality show on television.
Of course, the best show continues to be The Amazing Race. Duh.
I'm putting my money on Goil to win Top Design.
YAY! Angela Hacker won Nashville Star!
If you're not watching The Sarah Silverman Program, you are missing out on the funniest thirty minutes of television next to The Office.
Work is kicking my butt, the house is a mess, and we're happy we don't have to hear the alarm go off tomorrow morning.

So that's what's new with me. What about you?

For posterity.

1984: A Conversation Among Five Catholic High School Girls
"Sting is so hot."
"No, Andy Summers is hotter."
"Are you kidding? Stewart Copeland is the hottest."
"Yeah but Sting's songs have, like, The Odyssey in them and stuff. He talks about paradox and stuff."
"Oh, yeah, he's like Joe Paradox."
"Let's start a band and call ourselves Joe Paradox."
"Totally."

Of all my obsessions, nothing…NOTHING comes close to the one I had with The Police. And unlike the others, this one was shared by my best friends from childhood – Kelsey, Seana, Sheri, Rebecca and Sheila. We are Joe Paradox. We’ve always been Joe Paradox, and we’re always going to be Joe Paradox. Our friendship has witnessed first bras, first periods, first kisses, first weddings, first born children. And first Police concerts.

This year, we will reunite for (yet) another Police concert – a bit older, maybe a little wiser, and definitely no less goofy. God help the people sitting near us. Really.

To give you a glimpse into our ridiculousness, here’s a series of email exchanges we’ve been having since January 4. Spelling, grammar and sanity level have not been changed to protect anyone.

Enjoy. Or run. Whichever.

01.04.07 – 01.05.07

Danielle: (after finding out the Police may reunite) OMFG you guys. If they reunite, WE ARE GOING.

Rebecca: I bet they'll play a NYC date or maybe a D.C. date; big JP sleepover!!!!

Seana: FUCKING A!

Danielle: That, my friend, is the most perfect and greatest response of all time.

Kelsey: OMG! Leave it to my man Stu to put it all together! We must go and wear our sleeves full of bracelets, police tee shirts, cropped hair etc. etc. Woo Hoo!

2.07.07 – 2.10.07

Danielle: Monday, we'll know... "After weeks of speculation, a press conference and "special announcement" featuring rehearsals by the Police is set for Monday (Feb. 12) at the Whisky A Go Go in West Hollywood, Calif., the day after the band will reunite for a show-opening performance at the Grammys."

The mania begins.

Seana: FU*CKING AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I am already poor so what's another 2K for my Sting a ling a ding dong (pet name). And by the way, STING IS MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Still! Even from before! Through the good times and bad! Do you think he knows? Will pick me out of the audience and take me to live in one of his 7 houses? I better lose 10 pounds! At least now I have a reason. :) Too much babble sorry AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Danielle: HAHAHAHAHAHAH. This is, like, the greatest email of all time. Sting is totally yours and if need be, we can implement the "Trudi" plan from 1984. Damn Howard Jones - I've seen him twice in concert now, and he still ignores me.

Seana: Trudie is no more! Her days are numbered. And Jan? She is toast! Let's double date! I bet Sting and Howard would hit it off nicely. I've seen Sting 12 times since the very first concert at the Aud (yes, you all went to Toronto - I remember!!!!!!!!!) and he always ignores me - so coy, my Sting.

Sheri: If Sting is yours, then Stewart is mine!!! I remember when Kel and I saw them in Toronto and they stayed in our hotel, and we saw them at the restaurant and we were too chicken shit to go up and say anything. Seana- you probably would have jumped Sting, huh?

Seana: Would have jumped him, done him and done him again for good measure!!! :)

Kelsey: Weren't we in an ELEVATOR with them! I can't believe we passed up our chance when we had him captive in an enclosed place. And we were lookin so hot in our police tee shirts and lopsided hairdos with the orange (blond?) sun-in streaks! How could he have resisted!!!! And by the way sheri - Stu is still mine or we will have to share. How come Seana is the only one who had a member to herself. Didn't Rebecca & dedo have to share andy too??

Danielle: Rebecca can have Andy because I'm still working on Howard Jones. Also, is it wrong that I laughed at the phrase "member to herself?" How come the four of us have to share two MEMBERS? I'm so juvenile.

Rebecca: Andy is MIIIIIINE. Lay off Bioches.

Sheri: Dude- I had Stewart from the beginning. Kelsey, I suppose I could share with you, but you had that guy Tony from Spandau Ballet- he was your guy!!!! Not Stewart!!! But I suppose you could have sloppy seconds!

Kelsey: HA HA Dedo. I had the same thought regarding the MEMBERS as I was typing it. Our beevis & butthead minds will always think alike! And Sheri - thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot my man Tony.I'll have to look him up online & see if he is still alive. I have not heard hide nor hair of any spandau ballet reunion but I can always hope!

Seana snaps out of it and gets us back on track.

Seana: Ok - but seriously guys, we need to STRATEGIZE on getting these tickets! It will be tough. Frank is already setting me up to fail - telling me it wil be too hard! Ass. I may have to go and sleep outside the Garden when they go on sale..anyone game? Do you think they will do a Buffalo show? That would be the one to see - but we can also do NYC and Boston if needed - woohooo! Road trip! Let me know your thoughts.

Danielle: Ok, I'm glad I'm not the only one planning on how to get tickets already. I am thinking they are going to play huge venues like the Garden, or Wembley. I'm up for a trip to London! Anyone else??? I'm betting that tickets will be extremely hard to get, so we'll have to pull out whatever stops we can to get them!

Seana: Oh London here I come!!!! :) honestly, I can get a cheaper flight to London than to Buffalo most of the time!

Sheri: You just have to pray really hard- I don't know how it happened but I managed to get those Madonna tickets. It was really stressful though. But I do think that one person needs to get all the tickets so we can sit together!!! We could also go to Toronto too! London would be cool except I am planning a mecca to see Van Morrison this summer also possibly abroad too like Ireland, England, Amsterdam of California. (That is our 10th anniversary trip!) It will be a concert summer. I do know that sometimes if you are a memeber of a fan club, they can get presale tickets before they go on sale to the public. Something to look into.

Danielle: Ooo, good thinking Sher! Fan clubs are a good idea! OMG, when you got those Madonna tix it was fate. I know that will happen for us. Toronto is a good place to converge! I bet they will totally play there. Also, I hope they don't do ticket limits. That would be ANNOYING. We WILL get tickets. I feel it.

Rebecca: Wait, hold it, stop; I am out of the loop!! Are they reallly planning a reunion tour or is this just speculation? My brother knows a bunch of shady Russian people who maybe can help. My guess is they won't be playing in Buffalo.

Danielle: Where the hell have you been??? Hahahha, kidding! There will be a press conference on Monday, and the guess is that it will be to announce the reunion tour. Don't forget to watch them on Sunday on the Grammys! HAHAHAHAHAHAH something tells me they won't be playing in Buffalo, either!!!

A new reason to flip out emerges.

Danielle: OMFG you guys. LOOK AT THIS SHIT! Win a (concert) date with The Police! FUCKING A! God damn Sting (sorry, Seana) and his overpriced fan club membership!!!!!

Seana: That's why I never joined - and you have to be "legacy" to get into this contest - so no point now - although the pics are HOT.

Danielle: Ok, one other thing...What song do you think they're gonna do tomorrow night? If they do a medley, that would be dumb. I'm guessing Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.

Seana: I think like you Deebs a montage it is! Sting likes them nowadays. But if not my money is on every breath you take

2.11.07

Danielle: (after watching the Grammys) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OMG! Greatest thing EVER!!!!!

Seana: can you frickin believe I missed it? who has the dvr version??? please save arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh we were having a playdate and we did not get home until 8:11pm sigh....

Danielle: We recorded it. I will get it into a WMV file and send it to you later, but I bet you can find it now on YouTube!

2.12.07

Danielle: Tony's brother sent this to me! I hope I can use this to get tickets for NYC! (after reading email about Best Buy presale) LAME! It only lets you buy 2 tickets! LAAAAAAAAAAAAME!

Sheri: Guess who is a Best Buy Rewards Zone member!!!!!! I guess buying a big ass TV does come in handy!!!!!!! I believe I can get two tickets Anyone want to go with me? What to I have to do Danielle? When? Where? How? I already know Why!

Danielle: HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA! I think all the directions are in that email thingie - I was too crazy over the whole thing to even read it! I'm hoping the tix go on sale soon so we can get a big block all together!

Seana: I am not a member!!! But Sting is MY member so pleasssssssssssssssssssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Deebs or Shoe - how about a little ol ticket for your friend SW??????

Danielle: (after reading list of tour dates) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Seana: Looks like NYC or Boston or DC are good optionsI think we need to have a conference call to discuss! What do you think?

Danielle: Or all of the above. I think a conference call would be in order.

Seana: Are you guys availble for a call tomorrow night at 9pm EST???

Danielle: YES! (of course I'm available, I have no life...)

Sheri: Yes I am available. Will you call me, or do I have to call you.

Later that day

Danielle: I'm watching the webcast right now. It's a giant commercial for Best Buy. These tickets are $225!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How much of their savings did Stewart and Andy blow through????? They're gonna replay it later on www.thepolicerehearsals.com, if anyone is interested in watching. They played songs!

Seana: Deebs, I know this sounds nutty but $225 is NOTHING - I told a friend today I am prepared to go to 1K. That is so sad.

Danielle: Ok, good, then I'm not the only crazy one here. I would EASILY spend that! FRONT ROW, BABY! Seriously, if you guys get a chance to watch the webcast later, DO. It's amazing. Stewart is HILARIOUS and there is tons of banter between him and Sting. And Andy can still rock that guitar. You guys. THE POLICE!

Seana: I just listened and will replay again - Stew and Sting - at it again! :)

Sheri steps in as the voice of reason. Sheri is very good at calming Seana and I down when we are in hyper mode.

Sheri: Okay guys- breathe. Take a step back and think. Now last year at this time, I was crazy with my Madonna tickets and they were $365. $1000? You could get a car for that!!! You guys are soo funny. I am not prepared to go to $1000. Now are we bringing the guys to the concert? This should be our JP reunion- girls only!!!! Then we can worship without the guys around.

Danielle: Ok, let's decide... What shows are you all interested in? Because presale tix for Boston, NYC and Toronto go up tomorrow! Here are the best choices:
NYC in August (wed. 8/1 and fri 8/3)
Toronto on Sunday 7/22
Boston on Saturday 7/28
To be honest, I'd like to go to all of these, so we should figure out which one we all can go to. Seana, are you into going to all of the NYC shows? Because I'd be up for both of those with you (cheap seats are fine with me!).

Sheri: Any of those. I'll be the first to respond.

Later...

Danielle: I'm getting pissed at these douchebags!
Current Police Tour Fan Club members:
Enter your passcode where requested.
Not a Member Yet?
Beginning Tuesday February 13 at 12:00pm, you can purchase tickets before the general public by ordering The Police Tour Fan Club Membership during the presale as part of your ticket purchase transaction, which will cost another $100 USD ($120 CDN).
In approximately 10 business days, The Police Tour Fan Club will send you an email so that you can then activate your membership.
Who do they think they are???

Seana: ok - wait - what does this mean? does this mean that you can get tickets tomorrow for another 100$??? If so, I will pay you! I would like to attend all shows in NYC - but will settle for 1 and don't care where - but would love best possible.
wait
ok - I think we need to have this conference call tonight - 10pm perhaps????

And now the mania begins to occur over the phone between me, Seana, and Sheri. Plans are made to buy tickets for the Toronto show using the presale codes the following day at noon.

Danielle: Monkey wrench! There is no code for Toronto through Best Buy! SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...We will get FOUR tickets on Wednesday through the Police fan club for Toronto. Tony does not want to go to that show so Dave won't have to come, and neither will Frank, so it can be either S/D/Se/K or S/D/Se/R. AND we can all sit together and be crazy and smoke clove cigarettes in exchange for a sip of whiskey.

That night…

Seana: FW: welcome to thepolicetour.com
I have lost my mind

Danielle: HA! Welcome to the club of crazy. I'm so manic!

Seana: I was thinking that but then we can't use best but for Toronto What about everyone comes to NYC? We can get 12 tickets between 2 best buy and 2 memberships?

2.13.07

The ticket buying analysis begins…

Seana: Ok I was thinking...What about this? 4 best buys for NYC today between you and Sheri and 8 more tickets for NYC with memberships me and Danielle tomorrow...All NYC on the Friday...NYC will be chaper because between me and Rebecca we will find places for...everyone to stay for free and if can't or won't come we can easily sell tickets...It's jp reunion 2007 with the police!!!!!! What do you think?

Followed by:

All: I will call you - Sheri at 11:30am - then we can conference in Deebs at 11:45am - and whoever else is available. We can try Rebecca. Kel and Sheila - if you want to be in on the call - email me. Thanks.

Danielle: That would work for me!

Danielle and Seana get on the phone to buy tickets.

Danielle: MY HEART IS BEATING SO FAST! MY HANDS ARE SWEATING! I'M SHAKING!

Seana: ME TOO!!! I AM RIGHT THERE WITH YOU!!! NOT LEAVINBG MY DESK UNTIL YOU CALL ME :)

Danielle: (buying tickets) omg here they come

Seana: YOU ARE READY! FOR THE FLOOR!!! But seriously, there is a skip in my step today friend - what an glorious day!!!! Thanks for doing all this and for being the coolest friend ever!!!!

While Danielle and Seana are screaming and jumping around on the phone, this email from Sheri comes iin and panic ensues!

Sheri: What happened to Toronto? Have you changed the venue on me? Should I get the best buy tickets today? Is anyone going to sit with me in the $90 seats or am I going to be by my lonesome while you guys are whoopin it up in the $225 seats? That's what I get for not being home (I was grocery shopping in case we have the big "snowstorm" tomorrow.) I missed the whole thing! Fill me in.

Sheri tries to get more tickets through the Best Buy presale, but no luck.

Seana: SHERI WAS SHUT OUT OF BEST BUY Let's talk at 1pm or so today to figure out the strategy for tomorrow.

Danielle: She tole me! Yikes! I'll be in my car, so call me on my cell and we'll figure out what we will do for tomorrow. I think we will just get four tickets using a membership and go from there... We will talk later!

Seana: LOL call me as soon as possible. :)

Danielle and Seana discuss phase 2 of the ticket buying strategy and Seana fills everyone in on the plan.

Seana: Sheri and Rebecca, Here is the update. I will go on ticketmaster with my membership tomorrow and get 4 tickets ($90) for the Friday night show. Then, Sheri and Rebecca are guaranteed a seat - and we will have 2 extra tickets - either for Kel and Sheila or husbands or others etc. The membership cost was $100 - so $25 I will add to your price of $90 ok? ok? $115 total. Thanks and I will keep you posted - wish me luck tomorrow - these are some complex directions....

Sheri: I called kel and left a message about the concert and I called Sheila's cell- she was just getting into Florida, so she said she'd call me back later, but I told her about the concert and told her if she wants to go let me know. So are we not talking tonight? I told Kel about it and left the number on her answering machine, so if not I'll call her back. Let me know.

Danielle: Ha! I called Kel too and left her a message. I love this crazy shit!

Seana: I don't think we need to discuss tonight. Except perhaps for a pep talk for me so I don't screw this up...arghhhhhhhhhh Thanks.

More freakage and overanalyzing:

Danielle: I wonder if we would have a better chance at getting the tickets through this if we didn't have to log into the Police Fan Club first? We'd end up buying another membership, but it might give us a better chance because it will go faster?

Seana: Please read for me!! How To Use The ThePoliceTour.com Ticket Pre-Sale System?:
To take advantage of the current ThePoliceTour.com Ticket Pre-sale, please follow these quick steps...

The steps are not quick. There are 8 of them, and they are long and confusing.

Danielle: (unable to read directions) Ok, you got the code already, right?

Seana: No, you can't get the code until tomorrow....see below. when i go to that page and to the "fan club tickets" column - it's not active! See "Members will not receive their codes until the presales start. Please Click here and carefully read the presale instructions. " How stressful!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Danielle: OH THEY SUCK!!!!! What the hell is the point???? I would try getting the code BEFORE noon, if possible. Even keep trying periodically tonight. This is lameness!

Which sends me into a tailspin of being annoyed with everything ticket-related.

Danielle: This is especially annoying because you got the membership ahead of time, so you should be able to get the code BEFORE the people who get the membership when they order the tickets!

Danielle: Another thing I really hate is this whole Auction thing on ticketmaster. Basically they keep the best floor seats and auction them off at ridiculous prices so brokers can't get at them.

I check out the eBay sitch.

Danielle: OMG LOOK AT HOW MUCH THESE THINGS ARE GOING FOR! People are also selling the passcode for the Best Buy presale! Unreal!

Seana: (copies this to her husband, who is otherwise totally awesome despite thinking we spent too much on our tix) $6,000 - they are going for on Ebay! Danielle and I rock. Thanks.

And then…

Seana: Here is a place called zen tickets is selling upper tickets for $350 and lower - kinda (but not as good as) ours for $600 - can you imagine? YOU FRIGGIN ROCK! AND I ROCK IN A SECONDARY WAY! BUT WILL ROCK IN MY OWN RIGHT TOMORROW!

Danielle: HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA! Girl, YOU ROCK IN A TOTAL PRIMARY WAY! IF NOT FOR YOU CHEERING ME ON DURING THE TICKET BUYING PROCESS WE WOULD BE NOWHERE!

2.14.07

Danielle: I have a snow day today! So I will be fully available and in full concentration mode when we go for these g.d. tickets!

Seana: Excellent! Owen's daycare opens at 10am - so I will be drop him off and be home in time as well. Deebs - I will call you at 11:45am! :)

Danielle: Awesome! Talk to you then!

Sheri: I have snow day too! I will be home also. Call me!!! Good Luck. Pray to the Lord Jesus Our Christ and Savior and giver of The Police Tickets!!!!!

Danielle: HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA. That's a good catholic girl! :)

Sheri: Yeah, if I was Catholic!

Seana calls me at 11:30 and we begin the process of panicking.

Good news: Ticketmaster posts a message that EXISTING fan club members (aka Seana) will be able to purchase presale tickets a full 24 hours before new fan club members who want to purchase their tickets and membership simultaneously. Rock! Seana!
Bad news: Seana gets error message after error message when refreshing the fan club webpage in an effort to get the presale code.
Good news: Thanks to some quick thinking on our part, Seana and I manage to pull off buying four more tickets!

While that is happening...

Sheri: Kelsey called. She's in Miami, and she's totally in!!!!!! And there’s a good chance Sheila is in! JP REUNION! Good luck call me!

Seana and I conference call Sheri and there is much screaming. Again.

A final email goes out:

Danielle: JOE PARADOX at the POLICE! Look out NYC! God, seriously, you guys, I feel bad for anyone who has to sit by any of us.

Get ready.

This weekend we hauled our asses to NYC to audition for The World Series of Pop Culture on VH1.

Again.

And we failed the test.

Again.

So, screw them!

It was fairly interesting and fun to take part in Round One of The Big Ego Smackdown, but more fun was hanging out all weekend with our audition teammate and friend, TJ. We didn't do much besides stuff ourselves silly, watch videos at the Museum of Television and Radio and be cold, but we had a grand time nonetheless. Our friend Kim met up with us on Saturday night for dinner and regaled us with one hilarious story after another about her escapades with her ho friends.

One thing for which we have TJ to thank is the now-incessant quoting of memorable lines from these video gems:

Brenda Dickson - Welcome to My Home! (Part 1)

Brenda Dickson - Welcome to My Home! (Part 2)

From these videos, you will get Brenda's priceless tips on beauty, fashion and health.

If you don't know who Brenda Dickson is, you're missing out. I think this is all you really need to know, though...

Ostrich feathers, anyone?

Here's a tip. If want to go to a concert where the music isn't all that important to you, and you'd rather listen to incessant conversation at the bar and tables, go to the State Theater in Northern Virginia!

Actually, that's a bit unfair. Last night, which happened to be my birthday, we went to the State to see my favorite artist, Howard Jones. We'd seen Howard's acoustic show in Annapolis, so we knew up front we were in for another treat. Howard is an equally amazing performer as he is a musician. He interacts with the audience in the most fantastic way.

Unless the audience happens to be the audience at the State Theater last night. Seriously, thank god we were in the front row because if I had to be in the midst of all that talking, I would have spent the two-hour show smacking people upside their heads. And I hate violence!

It was clear to me that for the majority of these folks, there was no such thing as Howard Jones before or after Dream into Action. As soon as he broke out into "No One Is To Blame" and "Life in One Day," the Chatty Drunken Bastards perked right up to sing along!

********************************

You may remember that the last Howard Jones show I attended inspired me to deconstruct audience psychology. While this audience was populated mostly with Chatty Drunken Bastards, there are two notable additions to the original list:

1. That Guy. That guy is the guy who wears The T-Shirt to the concert. Sometimes That Guy wears an old concert t-shirt, sometimes he wears the shirt he got for "free" when he joined the Official Fan Club and became an Official Superfan. In rare (and very special) cases, That Guy wears The T-Shirt with an iron-on he made himself. Frequently, That Guy wears something under The T-Shirt, like another t-shirt or sometimes a short-sleeved button-down work shirt. That Guy is often spotted in the front row, facing the crowd. Crowd-facing is important because it a) helps him to spot other Superfans, and b) assert his place in the hierarchy of Superfans as The Most Super. And why is That Guy called That Guy? Because when you wear a shirt of the artist whose concert you are attending, other people are probably whispering behind your back, "Dude. Don't be That Guy."

2. Dancing Girls. Dancing Girls like to mosey their way up to the front of the stage over the course of the show. Their steps follow the beat of whatever song is playing, and if they don't have a drink in hand, they are probably clapping. Dancing Girls always travel in groups of two or more, and after every ten or so steps, the leader will stop, turn to her posse, and laugh as if they are all doing something quite illegal. In fact, they are not. They are merely annoying all of the people who got to the concert early enough to acquire decent seats and do not appreciate Dancing Girls standing in front of them, blocking their view. (Except maybe That Guy, who probably thinks Dancing Girls are awesome.) Dancing Girls often cross over into Loud Clappers and Caller-Outers, because their ultimate goal is to gain the attention of the artist on stage so they will then have a story to tell their friends for the next ten years.

********************************

A concert just wouldn't be the same without thes folks. Lest you think I'm above any of this, let it be known that when Howard passed by the foot of the stage to shake the hands of the people in the front row, I was the first one out of my seat, hand outstretched. And I'm going to tell that story to my friends for the next ten years.

Indeed, I am alive!

We were in New York this weekend for TARCon, only without the Con part. Thanks to my lovely (and by 'lovely,' I mean 'dumb') job, we couldn't stay to watch the finale with everyone or stick around for the post-show festivities. Fortunately, the time we did spend with our friends out-funned the few hours that we may have missed.

So get this. On Saturday morning, we met up with Amy and Michelle (longtime college friends and practically sisters to me) in the East Village. After a great breakfast together, we went our separate ways. I went to see Beauty and The Beast with Donny Osmond (who is now back in my good graces - I've discovered that I only like him when he's performing from a script. Give the man a microphone and allow him to improvise, and I cringe...). Before you laugh at my choice of show, understand that a) I went to enjoy the show in the company of good friends, and b) John Tartaglia from Avenue Q played Lumiere! Awesomeness! Tony went to visit a friend and play XBox360 games for, oh, six hours.

After the show, Monica, Lucy, Kim, Donna, MaryJo and Linda went back to their hotel to check in, chill out, and get things ready for our TARFlies lunch the next day. In all the times I had been to New York, I'd never been there at Christmastime, so I decided to walk over to Rockefeller Center to see the decorations. Holy. Crap. You know the quintessential aerial view of Times Square on New Year's Eve? That's what Rockefeller Center looked like. It was a zoo. Cops on every corner trying to direct traffic, pedestrians clamoring for an inch of coveted sidewalk. I pulled a Clark Griswold - looked at the tree for about three seconds, turned around and left. I figured I'd go back to the hotel to hang with the crew and help put goodie bags together.

On my way there, I crossed 6th Avenue. I heard a familiar voice. Directly in front of me was my friend Amy - the same friend we had breakfast with that very morning - with her friends Kelly and Stephanie. What the hell are the chances of that? And that wasn't the first time something like that has happened to me in New York City, population...A LOT. Last year when we tried out for WSOPC, we saw our friends who also auditioned drive by us on top of a double-decker tour bus as we walked down a random street in the Village. Weird!

The four of us fought our way through the throngs of people over to the French bookstore in Rockefeller Center to retrieve Michelle, which was no small feat. We headed away from the teeming hordes as quickly as our feet would allow and ended up enjoying a nice cocktail on a comfy sofa at the MOMA lounge. It was fantastic to have the unexpected extra time with them to catch up.

Saturday night we all enjoyed a terrific dinner at a Thai restaurant near restaurant row, thanks to Kim's good sleuthing. She always finds great places to eat! By then, Beth's flight had gotten in and she was there to join us for dinner. YAY! I also got to meet Meggin and her husband, (who thankfully turned us on to the gas stations of 10th Avenue, thus saving us from certain stalling in the Lincoln Tunnel), and Eron and his wife Judy.

On Sunday, we picked up a fellow TAR fan in New Jersey and headed directly to the TARflies lunch at Puglia's in Little Italy, which, as always, was fantastic. MaryJo, Donna, Lisa, Tom, Tony and I stuffed ourselves silly with gnocchi (nyah nyah, non-vegans!) and had a great time talking about everything from our cats to recipes to Britney Spears' va-jay-jay (hee, Lisa!). Monica and her elves put together a slew of goodies and prizes (Lucy won a kick-ass Phillowcase), and we all had a blast catching up and laughing with good friends. And of course, our favorite racers treated us to some extreme silliness in the form of conga lines and dancing to the soothing sounds of JORGE!

Tony remarked that as soon as Jorge! broke out with "Volare," Papa Paolo and I both immediately broke out and sang along. Duh. We're Italian. Do you think we can just sit there and do NOTHING when Volare comes on? (I was a little disappointed that the other dining room got treated to "Eh, Cumpari," but what are you gonna do?)

TAR 9's John (who we now refer to as JOHNLOWETAR9) was especially entertaining in many, many ways.

Chair on head? Check. Glass of wine nearby when refreshment is needed? Check. Calling people bitches from across the room? Check. LOVE. HIM.

We had him call Melissa from the lunch, since she has such fond memories of their encounter at TARCon 9, where John shared with her his affinity for Amish...quilts. Yeah, quilts. He programmed her number into his phone and promised to drunk dial her sometime soon. From what I understand, he was showing everyone his cocks at TARCon, so I'm a little disappointed that we missed out on that. If you want to know what I mean, you'll have to check out John's myspace!

Al, our emcee, was hilarious and declared war on the west coast TARConners, Tammy, Billy, Carissa and Kelley Gaghan were completely adorable and sweet (seriously, those kids are the nicest and most polite kids on the planet), the Paolos were a hoot (we missed Brian and DJ!), Kenny was fabulous as always (hi Pepe!), Meredith looked lovely, and I finally got to meet Andrew, who is a doll. (And I got to see my new buddy Alex again, who is a Racer friend and complete riot. Yay!)

We were all thrilled to meet our beloved young TARfly, "Tris," who at 13, has an intelligent mind and sense of humor (not to mention proper grammar and writing skills) that rival most adults. When the Sorrento Cheese Carolers (gag) came in to regale us with song, Tris broke out with, "That's worse product placement than on TAR!" Heh!

One of my fave TARFlies, TJ, gave me the most awesomest CD, like, ever. One night, we'd gotten on the topic of American Idol, and specifically, Diana DeGarmo's uncanny ability to yell "C'MON!" or "C'MON, Y'ALL!" in the middle of any song, no matter how tender or melancholy the song might be. TJ put together a brilliant compilation of Diana DeGarmo Fantasy Songs, in which she would bust out with "C'MON, Y'ALL!" at inappropriately inopportune moments. Some of my favorite selections include Metallica's "Enter Sandman," "Anarchy in the U.K.," Pearl Jam's "Jeremy," and "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot. HA! TJ's hilarious!

Let's see, what am I forgetting? I'm not putting up any of my own pictures because a) they turned out shitty and b) I look shitty in all of them. So there.

And no matter what anyone tells you (*cough*Lucy*cough*) I did NOT eat that meat!

Though we missed TARCon (*sniff*), it was a great time by all reports. Of course, most people only reported about how HOTTTTTTTT (with eight million Ts) James and Tyler are, so for all I know their judgment was clouded. Heh.

I think that covers it! The weekend was fantastic and all too short. Can't wait for TARCon11!

I kinda pride myself on being a pretty good cook, but tonight, out of sheer exhaustion, I made the most white trash dinner ever. Boca nuggets and tater tots. (hangs head in shame) Suffice it to say the entire meal could be, and was, eaten with our fingers. Sigh. I drowned my sorrows in two diet cokes, the effects of which have not kicked in yet. In about twenty minutes - poor, poor Tony. He will be dealing with me singing Norwegian pop songs at the tops of my lungs while dancing around the bedroom in my gingerbread man pajamas.

In other news, I have officially joined the gaming world. After much deliberation about which new system to purchase, Tony decided on the XBox 360. Along with this system, which features a most awesome wireless control, we also acquired a subscription to XBox Live and what I call The Nerd Helmet ™, also known as the remote headset. Tonight I proudly joined the ranks of all Gaming Nerds out there because it occurred to me while playing that I actually care about my gamer score and my achievements. My nerd cred is important to me.

We're real heathens this year. We're not decorating for Xmas.

Ok, it's not really because we're heathens. It's because we have a boatload of home improvement projects to take care of over the break, which my totally awesome dad is coming to help us with. I just can't deal with dragging out boxes of decorations, too.

So, for the past couple of years, my parents, who are insanely generous despite constant protesting on the part of me and my brother, have given us insanely generous Xmas gifts to help us with a fixer-upper project. As if that wasn't enough, my mom insists that we send her a list of what she calls "little piddly items, you know, stocking stuffers," so we "have something real to open" on Xmas day. Like the gigantic, unnecessary wads of cash aren't "real."

Because it pleases her to walk the aisles of BJ's Warehouse, Costco, and Sam's Club, today I indulged my mom by giving her our list. If it makes her happy to know we will not have to purchase Q-Tips, aluminum foil, Venus razor replacement blades, Always feminine products, ziploc bags, deodorant and socks for the next twelve months, who am I to deny her that happiness?

Too much work... check.

Not enough time in the day... check.

This sucks!

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, but I haven't had any time to update. It's been so long since I wrote anything, my auto-archive function kicked in and made all my blog entries disappear from this homepage. Yikes!

Here's hoping things settle down soon...

Another vacation update.

Between Vegas and Seattle, we spent a few days exploring Vancouver. One afternoon, we visited Lynn Canyon. The landscape surrounding Vancouver is magnificent. We'd planned to go to the Capilano Suspension Bridge, but a little online research led us to Lynn Canyon, which was a) less crowded, b) less tourist-y and c) FREE!

For some people, crossing a suspension bridge may not seem like a big deal, but for me, it was. I'm terrified of heights and experience extreme vertigo, even when I'm behind glass. This bridge swayed and bounced when walked upon, so crossing to the other side felt like we were on our own little Amazing Race. Consider it preparation for the real thing. Heh.

I really suck. Work has been so busy that I haven't had time to write anything in my blog, nor have I had time to visit my favorite blogs for more than a few minutes at a time. It makes me feel so out of touch. I consider the people whose blogs I visit regularly friends, and the disconnect of the past few weeks has me feeling all out of whack. Anyway.

I'm going to try to throw some short entries up as often as possible to chronicle, unchronologically, our vacation. You've already seen that I rubbed butts with Penn Jilette and held the hand of the charming George Takei for eleven seconds in Las Vegas.

After a few days in Vegas, we flew to Seattle. From there we drove to Vancouver. On the way there, a wonderful thing happened. We saw this sign:

I really wanted to stop and have my teeth checked by Dr. Pearl before stopping at Ron and Sheila Albertson's travel agency to see if they could get us a better hotel deal, but we were really hungry for some lunch. We thought maybe we'd stop at the Dairy Queen for a Coke, but the DQ's not so vegan-friendly, so we skipped Blaine and drove straight on to Vancouver.

I miss summer vacation! But it's good to be busy again!

Lots to tell about our trip to Vegas/Vancouver/Seattle, but for now I'll just share a little tidbit.

One week from now, we will be watching the first episode of The Amazing Race 10. The one we applied to be on. After we realized we had no chance whatsoever of being called for an interview, I resigned myself to hating season 10 by the sheer bitterness factor. Not so. Since meeting a bunch of really cool TAR fans, I'm more jazzed for this season than ever, knowing that I have a big group of folks who share my excitement for the show.

Tony and I finished off our vacation in Seattle with a trip to Gasworks Park - the location for the finish line for season 3 and the start line for season 10. I ran through the park and pretend-crossed the finish line. I'm sure people would laugh at the absurdity of such a thing, but for us, it was the perfect way to end our vacation. And it gave me a teeny glimmer of hope that one day, we might actually find ourselves standing at the start line in some unknown city, backpacks waiting yards away, for Phil to drop his hand and yell, "Go!"

Sitting in a Seattle hotel, waiting for our stinky Vegas clothes to finish washing, I thought I'd give you a quick update of our trip so far!

We spent the last few days in Vegas, and flew into Seattle last night. We're heading out to Vancouver this morning.

Why I love Vegas: I won about seven dollars jumping from video blackjack machine to video blackjack machine.

Why I hate Vegas: I had to drop about $40 to win that $7.

Why I love Vegas: Where else can you rub butts with Penn Jillette?*

Why I hate Vegas: You have to maneuver through drunk people at the Rio to get to Penn's butt.

Why I love Vegas: As you walk through the Rio, you get to watch the gayest dance show ever!

Why I hate Vegas: The gayest dance show is over all too soon.

Why I love Vegas: We got to meet George Takei! And hear him talk about the Constitution! And Artie Lange!

Why I hate Vegas: We had to leave.

*In an episode of Penn and Teller's Bullshit, P&T debunk America's obsession with safety and germs. Since the human hand is filthier than the human butt, Penn suggests replacing hand-shaking with butt-rubbing as an acceptable form of greeting. So I rubbed butts with Penn.

I'm back from a short trip to visit friends in Amish country, PA. If you've never been there, it is a photographer's dream. Rolling, pastoral hills, lush farmland, produce stands, old-fashioned ice cream parlors, retro signs galore.

I didn't have time to stop and shutterbug, because we were running around preparing to see our friend Charlie hit the stage in a production of Elton John and Tim Rice's Aida. My friend Jen and I sat in the front row, snapping photos and taking video the entire time. The theater was a tiny black box, with no elevated stage, so we had the prime view. Charlie came out after the show ended to tell us that the other performers were backstage hissing, "There are two people in the front row taking picture after picture after picture!" Charlie was like, "Oh, yeah, those are my friends." Then he said to us, "All I could see from the stage was your camera lights blinking and blinking. It was like, 'Orange! Green! Orange! Green!'" Please, like I wasn't going to take pictures? I was so proud, I was like Joe Simpson with boobs.

The last twenty-four hours with Kat, Missy, Jen, Shawn, and Charlie were spent cackling until our sides hurt. I love those tender studs so bad.

I've gotten slammed with comment spam this weekend, so comments are off for a while, until I can get a plugin installed to thwart these fuckers. No, I don't want to eff your MILF wife, nor do I want your diflucan. Go away. You (readers, not spammers) can always email your lovely thoughts to me at joeparadox AT gmail DOT com, though.

ETA: turning comments back on to see if they went away.

Me: Morning!

Tony: Morning.

Me: Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you get up and make me some breakfast?

Tony: I can't. I'm a champion.

Me: (pause) What are you talking about?

Tony: I had a dream last night that I won the 2006 National Staring Contest.

The cats are barfing their brains out today. Smooshy has unloaded a spray of caramel-colored liquid on every level of the house, and Ariel just upchucked what looks like everything she has eaten in her entire life.

This is a sign. A sign that we must rip out the carpeting and replace it with HARDWOOD FLOORS.

Two hours. That's how long we spent in Best Buy yesterday. Tony plopped down on a stool to play Battlefield 2, while I stood in front of an LCD screen playing this:

Oh. Mygod. I'm not much of a gamer but this thing could make me never leave the house again. I didn't realize it at the time, but our fave blogger Wil Wheaton has been rocking out to Guitar Hero for a few months now. Click that link to get the scoop on how the game works - it's the perfect description.

This is the game for the consummate air guitarist, or anyone who ever dreamed of being in a rock band, only to realize they couldn't play an instruments and had no musical talent whatsoever. If you have even an iota of musicianship, though, this game is for you, because you will feel like a g.d. virtuoso immediately.

And I have to admit, Tony looks way hot standing in our living room in his Beavis and Butthead pajama pants, rocking out on his plastic guitar to I Wanna Be Sedated. It makes me want do things like throw my bra at him, let him snort coke off my ass, and be his baby mama.

TONY: Two weeks!

ME: What's in two weeks?

TONY: Me, my credit card, and the Virginia Tech Bookstore. We have a meeting scheduled.

Good weekend, everybody?

We had a particularly unusual weekend in which we interacted with other human beings not once, but twice! We're kind of the homebody types, so our weekends usuallly consist of holing ourselves up at home and mingling with society as little as possible. I tend to be more social in the summer, since I'm not in the throes of constant human interaction for eight hours a day. That doesn't apply to Tony, since he has to deal with people 12 months out of the year.

Saturday night, we met a group of new friends from TARflies, a website and forum about and by fans of the Amazing Race. We had a really nice dinner at a restaurant on Capitol Hill, and then moved across the street to Starbucks for more great conversation over coffees and iced teas. Poor Tony - I managed to imbibe a diet coke and a soy latte during the course of the evening, so my level of hyperactivity was at an all-time high. He'd been going since six in the morning, and when he tried to crash in the car on the late-night ride home, I put him through high-pitched choruses of "OHMYGODISN'TSHESOCOOL, ANDISN'TSHESONICE, ANDDIDN'TYOUJUSTLOVEHIM, ANDIHOPEIDIDN'TSCARETHEMOFFWITHMYHYPERACTIVEWAYS, I'DLIKETOGETTOGETHERWITHTHEMAGAIN! ICAN'TWAITFORTHENEXTTARFLIESGATHERING!" He just sat in the passenger seat with his eyes closed, shaking his head, and thinking, "Woman. For the love of god. Be quiet and never have caffeine again in my presence."

On Sunday, Joe Paradox (the group of friends, not the blog) member and friend-since-fifth-grade Sheri visited. She, her husband Dave and their two adorable kids were on vacation, and had just spent a few days enjoying DC with her sister, who recently moved here. We had a laid-back day talking and laughing while the kids splashed around in the neighborhood pool. Sheri and Dave's kids are the best kids ever - well-mannered, hilarious and fun. It was so nice to kick back and relax with old friends.

My best friends are people I have known for decades (or what seems like decades). Some of these friendships have been part of my life for more than thirty years. Amy, Kelsey, Sheri, Seana, Rebecca, Sheila, Michelle, Fran, Marisa. We all have different interests, different lifestyles - but we have a history that cannot and will not be overruled - ever. We say things like, "OUR kids will never get away with that, because we've already tried it," and then we laugh until our sides hurt over memories that only we think are funny. Often I am overwhelmed when I see my friends' children talking and playing, because it seems like yesterday that we were children ourselves.

Over the last few years, I've made a lot of "internet friends," which my mom totally does not understand, since she believes everyone on the Internets is either a serial killer or a shifty-eyed crook. For a homebody like me, internet friendships are fantastic. You'd be surprised how well you can get to know people via email or simply by reading their blogs. There's something fantastic that happens when a group of random strangers converge upon a piece of code, brought together by a common interest (or obsession) in something that "real-life" people don't quite understand.

However they made their way into my life, I'm very grateful to call these people my friends.

Apparently when the slime mold is about ready to die out, it decides to stop looking like dog vomit

and start looking like diarrhea.

WONdehful!

From our home to yours, we and our slime mold wish you a very happy

INDEPENDENCE

DAY!

Enjoy!

There are many things I love about going back home for a visit...

Seeing my nephew, spending time with my family, hearing that familiar nasal accent everywhere I go.

Nothing is as sweet, though, as seeing yet another Mullet to End All Mullets. There are many in the Western New York area, and a trip home guarantees that we'll see at least one. This one was spotted at dinner on Saturday night:

(I didn't have my camera with me, so here is my artist's rendering:)

MULLET: FRONT VIEW

MULLET: SIDE VIEW

It was fantastic. The entire crown of the head was a long brush cut, and the party-in-the-back was pulled into a tight ponytail by a taupe scrunchy. The color wasn't black and it wasn't blond, but you couldn't quite call it frosted, either.

A most unique mullet, indeed.

A few weeks ago, I got a new camera. I researched choices and decided on the Canon S3 1S. By all accounts, this camera could do everything but walk on water and fix you popcorn.

The only thing the reviews didn't say was that every single picture would turn out blurry. Not just, oops-I-shook-the-camera-a-little blurry, but what-the-hell-is-that-a-picture-of blurry. I expected that the shots I took learning the manual settings, but isn't auto mode supposed to be foolproof? Not to mention that the camera has image stabilization.

I read everything I could find about the camera. I talked to other people who have one. I tried online tutorials. My photos still sucked. Something had to be wrong with the camera, because I couldn't possibly be this inept.

The back of the receipt from Circuit City said that I had 30 days to return an item, with exceptions. Only it didn't say what the exceptions were. You have to visit their website to find out that digital cameras fall into that very category. Which means I was six days out of the 14-day return policy for cameras. Crap!

Today we went to the Circuit City where I bought my camera. An hour and a half later, I walked out of Circuit City with a brand new model of the exact camera I returned. The salesperson I dealt with was pleased that I was satisfied with the final result, but Tony and I were far from happy. We vowed never to shop at Circuit City again.

When we arrived, I explained my problem to Scott, a salesperson and manager of the photo department. Tony went to play video games. I thought I could handle the return or exchange without things getting ugly. Scott unboxed the camera and tested it out. Sure enough, every picture was blurry. We tested the floor model of the same camera. He insisted the pictures were fine, I thought they were awful. We were at a crossroads.

I felt that a camera of this caliber should take excellent photos in auto mode at all times. I explained this, and that I had already lost some great memories (Tony's brother's graduation, my students' plays and other school events) to the defective camera. I have a 3.2 megapixel Sony Cyber-Shot that takes better pictures than this camera. While he ran around the store, taking more pictures and talking to other salespeople, I waited for him to come back so I could ask for a refund. Remember how I didn't want things to get ugly? This is when things got ugly.

He returned and I asked for a refund. He explained that since I was out of the return window, I couldn't get a refund. I showed him the back of my receipt and asked him where it said anything about digital cameras having to come back in 14 days. He told me that they "truncate" the language on the receipt to make it easier to read, and that customers should call the store or visit the website if they are unsure about the return policy. I muttered that I thought that was the stupidest thing I've ever heard, but whatever.

I needed to know my options. Are you sitting down, because this is where the whole thing gets STUPID. My options, according to Scott, were to exchange my obviously defective camera for another one or to exchange it for another camera of equal or GREATER value. At this time, he suggested a Sony model - same number of megapixels, same zoom. I figured, what the hell, so we went over to look at this camera. IT WAS $140 CHEAPER THAN THE ONE I BOUGHT! I asked him how this was a fair exchange. He pointed to the megapixels and zoom, and said it was an equal product. I didn't see how the difference of almost 150 bucks made that an equal product, so I asked him if my credit card would be refunded the difference. Scott said, "NO."

Um, what?

No. No, as in, no, no? Yes, that kind of no.

I was like, 'OH NO YOU DI'INT. YOU DID NOT JUST SUGGEST TO ME THAT I SWITCH OUT MY CAMERA FOR A LESS EXPENSIVE ONE AND THEN JUST GIVE YOU, CIRCUIT CITY, THE DIFFERENCE."

I asked him where, WHERE did it say any of this on my receipt? It didn't, of course, so he walked me over to the front of the store and pointed to the dumbass sign they have hanging that explains (in totally vague language) their asinine return policies. It was a total end-of-Charlie-and-the-Chocolate-Factory-moment.

Scott went on to patronize us by showing us the 37 outstanding reviews that are posted about the S3 on Circuity City's website. Tony explained that those are all well and good, but we aren't taking pictures for those 37 people. Heh.

At that point, I was fed up with Scott and asked for a manager. He said he was the manager...of this department..., and so I asked if there was a STORE MANAGER with whom I might speak. He invented "Kim," the store manager, and then pretended to go in the back looking for her. "Kim" was conveniently at lunch and he came back with some awful lie about having spoken to 'other people' who suggested I take the difference in a Circuity City gift card, and wasn't I lucky to be offered such a wonderful deal.

I asked when Kim would be back from lunch.

"An hour."

"Ok, I'll wait."

At that point, Tony was on the verge of violence. He wisely left the photo department, while I continued dealing with Scott. Obviously I had few acceptable choices here, so I figured I might as well test out the other cameras on the floor while I "waited" for Fake Kim. I had Scott remove the security devices from a Panasonic camera, a Sony, and two Canons, including my model, the S3. I took test pictures on all of them, using an SD card I brought with, and then uploaded them to a computer in the store.

I couldn't believe it when I saw that the pictures taken with the S3 were PERFECT. They were professional quality pictures. I called Scott over and his mouth dropped open. I was like, "You should have let ME try the floor model. Then we wouldn't have had to go through our little screaming match!" Scott said I was right about the camera before (duh!) and asked me why my pictures were so much better than his.

"Because you suck, dude."

It's the first day of summer vacation, and I've already managed to while away three hours at the computer. For the last two years, I've been threatening to migrate all the entries and images from my old site to this one, but my obsessive tendencies tend to prevent me from completing this task. I plugged away at a bit of it this morning, but I'm already thinking that I've forgotten a category label somewhere or mis-typed a date/timestemp. This is why nothing ever gets done. I do a great job of getting in my own way.

Last night we discovered that the water leak has been continuous. What we thought was a leak that happened only when the shower was turned on was really a constant leak from an elbow joint. We figured this out when the towel we put down over the carpet-tack strip to protect the kitties from walking on it was soaked after a few hours.

While I was at work, enjoying the last day of school with my students, the Plumber Fairy came and did magic. Look!

This is the wall in our hallway, partially torn out, to locate the source of the leak.

This is the wet, creaky, weakened subfloor.

This is the closet directly under the hallway, which held all of our coats, luggage, and my guitar.

Another hole was cut in our bedroom closet and more will be cut in our kitchen ceiling.

Isn't this fun? I'm optimistic that this will all be fixed soon. Hopefully this is the last of the major problems we will encounter and we can put this entire boring drama behind us!

It looks like the damage from the water is more extensive than we thought. The subfloor is soaked and probably the floor joists, too. There's a good chance that the structural integrity of the house has been compromised somewhat, so we need to get a structural engineer over to assess the situation and give us some recommendations. Oh, and the water damage extends to the kitchen. We found that out today.

After a quick google search, we also learned that the builder has an unsatisfacotry record with the Better Business Bureau. All I know is that the rating is related to warranty/service issues that were unresolved or to which the builder did not respond. They don't give any other information, so I have to delve a bit deeper if I want to find out more, which I do.

I can't even begin to imagine what kind of work will need to be done if the structure of the house has, in fact, been compromised. I'm trying not to do what I always do, which is flip out and think about the worst case scenario, but when you keep finding pools of water in your home, it's kind of hard not to do that.

Clearly the plumbing job on our house was done at 6:00 on a Friday. I know some of our neighbors have had a few problems, but nothing to the extent that we've had. I understand many new builds have shoddy workmanship, but this is just egregious. When you buy a new home, you have a reasonable expectation that the house won't be torn apart from top to bottom within 18 months.

Right now the builder is responding to our calls and setting up appointments to start the repair process. We've also taken precautions to protect ourselves in case the repair process doesn't quite go as we expect it should, and that's all I'm going to say about that at this time.

Thank god we didn't hire painters or ask my dad to come down to give us a hand after the first round of damage. I would have felt terrible if he came all the way down here and wasted his time and energy only to have his work destroyed. I know things could be worse, and we're pretty fortunate people overall, but it's annoying to live in limbo, surrounded by unfinished projects, waiting for the next big problem to occur.

Anybody want to buy a townhouse?

Let's see, how has our day been?

The first thing we saw this morning when we came downstairs was

this

and this

and this

Apparently

this

and this

and this

isn't enough water damage in a brand-new house, so our plumbing system decided we needed more. In a load-bearing wall, no less.

Tony went down to the ground floor to check on the extent of the leak and set off the security system.

The plumber came and told us it would cost us $79 per half-hour just to cut holes in our walls and ceiling to find the source of the leak. Before they fix it. Which will cost more.

We tried to make ourselves feel better by booking our vacation flights with our frequent flyer miles, only to learn that a) we can't use them for multi-city trips, and b) even if we could we don't have enough miles for both of us anyhow. Unless Southwest comes through for us, our free vacation is going to cost a bit more than free.

A movie seemed like a good idea to help lighten the mood. A few minutes in, we realized that popcorn would make the movie-watching experience more joyful. I left the oil in the pan to heat up while we went upstairs to put down a bead of caulk in the other leaky bathroom, so we could shower sometime this week.

Yes, this did go exactly as you expect. The smoke alarms started going off and the house was filled with smoke. We made our way through the cloud, opened the windows, and removed the pan from the stove. I burned my fingers.

All this and we missed a party at my co-worker's house.

Happy weekend!

Oh, and here's a quick little rant. Apparently tucows.com (who must own blogrolling) have suspended blogrolls due to some new services evaluation program application blah-dee-blah. WTF? I don't care if the service is free or not, they could at least let people know. Anyone else having the same problem? Anyone else gonna dump blogrolling and find another provider?

ETA: Here's the letter I just emailed them. Perhaps I shouldn't write letters when I'm angry. Or, perhaps I should.

Yeah, I have a question? What happened to my blogroll? I upgraded my account to a paid account and it sure as heck isn't expired yet. AND YET, my blogrolls seem to be missing from my website. When I try to get to blogrolling.com, it redirects me to your website and all your gobbledygook blah blah blah crap about Program Application Evaluation.

I want my money refunded immediately.

-Danielle
former customer

I should have added, "YOU PEOPLE ARE BASTARD PEOPLE! I'M GONNA GO HOME AND BITE MY PILLOW, THAT'S WHAT I'M GONNA DO!" Hee.

Update: hee hee hee blogrolls working again - nevermind!

Go Sabres!

update: Or, not.

What good vegan hippies we are! We bought a Prius today! And by "we," I mean Tony, but I'll be driving it to work, since my commute is eighty trillion miles a day. I'll be able to drive solo in the HOV! AND it has built-in Sirius, like my Jetta, PLUS a GPS navigation system! We'll never get lost again, unless Tony gets buyer's remorse in the next few days before the car is delivered!

Here's a photoset of my TARCon9 pics if you want to take a peek!

I know all four of you are wondering where I've been, and more importantly, why I haven't been recapping your favorite television shows. Fret not, for all is right with my world and I haven't abandoned my muse, the tube of boob.

Work's been a little frantic lately and I haven't had time to do any writing. Of course, now that things are slowing down a bit and I have a bit more time, it's series finale time all over the dadgum place.

Monday will be a dark, dark day in our house, for it marks the end of someone's favorite television show, Alias. Someone claims that Alias is the best show in the history of television, but I beg to differ. Although I must admit, I'm rather sucked in by the Rambaldi storyline. I'm curious enough to pull out the DVDs and catch up on what I missed in the pre-Tony days of my boring-ass life.

The Office came to a close with perhaps the BEST Michael lines of the entire series so far. After Toby informs Michael that it's probably not a good idea to invite boy scouts to Casino night to accept a charitable donation from Dunder-Mifflin, Michael offers up these gems:

Why are you the way that you are? Honestly, every time I try to do something fun or exciting, you make it...not...that way. I hate...so much...all the things that you choose to be.

I really need to wear diapers when I watch that show.

In other tv news, I'm anxiously awaiting the finales of Lost, Top Chef and American Idol. Who isn't, though?

Now. On to the most important thing. TARCon.

After Monday, Tony will agree that The Amazing Race is the single greatest show on television. I think you all know how I feel about that show, so I won't elaborate. For the first time, Tony and I and our friends Melissa, Jen, and Shawn (who auditioned with us for The World Series of Pop Culture Trivia) attended TARCon - The Amazing Race convention.

Holy.

Crap.

I have never in my life had more fun. Have you ever screamed until you tasted blood? No? Well, that's what will happen when you watch the season finale of your favorite show with about 200 other rabid fans and your favorite team wins the million dollar prize. You should try it sometime. It's fun.

More fun, though, is mingling with other fans, meeting past and current racers, and basking in the manic glow that is the world of reality television. There's something kind of strange that happens when normal people engage in a celebrity world, and like the other 200-some people at New York City's Stitch on May 17, 2006, I'm drawn to that world.

So that's what's been up with me. What about you?

Let's say, hypothetically, that you decide to garden in front of a twenty-foot wide townhouse. It's probably not a good idea to plant two Leland Cypress trees in your front yard, considering they can grow up to 50 feet tall and 25 to 30 feet wide. You will probably end up returning these trees to the garden center at Lowe's.

Not that I would know this first hand or anything.

Quick story. I should not be allowed free time in New York to putz around when celebrities are present. It is a sure thing that I will make a fool of myself.

We arrived in New York around 11:30, more than two hours before we had to head over to the Ziegfeld for the VH1 taping. The North Shore Animal League was holding a pet adopt-a-thon in front of FAO Schwarz on 58th. We'd heard this week that celebrities including Howard Stern's girlfriend Beth Ostrosky (who does a ton of great work for North Shore), Edie Falco, and none other than American Idol's Constantine Maroulis would be in the window, holding cute animals and allowing freaky strangers to gawk at them. Being one of those freaky strangers, we hustled over to 58th and Madison to participate in said gawking.

Beth, Edie and Constantine were no longer there, BUT BUT BUT! Something even BETTER happened! Right there ON THE STREET, not two feet away from me, holding CUTE PUPPIES, was JAI RODRIGUEZ from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy! I started hyperventilating a little, because it was JAI! From Queer Eye! Being adorable! And fabulous! OMG!

I'm not sure if people weren't recognizing him or if they were being lulled into a state of starry-eyed druggedness by the fluffy kittens, but NOBODY WAS FAWNING. What the hell? I totally wanted to run up to him and be thirty kinds of fangirly, but as is my usual practice when "meeting" celebrities, I tried to play it cool. As you may be predicting, this always turns out to be a bad, bad thing.

I sauntered around the adoption truck for a while, cooing over the cute puppies and kittens and chatting with the shelter volunteers (who, by the way, totally kick ass) about the animals. After a few minutes, Jai picked up an adorable spaniel puppy. You have never seen a person hustle the way I hustled over to him to pet that g.d. dog. This is what went down.

JAI (to puppy): See! This lady wants to take you home!

ME (petting puppy): How about I take you BOTH HOME?!?!

JAI (immediately looking around uncomfortably for security): Heh. Heh heh heh heh.

And that was it. Another perfectly good celebrity encounter ruined, RUINED by my idiot ways. From now on, I'm not holding back. I'm going to gush. I'm going to squeal with excitement and jump and hug and lavish the person with praise and ask for autographs and pictures, because that's what's really going on inside me when someone like Jai is standing inches away! My Oliver-loving ass should have broken out into choruses of "JAI, GLORIOUS JAI!" It would have been less embarrassing.

You guys! I met JAI!

We're off to New York to view the taping of The World Series of Pop Culture Trivia (the show we DIDN'T make) with Will. We may or may not be ejected from the theater due to loud snickering and audible mockery when we know answers that the contestants don't. Afterward, we'll head downtown for dinner with Amy, Michelle, Will and Mary, and then we're off to Long Island for the night, where we will be squeezing the adorable cheeks of another friend's kids. See! We have lives outside the television set!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

"What are you doing for Easter?"

"Um, nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"Mom, we're not all that big on celebrating the death and resurrection of Christ."

"Danielle! *audible sigh*"

Heh. I don't know why it tickles me so to be such an oppositional heathen daughter, but it does. I was going to throw in, "Plus, we're boycotting Easter until they start making vegan Peeps!" but I reconsidered. I'll save that one for next year.

While many families participated in Easter traditions such as egg hunts and the consumption of hollowed-out chocolate crucifixes, we spent the day assembling, ruining, exchanging and re-assembling our new bedroom furniture from Ikea.

Our money pit of a townhouse (which we purchased as the real estate bubble began to burst) has one of those big yuppie master bedrooms with the big yuppie cathedral ceiling, so we thought it fitting to purchase the shortest Swedish bed frame possible. In my mind I had the room redecorated in shades of mocha, chocolate and aqua, when SOMEONE informed me that SOMEONE would be happy with any color in the bedroom but BROWN. Even though SOMEONE has completely fucked up my idea for a soft, soothing sleepspace, I will come up with an equally peaceful color scheme, because I love SOMEONE and want SOMEONE to be as happy with the bedroom as I am.

But because it was Easter, I figured I'd try to be a bit less of an oppositional heathen, so a traditional Catholic guilt trip was in order.

It's supposed to rain all weekend, so I guess we'll replace our gardening plans with this:

Don't Miss: A Party in Your Mouth!"

Tony's brother (to whom I would link if he would hurry up and start his sports blog, daggummit) and I think two dollars is a bargain for such a cool experiment.

Also, it will be done in our yard, because our grass looks like shit.

And your plans for the weekend?

My friend Michelle, who designed the fantastic logo for my website, has opened an eBay store!

aberrations of mac

Right now she has notecards that feature her unique style of graphic art, but keep your eye out for more products with her artwork coming soon. You can always find a link to her store on my sidebar, so check back often!

You can take a little photo tour of our weekend, if you'd like.

Impossible as it may seem, Tony and I don't know as much useless information as we thought. This became clear to us after we and our friend Will auditioned for The World Series of Pop Culture Trivia this weekend in New York.

VH1 and Entertainment Weekly are scouring the country to find 16 three-person teams who think they�ve got what it takes to compete in the most intense pop culture trivia tournament to date, THE WORLD SERIES OF POP CULTURE.

Our friends Melissa, Jen, and Shawn also made an attempt, but none of us made the grade. I'd blab the entire story to you ad nauseum, but we had to sign a confidentiality agreement that we wouldn't reveal any information about the audition process to anyone.

And so this concludes my boring entry about auditioning for a game show.

Yes, it's come to this. I'm afraid to report that for the next several months, you, dear readers, will have to endure the excruciating analyses of reality television. I will not be reading any books. I will not be discussing education or veganism. I will have nothing to say that does not relate to American Idol, The Amazing Race, or Flavor of Love. Deal.

I'll admit that I'm having slight difficulty getting excited about The Amazing Race 9. We applied to be considered for one of the teams for season 10, but it's not going to happen. We were keeping the whole thing under wraps on our blogs, in the hopes that we might be called for a semi-finalist interview (TAR has really strict confidentiality clauses for applicants), but it seems that the calls have gone out, and we didn't receive one.

At the risk of sounding completely crazy, I'll admit that I was really bummed out. Like, I almost cried when I realized that we weren't going to be considered for the show. In my entire life, I haven't wanted to do anything as badly as run the Amazing Race. Maybe I'll write a blog entry soon about why TAR has become a personal mission for me, but not right now.

On the up-side, I can tell you this. We put forth a hell of an effort with our written applications and video. If we apply again for future seasons, I'd change our approach a bit, but at least we can say our application wasn't half-assed. We gave it our best shot and had a blast. I thought our video was hilarious, but after surfing The Internets and watching other audition videos, I learned that pretty much every idiot who applies thinks their video is the funniest/most creative/most imaginative video the casting directors have gotten or will ever get. Still, I thought we might have a shot.

Once Tuesday night rolls around, I know I'm going to be prancing about the house like a manic fool, but for now, I'm between stages 4 and 5 of the grieving process.

Speaking of mania, let's get back to the current mania-at-hand, shall we? American Idol. I'm satisfied with the results, although I'm holding out hope that this news is true: an alleged current contract will cause Sway Penala to be booted from the show (current recording or management contracts violate the rules of the competition). This has the potential to bring back BOBBY! Sweet, sweet, Barry-Manilow-loving-not-afraid-to-wear-black-satin-oh-yes-he-DID Bobby! Until then, I'm putting out an APB on Bobby. If he is to show up in Vegas any time soon, I want to be able to catch the first flight available.

And for those who dig Taylor Hicks, you can order his CD here: Laser's Edge. They're swamped with orders right now, but I was impressed with how quickly they shipped my CD and the great customer service and communication they offer.

Sunday night! It's the Family Edition of Flavor of Love! I'm sure we'll have plenty to discuss.

I am very much enjoying, in no particular order:

1. Green and Black's dark chocolate with hazelnuts and currants with a bottle of very cold water.
2. Contestant videos for The Amazing Race 9.
3. Flavor of Love photo galleries.
4. Upside-down sleeping kitties.
5. Conversations about Famous People
6. The Top 10 Most Outrageous Paternity Guests Ever on Maury.
7. Knowing the litterboxes are completely clean and fresh.
8. My friend Melissa.
9. The Slanket, which I will order soon.
10. And an old favorite - South Park Studio.

Many days, the drive-home traffic is unbearable. Some days, something interesting happens when cars are lined up bumper-to-bumper, wondering if an accident, police barricade, or idiots merging is causing the cessation of movement. Like the day when I saw the driver of a potato chip truck tossing bags of snacks into the sunroof of a neighboring car. Or the day when I rode behind the SUV with the license plate TRFC SUX, thinking, now that's dedication to finding the humor in a horrendous daily ride.

Today, I saw the most bizarre thing - in my rear-view mirror. For over an hour, a woman with long blond hair and huge dark sunglasses drove behind me. She never changed lanes; she never altered her speed. At first I thought her unremarkable. Then I noticed that her face looked taut, as if she might've had a facelift recently. I realized her mouth was pulled back because she was crying. What began as a gentle weep soon turned into a gaping-mouthed sob. A few times, her head lurched forward as if she intended to bang it against the steering wheel.

I felt awful for this woman! I thought about changing lanes and trying to get her attention to see if she needed help. The traffic was too dense. I was stuck in the line of cars, unable to move. So I watched her and tried to imagine what could be causing her grief. My first thought was that someone very close to her died, or was sick. I eliminated the possibility of any kind of emergency, since we were in the right lane and the shoulder-lane was wide open. Anyone in a dire situation would zoom over to the shoulder and take their chances.

I examined her crying pattern, which soon changed my mood from sympathetic to cynical. I began to think she was some kind of drama queen. Consider the evidence:

1. At no time did she wipe tears from her face, nor did she wipe her nose or sniffle. In fact, most of the time she appeared rather stoic. (SEE EXHIBIT A)

EXHIBIT A: Artist's rendering of the stoic face

2. She made close to ten phone calls at random times throughout the duration that I observed her behind me. I figured that anyone in a grave or truly heartbreaking situation would a) not want to talk to anyone or b) want to keep someone on the phone during the entire drive to help pass the time. The random phone calls seemed sketchy to me.

3. The car never wavered and she never changed speed. Usually people who are truly upset are unable to drive and pull over for a while. Or they have such difficulty concentrating that the car veers a bit from time to time. Nothing. Just an open-mouthed stare from behind the wheel. (SEE EXHIBIT B)

EXHIBIT B: Artist's rendering of the open-mouthed stare

4. The entire time I watched her, she was chomping on a huge wad of gum in her mouth. It went something like this: chomp, cry, chomp, cry, chomp, sob, chomp, cry, chomp, sob, sob, sob, chomp, chomp, chomp. It was a bit fishy that she was able to maintain a constant chew while crying and sobbing simultaneously. The giant wad of gum was really distracting and disturbing to look at. (SEE EXHIBIT C)

EXHIBIT C: Artist's rendering of the distracting wad of gum

I considered following her when she exited the highway to see where The Ride of Sadness would end, but alas, I did not. Instead, I chose the path of the unknown. I will never find out why she was crying, nor will I know her fate.

Since I'm sure I've piqued your curiosity and your imagination with this fascinating tale from the road, do share with me your ideas and theories about the mysterious crying woman in the car behind me.

Yesterday morning...

"Grande soy latte, please."

(Whistle, whistle, small talk, small talk.)

"Thanks! See you tomorrow!"

(Preparing to unlock car door with remote: Press. Press. Press press press.)

"Crap!"

(back inside Starbucks...)

"I can't get my car door open, and I'm parked in a non-space. I'm going to have to leave it here until I can get the door open again! I just wanted to let you guys know that it's my car right in front."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know! The stupid remote button isn't unlocking the door! The lock button and trunk button work, but the unlock button isn't working!"

"Can't you open it MANUALLY?"

"No! Um. Um. I don't think I can..."

(Back outside at car...)

"Oh my god. Could I be STUPIDER?"

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand...SCENE.

Mockery may commence.

Hello, I'm Danielle. You may remember me from such entries as 'totally bitchin' contest'.

A few weeks ago, I went into the city to pay Urban Outfitters a visit. Normally, I hate that store, because I hate their trendy androgynous clothes designed for trendy androgynous hipsters. I hate hipsters.

I didn't go for the fashion. I went because they sell these. Two album frames for $22! I bought twenty frames.

For the three weeks following this shopping excursion, I did nothing but moan and complain about The Lost Albums. I used to have a decent sized collection of records from the 80s, but only half of it made it with me to the year 2005. (Breathe a sigh of relief - all the Donny and Marie albums are ok.) I resigned myself to the fact that the rest of my collection was gone for good, so I replaced a few of my very favorites with a little help from eBay.

We drove (yes, drove) to Buffalo to visit my family for New Year's, and I spent about 7 and 1/2 of the 8 hour drive asking Tony, "Do you think the albums might be in my parents' basement?" and "Albums don't just disappear. Where do you think they could BE?" and "Those albums have GOT to be somewhere, don't they? DON'T THEY?" He responded for the first hour of this incessant interrogation before resorting to watching movies with the earphones turned up to full volume.

The first thing I did when I got to my parents' house was run to the basement and tear everything apart. The search was fruitless (but I did get Bonnie a wonderful pantsuit). My mom suggested I ask my grandmother if they might have been left behind in the basement when they moved into their new house. (We lived in a double when I was growing up - my grandparents in the lower apartment and my family in the upper flat.) At this point, I was feeling like the record search was futile, so I had pretty much given up hope.

The next morning, we drove to visit my grandmother. Nonchalantly, I asked her if she happened to see any of my old records in the house. Without a pause, she said, "Yeah, there's a big stack of records down in the basement. I'm pretty sure they belong to you."

I FLEW down the stairs to find The Lost Albums stacked neatly on a piece of my childhood bedroom furniture (click it - there's a picture behind that link!) that had been left behind in the move! I started screaming and jumping around and hugging my Howard Jones import singles! It was glorious.

Because I am the most impatient person on the planet, I spent this evening framing and hanging our favorite albums from the 80s, even though I haven't finished painting the walls. When Tony questioned this logic, I explained that it's actually BETTER to hang pictures before the final coat of paint goes up, because the walls are bound to get scuffed and nicked in the process. Painting AFTER the pictures goes up makes touch-ups totally unnecessary. SEE? LOGIC.

Anyway, here are two pictures of the almost-finished Wall of Greatness. I've got a Psychedelic Furs album and a Smiths album to go up, but the glass in two of the frames broke. Waaah.

It was Tony's idea to put Rocky Horror with Donny and Marie. The man's brilliant.

And if anyone's interested, I have doubles of two Culture Club albums - Kissing to be Clever and Colour by Numbers, and a Depeche Mode People are People that I bought on eBay to give away. If you'd like me to send you any of them, leave me a comment. (First come, first served!) Also please feel free to leave comments on how freaking awesome that wall looks!

Yay for winning fantasy football!

Every year, my grandma would make her signature Christmas cookies: Italian sesame cookies, cucidati (Italian fig-filled cookies), Italian chocolate balls (not the salty ones), and her famous anise-scented, frosted cutouts. I'd sit and watch her expertly roll out dough and drizzle icing, while waiting for the first batch to cool enough to take the first bite of the season. She'd pack them in plastic tubs and "hide" them in the spare bedroom, and if I dared try to nip a few, she'd chase me away with a wooden spoon.

Years later, my mom, sister-in-law and I got together for a cookie-baking fest. We made grandma's cookies and tried our hand at some different types of biscotti. The pistachio-cranberry biscotti turned out best, and we had a riot making a giant mess of my kitchen.

For me, the days of butter and eggs are long gone, but that didn't stop my mom from making sure Tony and I would get enough Christmas cookies to fill a bathtub.

Today, we received a HUGE box from my mom full of gifts for us and for the kitties (She even addressed the box "To Danielle, Tony, and Kittens") so we would have presents to open on Christmas day. (Jesus was born, and so I get presents. Thank you, Jesus, for being born.) The top of the box was packed with five bags of different kinds of biscotti (almond, apricot, orange chocolate with chocolate chips, chocolate with pistachios and cherries, and mocha) and one bag of Grandma's sesame cookies that they made especially for us. All the cookies are vegan and delicious.

Thanks, Mom!

Just because we're vegans doesn't mean we've lost our sense of humor...

On the way to Tony's brother's wedding this weekend, we stopped for gas. In the shopping plaza, I spied this eatery:

I mean, if you're going to open a burger joint, you HAVE to call it Cheeburger Cheeburger.

Last week, I ordered a Xmas gift for a friend from one of my favorite online merchants. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to throw a few little treats for myself in the shopping cart. I had her gift sent directly to her house, and the rest of the order was shipped to me.

Today when I got home, there were two boxes. The contents were exactly the same. The company double-shipped my order but only charged me once.

Which leaves me in a quandary. I have three basic options: 1) ship the items back to the company, informing them of their mistake, 2) keep the items for myself, or 3) give the stuff away to people I like a whole bunch.

I've already made my decision, but I'm interested to hear from the Internets. So, my pretties...what would YOU do?

Oh, kids.

Kids, kids, kids.

Last night. Depeche Mode. In concert. Need I say more?

I don't know what it is about 80s bands making a comeback, but when they do, they're better than ever. I'll admit that I was hoping for more songs from Speak and Spell and People are People, but Depeche Mode did not disappoint. Even if the rest of the concert sucked, which it didn't, the encore of "Everything Counts" made the entire evening worthwhile.

First of all, Dave Gahan was half naked by the third song. Boyfriend pranced. And strutted. And shook his ass. And there was lots of sweat.

Yay for Dave Gahan not being dead!

The wind is blowing loud and spooky. It just hit me that I am going to see Depeche Mode next weekend featuring a not-dead Dave Gahan. I've decided to go ahead and get my doctorate, if the circumstances work out the way I'm hoping they will. Poland Spring lime-flavored sparkling water tastes really good.

After a significant computer crash which wiped out our entire hard drive, we have a restored system and I can finally post again!

Yep, so tomorrow's Thanksgiving, and like everyone else, we will engage in the ritualistic practice of gorging ourselves silly and curbing our usual anti-social ways. Tomorrow, we'll be all kinds of grateful for everything we have, and then on Friday we will be back to whining and complaining.

We will also continue to field the constant questions and comments about what we eat on Thanksgiving, as if the presence of a dead fourteen-pound bird on the table renders all other types of food inconsequential. Fortunately, we will spend the day with kind, respectful folks who will not engage in the ever-fun Let Me Stick This Drumstick Under Your Nose While Making Gobbling Sounds game. We will not eat Tofurkey, though, because that shit is just nasty.

I'm going to attempt my first vegan cheesecake - pumpkin, with a gingersnap crust. I'm a great cook, but a mediocre baker (measuring and following actual recipes are not exactly my thing) so wish me luck. I'm also going to make a batch of vegan pumpkin bread, a huge salad with lots of goodies in it, and a corn medley. (It's really just bags of bi-colored frozen corn mixed together. I was just trying to impress you by calling it a 'medley.')

I'm planning to finish painting the kitchen and family room. I put the first coat of "bicycle yellow" on the walls last night, and it looks fab. The whole color scheme in this part of the house is VERY 80s, with our black appliances and red accents, which I am loving. Ikea sells frames specifically for album covers, so I think we may have to throw a few of the old favorites up on the walls when we're done. I'm going to order some funky vinyl soda-shop stools for our breakfast bar, too. I heart fun rooms.

Other than that, I've got a final assignment to work on for the grad class I took this semester. I'm working on a professional article for publication, which I've never done before because I didn't really have the encouragement or the confidence to give it a shot. The course instructor thought my work was good enough to submit, so what the hell.

I'll be working my way through the two books on my nightstand and, hopefully, decorating for Xmas. I always have great plans for long weekends, and somehow I always end up spending more time relaxing than ticking things off my list.

I'm not complaining, though. Lying on the couch with my head on Tony's lap and his hand on my hip, watching reruns of South Park while Emmett swats at his catnip mouse, is something for which I'm truly grateful.

So what are you doing this weekend?

In the time I've lived in Virginia, I've voted in two elections, and each one has tested my views about the democratic process in America.

Since I turned 18, I've never missed a vote. I've voted in national, state and local elections, every one. I believe in the process. I believe that it is our duty as citizens to take the right to vote seriously, and to cast a ballot with as much information as we can gain behind our fingers as we push down the lever.

The amount of information I've gleaned about candidates has certainly increased over the years, as has my overall political knowledge. When you live with someone whose brain contains an inordinate amount of political knowledge, not to mention savvy, you can't help but pick up a few things.

November 2004 and November 2005 were the first times I've ever considered not voting in an election. It was the first time my beliefs about the democratic process were challenged by the choices of candidates. Moving to the conservative south was a huge political departure for me. I've always lived in a heavily Democratic state. Even though I don't align myself with the Democratic party, I could always find a candidate whose views on issues I deemed important aligned with my own. Tony has written extensively about the candidates of this election in Virginia, including his views on them, so I won't be redundant by repeating the main points. You can read his entry - he covers everything much more comprehensively and concisely than I could have.

On my way home from the voting booth tonight, I was talking with Tony on the phone about this year's election. We both joked about moving out of Virginia, given the fact that casting a ballot today amounts to little more than choosing the lesser of two evils. In that joke, though, was a double scoop of truth. As I drove away from the polls, I was left with a nagging feeling that I hadn't done the right thing by voting. Why am I voting for individuals who, when given the power to govern me, challenge or threaten the civil liberties I believe in and hold dear?

And if my choices for the highest elected officials in my state are leaving me feeling like I don't want to participate in the democratic process, why am I living in this state at all?

I've written before about how I'm becoming increasingly disillusioned with our public education system. I took on a new role this year, which I'm enjoying for its variety and lack of No-Child-Left-Behind-ism, but I still feel like something's missing.

I thought about going back to school to earn my Ph.D. because I've always thought I'd be good at teaching teachers how to teach, but I'm not sure that I have the motivation to pursue another career path in the field of education.

Lately, I've become obsessed with the idea of opening a vegan Bed and Breakfast somewhere. The longer I work for The Man, the surer I am that I need to be my own boss. The B&B life would be perfect for us, the two biggest homebodies on the planet. Switching fields completely at this stage in my life is such a huge risk and so frightening, but the possibility is invigorating! If we opened a B&B, I could run the place while Tony focused on writing full-time. I would love that, and it would make me so happy to see him follow his dream. If things got tight, I could tutor or teach an education course at a community college to keep us afloat.

Anybody have any suggestions or words of wisdom for me? Anybody want to be a silent partner?

While I roasted pumpkin seeds, the love of my life carved up this lovely design.

We wanted to carve a Cartman or Napoleon Dynamite pumpkin, but we didn't have a carving kit, and the stencils cost money to download. We's cheap, yo.

I like his original pumpkin face much better, anyway.

If you're wondering what we'll be doing tonight, allow me to paint a little picture...

We will be sitting in our living room with all the lights off, watching Alias and hiding from the trick-or-treaters. (Last year at this time, Tony told David Sedaris about our traditional Halloween plans, and he just looked at us funny.)

Lest you think we are antisocial Halloween Scrooges, allow me to refute your misconceptions. This year, we did purchase some candy to leave in a bowl on the porch.

N.B.: I have been informed that the pumpkinal masterpiece cannot be viewed in its full glory on my website, because the picture is too small. Please click on it to be taken to my flickr page where you shall be awed by a photo collection of pumpkiney wonder.

Retraction: I have been informed that David Sedaris did not look at us funny when he learned of our Halloween plans. It was reported to me that Mr. Sedaris did, in fact, LAUGH when presented with the information.

And since everyone in the world apparently SUCKED in October, 2004 by not leaving me any comments on the entry (hint, hint), here's the David Sedaris story from last Halloween.

While someone has been busy writing blog entries about politics, government, the flat tax, and literature, here's me...

OMG!

Today we bought tickets to see Howard Jones in January!

OMG!

The last time I saw Howard Jones in concert was 1985 or 1986, and I was wearing a yellow Forenza sweater. Also, I touched his hand.

Thanks for still being alive, Howard Jones!

Apparently, Dave Gahan, lead singer for Depeche Mode, is not dead.

For the last several years, I thought he was dead. Why? I have no idea. I did not confuse Dave Gahan with Michael Hutchence. I know Michael Hutchence is dead. I know how he died. No confusion.

Last week, Tony informed me that Depeche Mode was coming to our area for a concert. Here's me...

OH, SCREW THAT! I REFUSE TO GO SEE SOME DAVE GAHAN WANNA-BE TRYING TO DO JUSTICE TO 'BOYS SAY GO!' I DON'T CARE IF THE REST OF THE BAND IS GOING TO BE PLAYING, I REFUSE TO GO! (HMPH!)

Now the concert is sold out. My little unfounded tantrum-o-death cost me two tickets to see DEPECHE MODE. LIVE ON STAGE. IN CONCERT. IN THE SAME ROOM AS ME. BREATHING THE SAME AIR.

I'm hoping they release some tickets a couple weeks before the show or I may have to resort to eBay.

In the future, could someone please keep me posted on which of my favorite 80s performers are ALIVE or DEAD? I guess I'm not doing a very good job of keeping tabs on them by myself. Thanks!

How hard can it be to use a bike pump, right? RIGHT?

The head of the pump got stuck on the valve and I pulled the entire valve right out of the wheel. That smooth move was followed by this sound: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Anyone know how the hell to fix this? I wanna wear my pretty new hellllllllmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeetttttttt!

UPDATE: I figured out how to fix the bike! You take it back to the store and exchange it for a new one! Hooray for receipts!

I got a bike today!

I bought Tony a bike for his birthday, but we haven't been able to ride together because I have been bikeless. Until now!

I haven't been on a bicycle since junior high, when I was a badass suburban preteen, so I went with a very crappy, very on-sale model from Target to get back into riding. Gone are the days when I could ride no-handed on my tan Schwinn ten-speed with the handles I turned up myself. Yes, you may envy me now.

The full-sized 26" adult bike was TOO FREAKING BIG for me, so I had to buy the 24" bike for babies. Apparently I have a baby-sized head, too because I had to buy a YOUTH HELMET. Why YOUTH? Because the CHILD HELMET was just a teeeeeeeeeeeeeeny bit too small. So now I have a bright purple bike, and a green helmet decorated with colorful spring flowers and wittle butterfwies. I almost bought the Hello Kitty bell and streamer set to round it all out, but I'd already spent my whole allowance this week.

As soon as I post this entry, I'm going to take my baby bike out for a spin. I'm very excited to rejoin the land of People Who Do Things Out Of Doors, although I will always love my *ahem* indoor sports.

I'm sure I'll be back in an hour to regale you with tales of broken limbs and skinned knees!

It's that time of year again.

The time of year when I, gearing up to go back to school, engage in two annual activities: shopping for clothes and entertaining thoughts of the fantasy career that involves working from home. After two blissful months of leisure, I must put aside my come-what-may attitude for schedule and routine.

Although I love shopping for shoes, I hate hate hatehatehatehatehatehate shopping for clothes. I used to do this twice a year, but I've whittled it down to once. I hate stepping in an unexpected dressing-room wet spot with my bare foot, I hate pushy, perky retail salespeople, I hate the plastic bags they put over your hanging garments, I hate it all. But because I don't iron and don't buy anything that requires dry cleaning, I beat my clothes to a pulp and that means replenishing my work wardrobe every August. Oh, and I hate "career casual" clothes.

I have entertained so many fantasy careers, it's ridiculous. I love teaching. I can't really see myself doing anything else, except mothering, but the idea of working from home and getting paid to do something creative and fulfilling is the carrot that could definitely get me to bite. This year's fantasy career involves becoming a registered dietician and chef, teaching workshops on vegan cooking/lifestyle, teaching new parents about the benefits of raising a vegan child, and teaching vegan cooking classes. In my spare time, I will be writing a vegan cookbook and volunteering at my local animal shelter.

Donations to the Danielle Fund make great holiday or birthday gifts. Also, I accept PayPal. Hee.

Ok, I'm trying out this new thing called BRAVERY. I hate the way I look in pictures. HATE. But I'm on this "feel good about myself" kick, so what the hell.

Got my hair cut today at a new salon, which is always fun. I went on the ever-reliable Find It In The Phonebook method, but I lucked out. The woman who cut my hair did a great job and I love it.

This time, however, I did something different. I had my hair colored and highlighted. I've never done that before. I had visions of yellow and orange stripes running through my brain, so I was a smidge nervous. The highlights turned out perfectly, sort of an amber color against the allover auburn. I like them!

The best part of the experience, though, was when we got on the topic of products. How excited was I when she offered me 100% vegan hair products to use and buy? VERY!

Don't ask me how much money I spent today. Just don't.

I sent my mom and my brother a zip file today of all the photos I took at her party. I didn't think she'd be able to open them at work, and my suspicions were confirmed when I opened this email from her a few minutes ago:

This won't open up, pooey! It said it was done in a program not supported by something, something, some shit.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Everyone who knows my mom - you can totally hear her saying this right now, can't you?

I'm not sure how my dad managed to pull it off, but he surprised my mom with a huge retirement party this weekend. I flew in for the festivities, which were fun, but this was the highlight of the event for me...

Those squeezable things belong to my nephew. I like to play the Distance Card, which allows me to monopolize his fat cheeks at family functions. No one dares to take him out of the arms of his only aunt. They fear my wrath, and rightfully so. DO YOU SEE THOSE BABY FEET? DO YOU THINK I'M GIVING THOSE UP WITHOUT A FIGHT?

I found this story on Hanuman's blog.

From The Northwest Florida Daily News:

A Crestview, Florida couple drove their car to Walmart, only to have their car
break down in the parking lot.

The man told his wife to carry on with the shopping while he fixed the car in the lot. The wife returned later to see a small group of people near the car.

On closer inspection, she saw a pair of male legs protruding from under the chassis. Although the man was in shorts, his lack of underpants turned private parts into glaringly public ones.

Unable to stand the embarrassment, she dutifully stepped forward, quickly put her hand UP his shorts, and tucked everything back into place.

On regaining her feet, she looked across the hood and found herself staring at her husband who was standing idly by.

The mechanic, however, had to have three stitches in his forehead.

How hilarious is THAT?????

This story reminded me of a time, in college, when I worked for the United States Post Office. I delivered mail during the summer months. On my route one day, I walked up a driveway. I didn't have to drop the mail in the mailbox because the homeowner was sitting on a ladder, repairing the light fixture next to his side door. He was wearing blue shorts. I looked up to hand him his mail and noticed that his junk was dangling out of the shorts. Whether he was unaware or didn't care, I had no idea. I just remember suppressing my laughter and wondering why it was purple.

I did not, however, engage in any form of tuckage.

I've always had a hate-hate relationship with my body. The older I get, the worse it becomes. I talk a lot about my aversion to society's obsession with rail-thin "beauty" and I stand behind that, but it doesn't mean I can look in the mirror and feel all kinds of gorgeous.

The fact is, I want to be smaller. I want smaller everything. Smaller boobs, smaller tummy, smaller ass. My body is designed to have soft, feminine curves. I can't change that, and that's fine. But it doesn't stop me from flipping channels and pages of magazines, wondering what it would be like to look like THAT. Honestly, I'm getting sick and tired of feeling this way.

When I want something, I go for it. I'm relentless in my pursuit for things that matter to me and I rarely fail. Anything I've ever wanted to achieve, I've done. Which is why I don't understand why I can't reach this goal. I talk a good talk when it comes to giving advice or telling other people what to do, but I can't do this one thing for myself. I'm not fooling myself into thinking that if I lose 25 pounds and get into better shape, "all my dreams will come true," but I do think I'll feel a little bit better about myself. I have a constant internal dialogue going on in my head and all of it comes back to one word: smaller.

So why is this so hard for me? Why can't I just do it? I find myself embarrassed at times to tell people I'm vegan, because I feel like I don't live up to my own healthy lifestyle. It's not that I care what other people think, it's that I have to face the truth that I'm not walking around in the slim, healthy body I've always wanted but have never achieved.

Maybe by putting these thoughts in writing and making them public, I'm making myself more accountable for this truth. A pledge of sorts? I don't know. What I do know is that I have to stop thinking about and talking about it and just do the fucking work it will take. I don't have to want to lose a lot of weight, and it isn't even about a number of pounds, really. It isn't even about looking a certain way, although that would be will be nice. It's about accomplishing this one thing I've never been able to achieve. I know what I have to do:

1. I refuse to "diet." I'm going to continue to eat what I like and what's good for me.
2. No more refined sugar. I know this is what's holding me back so I have to just cut it out.
3. No more processed carbohydrates - bread, pasta. I love whole grains, but carbs are my go-to comfort foods. How comfortable is hating my body, though?
4. Cut back on the portions. I know I keep eating not because I'm hungry, but because it tastes good and it's there.

It's time for me to stop blabbering on and on about all of this and feeling like a victim in my own body. I'm okay admitting that I have these insecurities but they're becoming such an issue in my life that they're paralyzing me. I have to do something about it, now, because I'm the only one who can.

I wouldn't let Tony write REDRUM on the wall before we painted it because I didn't want to jinx the house with bad mojo. He came up with this instead. I figure the worst thing that can come of this is that we might have a horrible case of explosive diarrhea in the house one day.

Yesterday, we finally finished our first home improvement project. It was a fairly simple undertaking - a paint job - or so we thought. Apparently painting four walls in alternating Hokie colors is not as easy as it looks. There are spots that still need to be retouched, but I have a feeling they will serve as a reminder of our amateurish DIY skills for the future. When we install that tile backsplash in the kitchen, we can look back on our crapass paint job and laugh heartily.

We love the way the room turned out. At night, it's cozy. The colors engulf us with warmth. We've still got some things we want to add, like our diplomas once we have them framed, but we're really happy with our office.

See that little elbow in the right corner of the picture?

THAT is the bane of my existence right now. The supply line that goes up to our bathroom decided to spring a little leak yesterday, causing our dining room ceiling to bubble and drip.

If you ever want to know what wet trusses look like, just spend a whole bunch of money on a brand-new house with shoddy workmanship! If we want to look on the bright side of things, we discovered that we should avoid drinking water from the tap, since all of our supply lines are PVC instead of copper. Yay! Also, we didn't have to pay to have this fixed. The builder's warranty covered the repairs. Double yay!

If you want to see the bowels of our house, or our dripping ceiling, click the picture and it will take you to the set.

Home ownership is FUN!

Two weeks before moving: Begin packing in an organized, systematic fashion. Pack lower level of house, beginning with the living room. Pack DVDs and CDs in alphabetical order, numbering boxes in the order that they need to be unpacked. Pack kitchen, wrapping all fragile objects carefully. Tape all boxes shut and label with the contents, designated room and fragility status. Stack boxes in towers, with heaviest boxes on the bottom and lightest boxes on the top, in groups based on destination.

One week before moving: Pack extra rooms in upper level of house. Translation: Pack 2,146,316 boxes to the brim with books.

Three days before moving: Look around master bedroom, which still needs to be packed. Close eyes, hug knees, rock back and forth on bed, and hum for 72 hours.

Day before moving: Throw all remaining items in boxes, with no regard for organization. Stuff boxes until the lid barely covers the top. Curse repeatedly. Do not tape boxes closed or label them. Sigh loudly. Stand in one spot and stare. Do not blink. Surf the internet for vacation deals to Las Vegas. Play with the Benjamin Moore Personal Color Viewer. Browse the Ikea catalog. Stare some more at the amount of crap still left to be packed. Waste time until the house settlement appointment.

Night before moving: Avoid reality. Watch The Amazing Race.

Moving day: Get up at the crack of ass. Stumble around aimlessly, throwing remaining items into boxes before movers arrive. Stick face into pillow and scream. Go to bank, take out inordinate amount of money to pay movers, stop for a coffee. Breathe a sigh of relief when the truck is loaded, with all earthly possessions on their way.

Home.

Want to hear something REALLY embarrassing? Good. Because you're about to.

I bought Tony a bicycle for his birthday. Our new neighborhood is ideal for biking and rollerblading, and I thought it'd be nice for us to spend a Sunday afternoon in the Virginia sunshine now and then. It might do something to help us become less pale and transparent from sitting in our cave-like room, surfing The Internets all day. Target had a sale on bikes, so I bought one for him and one for me.

I hid them in the basement until I could give him his present. He loved the bike, tested it out and adjusted the seat right away. I did the same.

Only here's the problem. I'm sort of petite, and when I got on my bike, MY FEET COULDN'T TOUCH THE GROUND. AND THE SEAT WAS AS LOW AS IT WOULD GO. Jesus Christ. I am too little to ride a WOMAN'S BIKE.

We went to Target to exchange my 26-inch adult bike for a 24-inch BABY BIKE. I'm not kidding. I have to buy a girl's bike. Except girls' bikes only come in colors like "grape" and "fuschia" and "electric green." I might as well attach friggin' training wheels.

Next stop...Toys-R-Us. If I have to buy a kid's bike, I might as well buy it at a toy store.

Last night we had the first walk-through of our house. We were supposed to be looking for things that need to be fixed under the builder's warranty. Some of us did what we were supposed to do, while some of us ran around deciding on paint colors, placing furniture, and lounging in the tub. I'll let you be the judge of who was doing what.



The house is very bland and very beige right now, but that will change. Unlike most of the other houses we looked at, this one is in move-in condition. All it needs is for us to add our own style and personality to the place, which means that in a few weeks, we should have it looking like a REALLY BIG college dorm room.

Oh. My. God. We. Have. So. Much. Shit.

For ten years, I lived much of my life paralyzed by fear. When I finally told fear where to stick it, I felt free and my life began to change. I promised myself I would never be that person again. I refuse. Sometimes, though, fear creeps back and tries to take over again. Yesterday was one of those days.

It's funny how I'm always saying "take a risk", "jump in with both feet" and "do it - don't be afraid." I ought to listen to myself and take my own advice when fear, especially irrational fear, comes back. I won't stop traveling or taking public transportation. I won't stop living my life.

And so today I say to the terrorists what I am telling my fear. Fuck you. Fuck. You. And in case you didn't hear me, I'll say it again. Fuck you.

I've been watching the news all day, feeling sick to my stomach over the loss of life and injuries caused by today's attacks on London. To be honest, I've been tuning out all the discussion of Al Qaeda and terrorist cells and suicide bombing. I'm sick and tired of listening to the talking heads go around and around about it. All I can think about are the people. The people on the buses and trains and in their cars and on the streets - people who were killed and injured and scared out of their minds. I think about families receiving phone calls that can cause relief or complete and utter despair. I can't stop thinking about that.

I understand that terrorism is meant to instill intense fear in people - to unnerve them to the point of immobility - to weaken the human spirit. I understand that the "experts" say that the best way to "fight" terrorism is to go about one's life as normal, showing the terrorists that we can't be beaten down; we can't be broken. It all makes perfect sense to me.

Until I think about the fact that the person I love most in this world rides the Metro into Washington, DC every day and if anything ever happened to him, I don't know what I'd do. I don't want him riding the Metro to work, I don't want him riding the Metro at lunch, and I don't want him riding the Metro home. Maybe it makes me a bad American and maybe the terrorists have broken me, but fuck. It terrifies the hell out of me to think the worst - and I can't help but think about it. Not because the terror alert has been raised for mass transit systems in the U.S., and not because I'm paranoid. Not because I've been watching footage of London all day and not because of 9/11, and yet it's because of all of it and more.

Everything about this has me in a knot today. Anyone have any words of wisdom or comfort on the topic?

Some pictures of our house. We trespassed all over the property the other day, taking pictures. Good thing, too, because we found some things wrong with the crappy vinyl siding that need to be taken care of before we close.

We're doing our first walk-through tomorrow night , so I'll have pictures of the interior to share.

Since we're on the subject, Tracy Kidder wrote an excellent book, House. I became hooked on Kidder's documentary-style writing when I read Among Schoolchildren. I highly recommend this author.

I'm messing around with flickr, adding photos and procrastinating what I should be doing, which is packing up this house.



To follow up with yesterday's post, here's a link to some pictures I took of one of my fave singers, Kurt Nilsen. He performed at the Union Station tree lighting in December and the following evening, did a free concert at the Birchmere. It was fantastic.



The last picture in the set is of me and Kurt Nilsen, because I know you're all dying to know what I look like. Just be kind, bitches.

I've spent the last few hours making a serious dent in the packing extravaganza. It's only fitting that I should begin this daunting task on the fourth of July - Independence Day.

We've purchased a house. It's ours. We can paint our rooms any colors we like. We can use power tools to make holes in the walls. We can plant flowers and herbs. We'll need a weedwhacker! With our Jim Thome and BooBerry bobbleheads side by side, a three-story townhouse will become our home.

Though this is the biggest financial investment and responsibility either one of us has ever made, I feel a sense of freedom as we embark on this new adventure. I'm so grateful for this life we have.

Last night we went to see Howie Day and Gavin DeGraw at Wolf Trap. The rain fell in a torrential downpour the minute we parked the car, and neither of us had an umbrella. By the time we reached our seats, we were soaked. My skirt clung to my legs and I was glad I'd chosen the brown t-shirt over the white one. Apparently my hair is curly when I let it dry naturally.

Wolf Trap is a beautiful site for a concert. The amphitheater is surrounded by lush greenery and fireflies tickle the air. Although I was glad we were under the rooftop last night, I love the lawn seats at Wolf Trap. Is there anything more delicious in summer than a blanket, a picnic supper, some lemonade, and good music under the stars?

I'm on vacation! Today, I thought to myself, what better way to kick off the summer than a trip to the drive-in?

Sigh. It seems that the days of drive-in movies are long gone around here. DC has gone largely digital, and that makes me sad.

Some of my favorite memories as a kid are of putting on my footie pajamas, grabbing my pillow and Holly Hobbie sleeping bag, and heading to the movies in our big black Ford LTD. Mom would make popcorn and Dad would pack bottles of RC Cola, and if we were really good, we were allowed to sit on the hood of the car. I'd always fall asleep in the back seat before the movie ended, but that only sweetens the memory.

Lucky for us, there's a free drive-in movie series nearby on Saturdays in August. We'll bring popcorn and Jujubes and limeade to sip. We can sit in the back seat and neck, and since I'm not such a good girl anymore, I'll probably let Tony get to second base. Or something.

Happy summer, everyone!

Things To Be Excited About

1. Spending the entire day tomorrow with my mother, sorting through the garage, which holds every one of my material possessions.

2. Sarcasm.

3. Seeing Miss Rufus Wainwright in concert, on the lawn at Wolf-Trap, ass-deep in crunchy cicada carcasses. Seeing Miss Clayton Aiken on the Mall in DC on the fourth of July, ankle-deep in crunchy cicada carcasses.

4. The end of the cicada invasion. May they steer clear of my mouth and panties.

5. The possibility that DC will get their shit together and pass the smoking ban so I can go to the Rock-It Grill and watch misfits sing "Plush" and "Whiskey in the Jar" without wheezing and hacking up a lung.

6. Knowing the school and grade level which I will be teaching this fall, and being genuinely thrilled about both.

7. The reaction I get when I reveal my extreme hatred of Led Zeppelin and Bob Dylan.

8. Training for certification in CPR and First Aid.

9. Sticking my thumbs into a perfectly centered ball of clay on a spinning pottery wheel.

10. Writing this entry in my skivvies. I'm living with central AC for the first time ever, excluding hotel rooms.

Today has been a rather interesting day.

I woke up late, but managed to shave my legs in the shower. Good thing, too, because it was hotter than Hades here (well, for Buffalo) and wearing capris was key. I spent most of the day outside, barefooted, with my students. We ran shoeless through the sand and grass. They buried my feet in the sand and we played toe-peek-a-boo. We dug for worms. Jake put one in his back pocket to take home. I'm not sure what condition the poor creature was in by 3 o'clock in the afternoon, but his intentions were good. I pushed the kids on the swings. They pushed me. I taught them to pump their legs to gain greater height and momentum. Some got the rhythm, others needed more practice. We were sweaty and sunkissed and thirsty with filthy feet.

My house closed today. You'd think I'd be the least bit saddened by this, but honestly, I'm not. I'm debt-free for the first time in my life since high school, and I'm not quite sure how to feel about that. Yeah, there have been times since the age of sixteen when I didn't carry credit card balances and regular monthly payments were on the books. But I've always had the frame of mind where I have to be really careful about sticking to a planned budget, which, in turn, encourages me to spend money recklessly and unwisely. The credit card balances rack up, I pay them off, a new obsession takes hold and the vicious circle continues.

So here I am, 34 years old, with a fresh start in life, and scared shitless about my financial situation. For someone who has a history of terrible financial decisions, I have a decent nest egg set aside for the future. I can't touch it until I retire, which is good, or I'd be watching this shitty season of American Idol on a 65 inch plasma flat-screen. I'm just saying. I'm moving to a place where the cost of living is significantly higher than the one I'm used to, but my salary isn't going to increase more than a few hundred dollars. According to my calculations, I'll have plenty of money left over each month as a cushion or for savings, but my brain hasn't shifted out of debt-mode yet. I wonder if it ever will.

I recognize and acknowledge my own limitations. I know I'm four years old. I love that about me. The problem is, it's not always in my best interest. Still, I have to own up to my quirks. I'm extremely committed to maintaining a debt-free lifestyle, spending only what I can pay in full each month, and nothing more. Knowing the powerful draw of the Best-Buy-Voices-In-My-Head, I am turning over my high-limit credit cards to Tony when I move. It's for my own good. And my credit report's. I'll keep one low-limit credit card in my wallet for monthly expenses like gas, food and entertainment.

Of course, I'm picturing the scene in the movie "Fatso" where Dom DeLuise has padlocked the refrigerator and cabinet doors so he cannot overeat. He gives the key to his brother, and in a fit of raging hunger, brandishes a butcher knife to get the key. I promise you, Tony, I would NEVER threaten you with a weapon of any kind to get my credit cards back. I prefer much more peaceful methods of making you "talk." I'm just saying.

Anyway, as of 4 o'clock this afternoon, I am completely unencumbered by any and all financial burdens. It's taking all my strength of will and self-control not to drive over to DSW Shoe Warehouse and buy out their entire collection of Charles Davids.

What?!

Have you ever seen this man in concert?

If not, do yourself a favor and go if the opportunity should arise. At least buy his CDs.

~~~

This weekend, Tony and I saw Michael Buble perform live. I've relayed this information to a wide variety of people I know, and I'm shocked by how many of those people have never heard of Michael Buble. Like, all of them.

A little background...

I was raised on crooner music. My grandpa had tons of albums by Louis Prima, Keely Smith, Rosemary Clooney, the Rat Pack. This genre of music was always blaring from the speakers of the gigantic stereo cabinet that stood against the north wall of Gramp's den. Grandma hummed these tunes as she chopped onions and browned meatballs.

At family gatherings, it wasn't unusual for everyone seated around the dining room table to break into song or for me to tapdance on the table, singing "Just a Gigolo" while the entire group of crazy Italians sitting on green velveteen chair cushions clapped along. Karaoke machines have replaced the tape recorders we sang into, but the music is the same.

This music is a part of my history, my ancestry, my culture. When I hear it, the warmth and love of a Sunday afternoon spaghetti dinner enfolds my heart. It's part of who I am.

When I got the email that Michael Buble's tour included a stop in Washington, DC, I was elated. I planted myself in front of the computer the moment the tickets went on sale and my fast "refreshing" scored us two seats, front row, center.

Entering Lisner Auditorium, I was pleased to see the stage set in traditional crooner style. A black lacquered piano and drum kit flanked a single microphone, wooden stool, and seats for the horn section. A blue and silver color scheme and jazz guitar added a hint of contemporary elegance.

The band played an intro, and after a few minutes, the brass players leaned in to the center microphone and introduced Michael Buble in unison. He soft-shoed onto the stage clad entirely in black. His spiky haircut framed his expressive, deep-set almond eyes and he sparkled from the moment he faced the audience.

The concert set was the perfect balance of somber, thoughtful numbers, romantic ballads and upbeat tempos. The most impressive thing, to me, about Buble's artistry is his ability to take any song from any era and make it fit his genre and style. His rendition of George Michael's "Kissing a Fool" is flawless, and spawned an entire medley of eighties tunes that included "Faith," "I Want Your Sex," which he oozes, and "Billie Jean."

During this portion of the show, as well as the interim segues between songs, Buble demonstrated a sense of humor and an ability to banter well beyond his years. He cursed with class and was humbly grateful to his fans. He encouraged flash photography and spoke with boyish nostalgia of his grandfather's impact on his career. The best anecdote of the evening preceded the song "The Way You Look Tonight," one of my favorites. It went something like this...

"As I look out into this good-looking audience tonight, I see many men. Men who were, undoubtedly, dragged here by their wives or girlfriends, or boyfriends for that matter. I imagine their conversations sounded like this.

Honey! We're going to see Michael Buble next Sunday night!

Michael Buble? Michael Buble? FUCK Michael Buble!

I want to thank these men especially, knowing that there's got to be a sporting event or something on television they'd much rather be watching than sitting here, listening to me sing.

And for them, I can make only one promise. I promise to do my best up here on stage to make sure each and every one of you GETS LAID TONIGHT. I think this next song ought to do it."

How fantastic is that? One of the things I loved best about seeing Edwin McCain in concert was his exceptional rapport with the audience, built, in part, by interesting and well-told stories. Part of being a good performer is not just mastery of the craft, but an ability to connect with an audience through a signature style. Michael Buble has written his John Hancock all over his set list and he wins the audience over every time, I imagine. He won D.C. in a matter of seconds.

The encore, "My Funny Valentine," brought the audience to their feet involuntarily. During the last verse, Buble stepped away from the microphone and stood at the very edge of the stage. He sang the remainder of the song without amplification. His velvety voice filled the theater and his face twinkled with the look that only comes from someone who honestly and truly loves what he does with a passion. That passion was contagious and I, for one, left the theater, feverish and flushed.

In the car on the way home, I closed my eyes and remembered my three-year old self, sitting on the floor of Grandpa's back room, singing into a microphone that shocked my lips with static electricity. I sang the same songs I'd heard Sunday evening from the pouty lips of a 25-year old boy from Vancouver, Canada who has dedicated his life's work to keep this music thriving. He's keeping my childhood alive.

~~~

Grandpa, I didn't get to say goodbye. Is it too late to say thank you?

WHAT: A Pity Party for Danielle
WHERE: Under her covers
WHEN: Tonight, and probably for the next few days
PLEASE BRING: Puffs Plus tissues, orange juice, butternut squash soup and menthol chest rub
RSVP: Regrets only to the comments link below.

Yesterday, Tony and I went to see 13 Going On 30, starring his other girlfriend, Jennifer Garner.

I was entertained. The movie was described somewhere as "Big with boobs." That's fairly accurate, although Tom Hanks was much more believable and hysterical as a young boy in a man's body. I'm not a huge fan of Tom Hanks, but that movie is one of my favorites, and his performance was stellar. Still, the soundtrack ruled and the choreography to "Thriller" and "Love is a Battlefield" was a blast from the past. (The past = a few weeks ago. Did I mention I know the "Beat It" choreography by heart?) My only real criticism was that the fashion and shoes were not duly featured. I was left wanting more. Sigh.

As I said, the movie was entertaining, but equally entertaining was the little girl sitting behind us. In one scene, the main character, Jenna, walks into her closet and surveys the goods. She picks up a black and red lace thong. Without missing a beat, the child behind us yells out, "Oh, look, Mommy! You have those!"

I lost it. I do believe I clapped. I couldn't contain my laughter. The little girl's father was laughing uncontrollably, too. I don't think the mother heard her daughter's comment because she kept asking her other child if she wanted candy. Over and over and over. Loudly. After arriving ten minutes late. Two things I can't stand: people who open candy wrappers during live theater and people who talk loudly in movies.

So here's the point of this entire story. As the credits rolled, I heard the father say to the little girl, "You were completely embarrassing during the movie." The child responded, "Why, Daddy?" He replied, "I'm not going to discuss this now. I'll tell you later."

I was livid. He laughed at his daughter's comment and then chastised her for it later. Talk about mixed messages. Don't laugh at your child's behavior if you find it unacceptable. Furthermore, don't berate and belittle your child for their behavior. Kids can't separate themselves from what they do, and it's up to the ADULTS to let them know, look, I love YOU, but I don't love that behavior I just witnessed. And what the hell were these people thinking bringing their kids to this movie in the first place? This girl, in my opinion, was much too young to be at this flick.

Right now, we have people in this country moaning and groaning about all the "offensive" content in the media. The FCC is fining Howard Stern left and right (but not Oprah!) and a Constitutional amendment is on the table. What happened to personal responsibility? Did we litigate it out of existence? It's no wonder the government feels it has the right and the responsibility to tell ME what my child should and should not be viewing. Idiots like the guy behind me at the movie theater don't have the common sense to RENT a more appropriate movie for his family.

Since the federal government feels it's necessary to regulate and control so many aspects of MY private life, maybe they could do me a favor. Establish a law whereby people require a license before they're allowed to breed.

Thx in advance.

I think it's fair to say that between now and June, I'll have another free flight on Southwest.

Did I mention I'm living with my parents for two months?

I haven't lived "at home" since I was eighteen years old, and I moved "back" yesterday. Within minutes, my dad was sitting on the edge of the bed bombarding me with questions about the internet and my mom was rattling inquiries about the remaining contents of my house from the master bedroom down the hall. Not to mention the constant barrage of "Do you want anything to eat?"

And I can't just wander freely and whimsically around the house because of The Dog Who Wants to Eat Me.

Oh, lord. I'm not the praying type, but I might start praying for strength not to throw myself over the balcony, or better yet, throw one of them over, Damien Omen-style.

I've got my computer set up on a card table in a corner of one of the guest bedrooms. The table sits on two Pac-Man sheets that are spread on the floor, in case I get the carpet dirty from all the SITTING I'll be doing. Next to the table is a window with a lovely view of the house and lake across the street. I can see it any time I want because the shades on the window are only for "decoration" and don't actually close. If I pull them down, they'll never go back up, and they won't be perfectly aligned. I must look like Norman Bates' mother from the outside.

I'm not complaining, mind you, because my parents are all too generous for letting me shack up in their 2800 square foot mansion of a house that they built last year. It's just a big adjustment after being on my own for sixteen years. It will be nice to spend this time with them before I move 465 miles away. Just like gouging out my eyes with a dull pencil is "nice."

I'm sure I'll be bawling my eyes out on June 26 when I pull out of this driveway, waving goodbye. Until then, let me have my pretend complaints.

Today is the last day I'll have my phone number of the last eight years.

Today is the last day I'll wake up in the house that has been my home for the last eight years.

Am I sad about this?

Not. One. Bit.

And now I have two more reasons to hate American Idol right now.

Like a good little lemming, I tuned in to watch an hour of bad auditions. FOX had the unmitigated gall and audacity to re-run the crapass episode in which they brought back the worst auditioners to perform live on the American Idol stage. I believe Eric Cartman said it best. "As if we care."

Furthermore, I finally purchased the American Idol audition kit this weekend. I installed the software and warmed up my voice. Tony went off to watch the Sopranos so I could concentrate and sing, uninterrupted.

I was singing my little heart out to Avril Lavigne's "I'm With You," belting out the "yeah yeahs", then switching to my sexy lower alto after the bridge. I went to listen to this self-proclaimed masterpiece of an mp3 only to discover that the microphone doesn't work. I checked all my internal settings and short of unpacking the karaoke machine for a final sound check, I think it's safe to conclude the mic is not in service.

It's not bad enough that Ryan Seacrest wears Clay Aiken's pink "Bridge Over Troubled Water" shirt every other week? Is the budget so poor that they can't even manufacture a functional microphone, too? I smell the demise of one highly rated television show.

And it smells like swamp ass.

Apparently this thing is called a camel cricket (or spider cricket)

"Camel crickets are of the most common household pest crickets they are. Many call this the spider cricket due to its close resemblance to spiders. Mainly they invade dark damp places such as crawl spaces, basements, sheds, and storage rooms and can lead to severe infestations. Camel crickets are often found hanging upside down on wood areas under houses. By the most part they are harmless but if not controlled they can get out of hand and sometimes the babies begin forging inside causing nuisance problems."

and it leaps.

HANGS UPSIDE DOWN AND LEAPS!

I just braved the basement and it's nowhere to be found.

Did I mention the fucker LEAPS?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

This

greeted me on the basement steps when I went downstairs to throw in a load of laundry.

I hate spiders. This arachnid doesn't even qualify as a spider. This thing is a bona fide tarantula. I get the creeps just thinking about it.

How am I supposed to go back down there? The laundry can get moldy for all I care. What if I open the door and it's waiting at the top of the stairs to leap onto my face and crawl into my mouth??? (This is how my mind works. Just like I think every unidentifiable lump in the street is a fetus in a brown paper bag.) Nope, definitely can't go into the basement, now.

The sad thing is, I can't bring myself to kill a spider. I can't even step on an ant. If an insect is small enough, I'll trap it and release it outside. I have a problem with tiny fruit ants in my classroom. Even though I know the custodian leaves ant traps around, I prefer my alternate means of insect removal.

I leave a morsel of food under the shelves by the windows to lure the ants. They congregate on the food, at which time I sweep them up gently and release them into the grass outside my classroom. I realize this isn't the conventional method for eliminating ants, but it's my conscience and I'll do what I like.

That said, there is NO WAY ON EARTH I will make any attempt to capture and release this giant freaking spider hanging out in the basement. I can only hope it stays put until Tony gets home. He can capture it all manly-like while I stand back squealing and screeching and standing on my tippy toes.

If that thing moves from the stairs, there's no way I'll be able to sleep tonight.

But still, Zuba pants are worse.

So much for not having an almond butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast. So much for eating last night's leftovers instead. The pull of the almond butter is just too great. I am weak and hopeless in its grasp.

My cute, flippy haircut is too difficult for me to maintain. I don't like to use hair products and I don't like to spend a lot of time on my hair, so I'm back to looking like a Soccer Mom. With the exception of a Sarah McLachlan-ish crop a few years back, my hair has been cut in a pageboy style for the last sixteen years. At least now I have layers which adds volume to the old standby. Jared's pretty goddamned lucky my hair looks decent without all the round brushing and moussing, or else I'd march right into his little salon and skin the fake tan right off his Napoleonesque body. I'm just saying.

I was a lazy ass yesterday and I plan to be a lazy ass today. I had grandiose plans of visiting 20 to 25 elementary schools this week, but now I think I'll just mail the letters instead. Vacation is just too delicious to think about work.

The most miraculous thing happened the other night. Tony introduced me to Sirius. No, he doesn't have a friend who escaped from wizard prison. I'm talking satellite radio, peeps. It's clear, it's got a receiver that tells what song is playing and there are no commercials. But the heavens opened and the songs of angels resonated in my ears when he showed me the channel that plays BROADWAY SHOW TUNES TWENTY FOUR HOURS A DAY. Uninterrupted. This is my holy fucking grail. John loaned us his car kit for our trip to Philadelphia tomorrow, which Tony installed in my car this morning. In the short time it took me to drop Tony off at the Metro station and return home, I heard "If I Were a Rich Man" from Fiddler on the Roof, "Get Me to the Church on Time" from My Fair Lady, "Tomorrow" from Annie, "It Only Takes a Moment" from Hello, Dolly! and "Take a Chance on Me" from Mamma Mia. I'm nearly hoarse from belting.

Yeah, I'll be subscribing.

My readership is dropping like flies, and peeps, that does not make me happy. I realize I'm not as prolific as I was last summer when I had absolutely nothing to do all day but sit around and let the verbal diarrhea fly from my fingertips, but come on, Shelly. I guess I'd better update more or get on the banner stick, huh?

I've been in Virginia for a week, and I'm quite fond of the life of leisure. So fond of it, in fact, that I think I may start playing the lottery. Or gambling. Or hooking. Something to bring on the fast cazash and allow me to continue living in the manner to which I've become accustomed.

I got here late Monday morning after a seven hour drive. Why? Because I am unable to sleep past 4am unless I am dog tired, and I figured as long as I was up, I might as well start driving. I headed into DC to pick up some cupcakes at Sticky Fingers, a vegan bakery Tony and I have been dying to try. Oh. My. God. If we weren't already ADHD, we definitely were after eating these fuckers for dessert. Talk about sugar overload. We WILL be regular customers.

My car lease allows 10,000 miles a year. It's a good thing I almost died last year and spent several months as a shut-in, because I made up for the unused average mileage this week. I drove all over kingdom come, getting to know the area and looking at apartments.

Because I am highly anal retentive, I made a little comparison chart of all the places we've visited. I even included room sizes. (I need Paxil. I really do.) I have to analyze the living situation until my eyes bleed because when it comes to monthly living expenses, I'm very frugal. Ok, I'm cheap. Yet I think nothing of going to Old Navy and dropping 400 bucks on clothes. My most recent shopping spree included a frenzied bout of t-shirt grabbing, after which I discovered I bought a few items that were not my size, simply because they were stuck to the garment I actually wanted to purchase. (The last three publications I purchased were "Woman, an Intimate Geography," "The Beauty Myth," and "Glamour" magazine.) Some people find me ironical.

I'm starting to receive phone calls and emails from school principals who are getting a jump start on their staffing for the upcoming school year. Tuesday, I had a meeting with a principal, which left me in a quandary. For seven years, I taught at a school with a highly impoverished population. I know in my heart I was put on this earth to teach in a poverty school, but it does lead to early burnout. I've been on "hiatus" for three years, teaching prekindergarten. I didn't think I was ready to go back to a poverty school yet, and then Tuesday rolled around. Talking with this principal and visiting her amazing school made me realize how much I miss working with at-risk kids. I'll share more about this at another time...getting my thoughts down about it in writing will help solidify my decision, I'm sure.

The William Hung CD came in the mail on Wednesday. Or was it Thursday? Honestly, when I'm on vacation, I can't even keep track of what day it is. It was released on Tuesday, but I couldn't find it at Target, Best Buy or Tower Records. (We did find it at Borders, eventually, for ten dollars. Damn it, I paid thirteen!) Tony and I listened to it while we made dinner, all the while screeching and running into the living room to make sure our ears were functioning properly. First of all, god bless America. The fact that the worst karaoke performer can get a legitimate record contract and big ass displays in record stores in New York City makes me proud to be a citizen of this great country. That said, I'm fucking BITTER that I don't have a record contract yet. I'd be singing my favorite show tunes at the top of my lungs with my overdone vibrato. You know you want it. You know you'd buy it. Just admit it. Unlike Daniel Kublbock's CD, I don't think I would WANT to listen to the William Hung CD on a regular basis. It's the kind of music that makes you want to rip off your toenails with a pair of needle nosed pliers. I imagine I'll be listening to this CD whenever I'm with someone who hasn't heard it before, just to see the reaction. I'm still hanging the "love, William Hung" poster in my bedroom, though. I'm just saying.

Yesterday, We Four Pagans (distant relatives of We Three Kings) spent Easter Sunday with a bunch of crazy Branch Davidians playing paintball. It was rainy and muddy and the field smelled like cow shit. I was a bit intimidated at first by all the camouflage and serious attitudes, but that wore off rapidly as I turned into Dainty Stealth Combat Bitch. During our first game, our team played defense. I spent most of the time hiding behind a tree and giggling like a schoolgirl until I got shot in the knee. Admittedly, I was an easy target.

During the second game, we moved to a new field called "The Village." I don't know of too many villages made of cheap ass particle board and covered in flourescent paint, but I was willing to suspend my disbelief for an hour in the name of adrenaline-induced fun. We played defense in round one. Tony and I hid behind a small lean-to between two trees and protected the village from ambush in the woods. Things were pretty quiet for a while, but we didn't dare peek over the board. It's a good thing we stuck to our strategy, because at one point a man from the opposing team wanted to let us know he knew of our presence, and bombarded our hiding spot with round after round of paintballs. Had we exposed any body part, we would have gotten NAILED. Tony's brother John (MOO!) got hit in the neck during the first game and he's got the gigantic welt to prove it. Even though it didn't hurt when I got it in the knee, I don't think I would want any of my soft fleshy parts or my head to be slammed with one of these things.

In Round two, we were on the offense. Tony, John and I snuck up on the village through the woods. This game was HARD CORE. People were screaming and shooting and running. After stalking the enemy for some time, Tony and John were out, leaving me in a one-on-one faceoff with my opponent. We stood our ground and shot the living shit out of each other. I think I popped off at least a hundred balls at this dude. I kept bobbing and ducking and moving around so he couldn't nail me so easily. And it worked! We just kept shooting each other until game over was called and we headed back to camp.

We spent some time at the shooting range before we went home, covered in mud and sweat, with the smell of moldy face masks imprinted in our sense memories.

I should make it very clear right now that I absolutely despise guns that shoot bullets. They terrify me. (I'm no Rosie O'Donnell hypocrite, though, hollering about gun control laws and then hiring a bodyguard to protect me and my children while packing heat. No. I believe people have the right to own firearms as long as they use and store them responsibly. I don't agree with everything I believe should be a right. I'm not going to get into my views on abortion. Yet.) I do, however, HEART THE SHIT OUT OF GUN GAMES like Time Crisis, Laser Tag and now Paintball. (I'm not going to get into a diatribe about why I don't believe gun games increase violent thoughts and acts, either. Yet.)

But the almost-very-best-thing about my vacation so far happened this morning. My hair is at that "should I cut it, should I grow it?" stage, which inevitably means it's time for a chop. I asked Caryn to recommend a stylist to me, since her hair always looks freaking fantastic. She sent me to her man, Jared. Ho.Ly. Shit. This guy is a dream come true. I was really hoping he'd be wearing the lace-up pants Caryn described. Instead, I got something better. A leopard print blouse with clingy black cargo pants. And the boy isn't just tan. He's roasted. He seriously looks like a Thanksgiving turkey fresh from the oven. And the bling was OUT OF CONTROL. My favorite nugget of wisdom that spewed from his pursed lips was this little gem, "You look like a soccer mom with this haircut. And what are these straggly pieces in the back? If you're ready to embrace change, I think it's time for your hair to start over." Like I said, Ho.Ly. Shit. As expected, my hair looks fantastic. It's flippy and airy and fresh.

A few observations. I am a gay man magnet. I wouldn't say I'm a "fag hag," though, for two reasons. First and foremost, I am NOT a hag. Furthermore, I have learned that I only attract a certain breed of gay man. The gay men who are partial to my company include those who adore theater, are well-educated, highly political, and not completely obsessed with fashion and style. Self-absorbed gay men do not heart me. Upon meeting any gay man, I can say with a high degree of certainty whether they will become my BFF or not. Jared, not so much. He'll be a fantastic stylist, and I'll be desperately loyal to him, but we won't be hitting the Broadway circuit together. And that's just fine with me.

Off to pay bills, watch disc two of "Family Business" and start dinner...

This

is what I saw when I woke up today.

I just got back from Walgreens, and since I took that picture, more snow has accumulated. I’m fundamentally opposed to brushing snow off my car in April, so I used the “roll down the window” snow removal technique. It worked great but now my jeans are soaked since the sticky wall of snow always manages to fall inward.

I couldn’t wear anything from my cute new spring wardrobe to Sheila’s shower yesterday, thanks to this weather. The open-toed pink sandals I wanted to wear sat in the closet as I pulled on my black knee high come-fuck-me boots. My friend Lucinda would call them “fierce” (a shoe whore’s adjective of choice), but let’s face it, these boots have no business being on my feet in April, fierce or not.

I’m not a huge fan of bridal showers, but this one was particularly nice. About fifteen of us gathered at Sheila’s brother’s house. The food was homemade, the fireplace was crackling and the couches were oversized and comfortable. Sheila’s family is laid back and doesn’t go for a lot of fuss.

Sheila and Cormac are getting married in May. They’re made for each other in many ways, but there’s one thing about their relationship that connects them even more deeply. They’re both Irish. Sheila’s family is of Irish descent, and she still has family members who live on the Emerald Isle. Cormac was born in Ireland and he has the yummy accent and ruddy cheeks to prove it. They have a beautiful daughter named Mairead (rhymes with parade). They embrace their Irish heritage in every aspect of their lives.

They leave me no other choice but to mock them.

As Sheila opened one Irish-themed gift after another, we became aware that shamrocks and claddaghs would be the ubiquitous symbols of this union. I suggested having the servers dress like leprechauns and jig around the room while passing corned beef and cabbage hors d’oeuvres. The centerpieces on the tables should be spray-painted pots of gold with sun catcher rainbows protruding from each vessel. Each guest could take home a bar of Irish Spring soap as a favor. And if they haven’t had the invitations printed yet, they might want to consider the following meal choices on the response cards: filet mignon, stuffed chicken, and Lucky Charms.

There’s nothing like a good bout of stereotyping to lighten the mushy mood at a bridal shower.

I’d better get back to work. I’ve got some gold chains, pinky rings, flocked wallpaper and spaghetti sauce to pack away.

People have been asking me why I haven’t been writing, so I guess I owe my dedicated readers and friends an update. Plus I’m procrastinating, which is my favorite hobby next to dance and pottery.

After a lame attempt to sell my house on my own, I decided to suck it up and list the damn thing with a realtor. My aunt and cousin work together in the real estate biz, so I gave them a call and we wrote up all the papers. I understood up front that, because they work for a broker, I wouldn’t get a break on the realtor’s fees, but it was more important to me to sell quickly than try to make a profit. There’s no way that would happen, anyhow, considering the amount of money I sunk into renovations and general upkeep over the last eight years.

It turns out listing my house with them was the best goddamn decision I’ve made in my life, for two reasons. One, there’s no way I would have known about the legal hoops sellers have to jump through to protect themselves. My aunt had all the disclosure documents and contractual papers necessary, and I felt really good knowing everything was on the up and up. Secondly, my house sold in FIVE DAYS.

The action started the day the house hit the MLS database, and in less than a week, two bid proposals were offered. We scheduled the presentations back to back and heard offers from two realtors on the same afternoon. One bid was below my asking price, the other, above. Guess which one I accepted?

The realtor who came in with the successful bid was a savvy woman. She understood that in the current market, with low interest rates and very few houses in my area and price range, a serious buyer doesn’t come in any lower than the asking price. Her clients were lovely people - a young couple with two small boys, and I knew when I met them that I wanted them to have my house. I’m not particularly attached to this dwelling, but there’s some sentimentality attached to my first house and my residence for the last eight years. When December 25 rolls around again, I’ll imagine the boys scrambling down my staircase to see what Santa brought them during their slumber and that will make me smile.

Since the signing of the contract, I’ve been frantically packing and boxing my belongings. My plan is to be out of the house by May 1, even though the closing isn’t scheduled for a week later. I’d like to have the phone and cable service turned off to save some money. I won’t be able to turn off the gas or electric before the closing, due to the final walkthrough, but I can turn the gas down and leave the electric off, which will save me some bucks, too. Once I close, the mortgage will be prorated and I’ll get a refund from the final month’s payment as well as the prorated refund from the taxes that have already been paid for the year. That’ll cover my moving costs, basically.

I thought the packing process would be a nightmare, but it really hasn’t been that bad. I’m at the point now where I just need to organize and box up my loose crap. It’s tedious and it makes me want to take everything and just toss it in the trash. Most of it is junk from the attic, which I never even touch. If I don’t use it on a daily basis, I don’t know what I’m saving it for. I’m sure there will come a day when the instructional video for my Cuisinart or fifty thousand pairs of knitting needles will come in handy, right? Right.

Meanwhile, I’m having the little unfinished projects completed so the bank appraisal can go through without a hitch, meeting with lawyers and lugging loads upon loads of my stuff to my parents’ garage. Monday I’ll be leaving for Virginia, where I’ll spend the two week spring break relaxing with Tony and visiting elementary schools. The school district that hired me is county wide, and there are over 130 elementary schools within its boundaries. I need to be a bit proactive about marketing myself to the ones that are in close proximity to the area in which I’d like to live. Otherwise, I could be facing a ridiculously long commute to or from work each day. It’s likely that a short visit to a principal could result in a request for my employment when staffing for the upcoming school year is put into place. I’m very memorable in my professional capacity, so I’m hoping that will work in my favor.

In other news, I got back Sunday from a weekend in Vegas with some of my favorite women on the planet. For someone who doesn’t smoke, drink, gamble (mostly) or stay out late, I really HEART that city. I should have brought along a box of “Oops, I Crapped My Pants” for this trip because I spent the greater portion of my time there trying to prevent incontinence. That and driving around in a sweeeeeeeeeeet Chevy Impala. Jealous? Thought so. I’m going to leave the details of this trip to my girl, Kelly, because I know no one else can do justice to the weekend in writing the way she can.

I’m on vacation in two days, and it can’t come any sooner because my classroom is like “Lord of the Flies” this week. If I turn my back, there will be cannibalism, I just know it.

Saturday is my friend Sheila’s bridal shower and Joe Paradox dinner. Fabulous Seana arranged a gift certificate to a spa day, which rules because it means no shopping necessary. All I have to do is write the check. Saturday also rules because Tony and John will be seeing a Phillies’ game for the first time at the new stadium! That’s like a Manolo Blahnik trunk show to me. Mmmmmmm, baby.

I had a little cash windfall the other day, too. Apparently I overpaid my escrow last year to the tune of a thousand dollars. It’s a nice chunk of change I can use to reimburse myself for the money I’ve spent on Clay Aiken tickets over the last year. Yeah, just tickets.

American Idol is a yawner this season, the picture tube on my crappy TV sucks the big wazoo, and Ariel’s claws need to be cut. I took out a classified ad in the paper to sell my entertainment center and I haven’t gotten one fricking call yet. If I have to hire movers to get this monstrosity out of my house, I’m going to be vi.o.lent. I bought a boatload of new spring clothes at Old Navy last week and some fabulous new shoes. Kat was very turned on by the sexy combination of black cuffed capris and pink sandals I sported in Vegas, so I guess I chose well in the wardrobe department.

In the wake of a floor carpeted by cardboard boxes and the vacant echo of a nearly emptied room, I’m reminded of my first bedroom, the place I spent most of my time as a child, writing, reading, playing Barbie striptease, listening to Donny and Marie, and making out with my Shaun Cassidy posters. As I grew up, I learned that four walls and the contents within are a reflection of who I am.

I’m a bit melancholy to be leaving my first house, but more excited to create my first real home.

I'm walking around today without a coat.

For March in Buffalo, that's a big deal.

The woman who was afraid to fly for ten years has earned two free round trip flights in four months.

We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
-Shakespeare

I�m feeling particularly sentimental tonight. The last few days have left the taste of gratitude on my tongue. I've undergone a pretty remarkable transformation over the past year. The courage to be true to myself came from within, and I continue to surprise and amaze myself each day with what I think, say and do.

My friends have been instrumental in the changes I�ve made in my life. To tell you what you mean to me, I must tell you what you are to me...

Amy, you are trust.

Kelsey, you are family.

Seana, you are integrity.

Sheri, you are honesty.

Rebecca, you are wit.

Sheila, you are confidence.

Fran, you are passion.

Michelle, you are loyalty.

Kelly, you are faith.

Melissa, you are laughter.

Kat, you are intelligence.

Wendy, you are energy.

Erin, you are freedom.

Robin, you are wisdom.

Tony, you are love.

I had all kinds of snarky examples to balance the tenderness of this list, but I think I'll save them for another day. They don't belong here right now. Now, I just want to say thank you.

There�s a difference between being independent and being alone. I can say for certain that I am now the former and not the latter. It used to be the other way around. This way feels much better.

My house has been sold. It was on the market five days and I received two offers for it. I took the one that was a nice chunk of change over my asking price. The bonus for me was that the buyers were a really nice young couple with two adorable young boys. The night they walked through the house, I heard them yell down from the third floor, “Ooooh, Mommy! This could be our playroom!” Immediately, I wanted them to live here.

I was pleasantly surprised to find out a few days after I accepted their bid that they waived a home inspection. Personally, I would never buy a house without having it inspected, but this family lost a house because it didn’t pass inspection. I think they were frustrated with that experience and wanted to be in a house of their own so badly, they were willing to take the risk. Plus, they didn’t want to pay the inspection fee again. My house is in great condition, even though it’s old, so I know everything would have been up to snuff, which is lucky for them. Plus, the honesty with which I completed the disclosure document ensures they’re not getting a lemon.

Selling the house was a huge relief. Even though I knew it would sell quickly, there was a very small chance it wouldn’t and I would be carrying a mortgage and apartment payment over the summer with no income. I’ll be even more relieved when the homebuyers get their mortgage commitment and we have a closing date. My mom told me the other day that I have a horseshoe up my ass. Because she said this to me, I should probably expect this deal to fall through. I need to accept that the pendulum is finally swinging in my favor, but that’s not so easy after living miserably for over ten years.

Last night my entire family went to dinner for my grandmother’s 90th birthday. We’ve got some hardy genes in our lineage, because just about everyone lives to be a bazillion. Very few people in my family have had long or debilitating illnesses and everyone looks at least ten years younger than they really are. A few weeks ago, Tony, John, Caryn and I went to lunch at the Hard Rock Café in Niagara Falls, which happens to be in the same building as the casino. We were proofed to enter the casino, and we were proofed again by security upon re-entry from the restaurant. The guard looked at my birthdate, looked at me, looked back at my birthdate and said, “REALLY? No way! Wow.” I’m sure he wasn’t screwing with me because people always think I’m in my early twenties. So whenever you hear me bitching and moaning with my “I hate people” diatribes, understand I am referring to everyone OTHER THAN the people who mistake me for a much younger woman. Just wanted to make that clear.

Dinner was a loud and boisterous affair, because my family does not know how to take turns talking. Everyone just yells at once and whoever is the loudest gets heard. Uncle Chuck regaled us with tales of school bus driving, Patrick and I imitated William Hung’s “She Bangs” audition most of the night, and my dad opened my grandmother’s birthday cards and flashed the cash so everyone could see who gave the most generous gift, for which he promptly took credit. We went around the table with well wishes for the family matriarch on this milestone anniversary. There was laughter, more than a few tears, and an abundance of love. When I move, it’s going to be very hard to say goodbye to the woman who taught me how to play solitaire, make the best spaghetti sauce in the world, sing songs in Italian and give of myself to others. When I grow up, I hope I’m half the woman she is.

I’ve spent most of today dismantling my very first home and packing it away into big Rubbermaid containers. Anyone who’s ever been here knows that this house is a reflection of who I am. It’s charming and cozy and as soon as you walk through the door, you feel the warmth.

I plan to leave a little part of me here for the new residents so their home will be filled with happiness, peace and love.

"Just when I thought this weekend couldn�t get any better...�"

It�s really not a good idea to let Melissa and I spend more than twenty four successive hours together, because the endless parroting and quoting results in the following...

Danielle, driving car, attempts to exit parking ramp in Niagara Falls, Canada. Exit is halted because Danielle has misplaced parking ramp ticket. Tony sits in passenger seat and has flashbacks to an October day in a New York City hotel when Danielle tore apart purse and luggage trying to locate lost valet ticket. Tony is certain Danielle will talk her way out of the parking ramp and locate misplaced ticket minutes after exiting. Tony is correct. Melissa sits in back seat, planning emigration to Canada..

The parking lot attendant approaches the car. I roll down my window and look up at him, innocently. He says, �Ticket machine�s not working?�

�I can�t find my ticket, budd-EH,� I reply, in South Park mock-Canadian voice. Melissa, and I have been parroting this voice all goddamned day and now I am unknowingly and unconsciously using it in conversation with an actual Canadian person.

�Well, you can pay me here,� he replies.

�Do you take American?�

He nods and I hand him a twenty dollar bill, at which point he says �Oh, you don�t have exact change, eh?�

I reach for a ten when he whips out change and says, �All these people paid the parking inside the Casino. That�s how they�re getting OOT.� We�re not sure what to laugh at first. The �oot� or the little parking lecture we�re receiving.

The window is barely up when Melissa exclaims, �Holy shit! We�re not even FIVE MINUTES from the border, and did you HEAR that dude�s ACCENT? I fucking HEART the Canada.�

Melissa�s extreme hearting of �the Canada� began forty eight hours prior to this tender encounter when we drove from Buffalo to Toronto to see Canadian Idol winner Ryan Malcolm perform at the Hummingbird Center. We�ve assembled a darling group of misfits over the internet through a shared obsession with a certain Mr. Clayton Holmes Aiken nee Grissom. We see eye to eye on most things, but the Ryan Malcolm fanship has divided us into haves and have-nots. Melissa, Tony and I HAVE the Ryan Malcolm obsession. Kat and Kelly HAVE NOT. In fact, they have a violent and extreme hatred for the man they consider to be a balding, talentless hack. Knowing we, the Ry-Ry hearters, are correct, we overlook this small ignorance on their part in the name of true friendship. That and the fact that they are wrong.

We drove to Toronto on Friday through rush hour. The bridge was free of traffic, and we willingly gave up our rights at the border crossing to a very nice agent who seemed mildly amused by the fact that we were driving 120 kilometers to see the Canadian Idol. She was a vast improvement from the toll taker with the purple mullet on the highway back in America. We had our IDS ready for presentation, but they were unnecessary. This trusting soul just let us right in to her lovely country. Actually, when I say WE had our Ids ready for presentation, I mean Tony and Melissa had their passports out. I did not have my government issued identification in my hand. The reason will be revealed later...

We drove through the land of maple trees and mounties. We parked, had dinner and walked to the concert hall just in time to pick up our tickets, find our seats and scan the audience for freaks before the lights went down. The opening act, Jacynthe, was a disaster, but it gave us our first taste of the quaint polite nature of the Canadian people, which in turn, gave Melissa a taste for a work Visa.

The audience was incredibly excited, but reserved, like Clay Aiken fans on Darvocet. Jacynthe kept calling out, �Put your hands together, TORONTO!� and �Let me hear you, TORONTO!� and �Wave your hands in the air from side to side like this, TORONTO!� Four people took Jacynthe up on her offer. There were a few Malcolmaniacs in front of us dancing up a storm and singing along to the music, but for the most part, the audience sat quietly on their bottoms and applauded at the appropriate moments. We kept looking at each other skeptically, waiting for the insane frenzy of screaming and panty-throwing to begin. It never happened. Instead, the politeness just INCREASED.

People kept running down the aisles to snap pictures. I decided to be a sheep and follow suit. I started walking down the left vom, when a security guard stopped me. I was completely prepared to make a 180 and head back to my row, but I thought, what the hell, and said, �I just want to go up and take one picture. Would that be ok?� He replied, �Oh, you want to take a picture? Yeah, go ahead, then.� I looked at him incredulously and kept walking. The dancing Malcolmaniacs moved out of my way, unsolicited, and I walked right up to the stage. I stood for a minute or two trying to focus on the fancy dancer before me, but he kept moving, so I just snapped the picture. The security guard up front looked at me, smiled, and said, "Did you get your picture?" I took this to be a hint to go back to my seat, but in retrospect, I think he was just curious. I probably could have stood up there all night snapping photos and the guards would have asked to see how they were turning out. Still, I was overcome with socially appropriate feelings and headed back to my seat with a jaunty bounce in my step.

Later, two young girls were standing in front of us, dancing away. They turned around and asked, �Are we bothering you?� WHAT? Melissa and I thought they must have been joking, after our last concert experience where an old ass hag hit me on the back with her knockoff Kate Spade purse and screamed, �SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWN,� sounding remarkably like the South Park bus driver, Miss Crabtree. I�m not positive, but I think the bitch had a bird�s nest in her hair...

Ryan Malcolm made short work of our libidos with his skinny, concave body. He was dressed in jeans that were loose enough to require constant hiking, especially since he spent the majority of the night jumping up and down and losing his breath. Hot, I tell you. Hot. When he appeared on stage, he had on a CUB SCOUTS UNIFORM shirt. Yes, you read that correctly. It had the badges and everything. A few songs into the show, he removed this button-down shirt to reveal...

Are you sitting down, because this is so friggin� sexy, it�s unbelievable.

A long-sleeved white shirt under...

AN ORANGE TSHIRT WITH AN ATARI LOGO. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Seriously, ATARI. And ORANGE. It was beyond hot. I kept thinking, �Why can�t Clay Aiken dress like THAT?� And then I thought about the beatings I would receive from my friends if I said those words out loud so I shushed my inner voice as best I could. Still, you can�t look at THIS FASHION

and tell me it�s not infinitely better than THIS FASHION

and expect me to believe you.

Except for the shoes. Clay ALWAYS wins with the shoes.

To be continued...

Thank you, KAT, for letting me steal the picture of Clay on his cellphone without your permission.

Several minutes passed. I�m not sure how many, exactly, but it felt like an eternity. I got in line for the chair lift a dozen times and changed my mind. I was certain I�d see them whizzing down the hill the second the chairlift scooped me up.

The internal debate was starting to become tiresome, so I made a final decision to go looking for Tony, John and Caryn. The resort isn�t that big, and odds were good I�d find them at some point. Hopefully that would be sooner rather than later.

I went up the triple chair, chatting with the two women to my left. They were visiting with their ski club from Ohio, and they were decked to the nines in the most expensive ski garb. They were either serious skiers or just really freaking wealthy. I whined to them about my predicament, and was assured I�d find my lost companions in no time. This response did nothing to assuage my worry, and if I hadn�t been wearing gloves on that ride, I�d have bitten my nails to the quick.

I waved to my seatmates and sped down the shuttle toward Twinkle. My plan was to ski down Twinkle and take the shuttle back to Central so I could scan the paths. For some unknown reason, I was compelled to change my plan and I decided to forego the shuttle and take Twinkle all the way to the bottom. I avoided the slushy parts, turned to the right and headed directly for the south chair.

As I approached the bottom of Twinkle, I saw two silver helmets and a red arm waving at me! Waho! They were waiting in line for the lift, and serendipitously, for me. I practically knocked Tony over skiing to him, and I grabbed him and began apologizing profusely for my selfish behavior. And as if I needed a reason to love this man any more, he just looked at me, smiled and said, �It�s okay. It�s all good.� He stood at the bottom of Twinkle waiting for my impulsive ass to show up while I was standing at the bottom of Mistletoe, hoping to see him careening down the hill like a pro. John and Caryn managed to take another run while Tony waited for me, which eased my troubled mind a bit. Still, I couldn�t stop apologizing to Tony. He reassured me with his smile and his hand on my back. On the ride up, I put my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes and relaxed.

I videotaped our journey back to Central and we took a short break. Caryn and John got a bite to eat, I kept an eye on the skis, and Tony perfected his turns on the practice hill. Back on the slopes, John and Caryn attempted a blue square called Hemlock while Tony and I whipped down Twinkle. At the bottom, John and Caryn encouraged Tony to give Hemlock a try. Even though it�s a blue square, it�s actually not as steep as Twinkle. Twinkle�s ample width, I believe, gives it green circle status, but it�s certainly not a beginner�s slope. On the shuttle, we pulled over to the side and adjusted our gear. We watched a young girl and her father (who, incidentally had the quintessential Buffalo haircut for �happening� men, exceeded in quantity only by the mullet...jet black hair with receding hairline pulled back into a long ponytail...ick!) begin their descent into Hemlock with confidence. We could not be shown up by an eight year old with no poles and a father with no sense of good hair fashion, so we steered toward Hemlock.

Tony maneuvered the twists and turns with ease. I skied behind him and when we ended up next to each other on the shuttle to Central, I �woohooed� to him in a loud voice. Ever cautious, he declined to �woohoo� back until we were coasting to the line for the chairlift at the bottom of Mistletoe. Then he �woohooed�. He �woohooed� for good reason. He�d just skied his first blue square!

We rode back up and decided to give Hemlock Branch a go. I had skied this slope earlier in the day with Caryn�s skis under my arms, so I was pretty confident we would have a successful run. As the day progressed, the temperature dropped slightly, and some icy patches developed on several slopes. Hemlock Branch was not immune to ice. I was skiing in front of Tony, just slightly, when we both hit the same patch of ice. We wiped out simultaneously. I was going way too fast for conditions, so I rolled down the hill a bit before skidding to a halt. A couple of skiers stopped to see if we needed help, but we waved them on as we regained our balance. We finished the run cautiously, but not defeated.

Our last run of the day was perfect. We cruised the shuttle with the wind whipping our faces. The sun that warmed and reddened us earlier had disappeared and the frigid air felt exhilarating. Our skis edged the entire breadth of Twinkle as we turned widely to enjoy the powdery surface for the last time this season.

On the way home, I realized I�d left my brand new fifty dollar goggles behind, probably on the bench of the rental shop. I was mildly annoyed at my typical absent mindedness because the goggles cost more than the entire day of skiing, but there was no way I was going back for them. They�d go into the lost and found or some lucky, random skier would have a new pair of goggles that day.

We were tired that night, but not exhausted. I fell asleep in Tony�s arms, thinking about next winter and looking forward to sharing more new experiences through two pairs of eyes; one, energetic and vivacious, the other calm and thoughtful. A perfect balance. When I woke up, I�m pretty sure I was still smiling.

Heading down the shuttle, I remembered why no one skis the North runs. North blows. Fortunately, my three companions decided ahead of time that we would ski Coal Chute, the run closest to Central. A green circle, the slope was wide enough to attempt despite the chair lift that ran up the middle. The chair lift was less of an obstacle than the four smartassed kids who probably took Daddy�s Beemer (please to read that with clenched teeth) to get to KB so they could spend the day screaming on the quad and ignoring all rules of ski etiquette. We barely avoided the collision that ensued when Biff, Conner, Tyler and Liam (or was it Aidan?) decided to weave around one another and smash their seven hundred dollar K2 package-wearing bods into pole #6 of the Coal Chute chair.

Halfway down, we realized the extreme suckitude of North and paid homage to the few extra minutes we spent planning at the top of the hill. We agreed that it would be a mistake to venture further into this section of the resort, since we were perfectly happy with the variety of runs that Central and South offered. According to the map, there was a lower shuttle that ran back to Central, but a wrong turn could dump our inexperienced selves on a double black diamond. I didn�t want blood stains in my silver VW, so I made sure we double checked the location of the mogul-free shuttle back to our slopes of choice.

In junior high, I participated in ski club. With a roach clip bedecked with peacock feathers hanging from a leather string (and no, I didn�t smoke pot) clipped in my feathered hair, purple legwarmers slouched up to my Jordached knees, and a royal blue CB jacket covering my Fair Isle yoke sweater, I rode a coach every Tuesday afternoon from December through March, singing Journey songs with my friends, to Kissing Bridge. Unbridled confidence and a complete lack of fear led us, on one occasion, down a double black diamond called �World of Your Own.� Yards and yards of giant moguls peppered the run, and we had to remove our skis, sit on them and ride down the hill on makeshift sleds to remain unbroken and alive. This experience was hilarious at 13. At 34, it would have been...FUCKING hilarious! Next time, Tony, we�re DBDing it back to Central!

Tony and I reached the mouth of the shuttle first. We were greeted by the bastard mogul children from World of Your Own. We couldn�t see where the shuttle snaked out, and the bumpy outset did not bode well. We deduced that we should not be skiing this path. Tony and I escaped clear and present danger and side-walked back to Coal Chute. This shuttle looked nothing like the one we saw on the map at the top of the hill. Riding the chair back to the top and taking the upper shuttle back to Central was not an option because the upper shuttle is on an incline. And it�s long. And so the upper shuttle could bite us.

We did what any self-respecting, mogul-fearing skier ought to do. We took off our skis and walked. Have you ever walked in ski boots? It�s not easy. You can�t bend your feet. Heel-toeing it is the only way it can be done. Still, Tony and I maintained our usual gait. Why? Because we are ridiculously athletic and we rock, even in ski boots. Actually, it was because we had invested in ski pants, which serve two purposes. They keep the legs warm and dry. A pair of longjohns are sufficient under a good pair of ski pants, even in the most frigid weather. Secondly, they are specifically designed to fit OVER a pair of ski boots with great little features like zippers and velcro. The last time we went skiing, we weren�t properly outfitted. We both wore jeans and had to tuck them into the ski boots. This isn�t very comfortable. In fact, it hurts. My shins were actually bruised because of the seams of my jeans dug into my skin from the pressure of the ski boots. This time, walking around with heavy weights tethered to our feet and ankles was a freaking PLEASURE.

Back at Central, we gave the finger to the quad chair that nearly decapitated us and went back to the triple chair. We were happy to be back on familiar, yet challenging terrain. We hit the shuttle with toes forward, picking up speed and enjoying the view through our perfectly tinted and unfogged goggles. We could see every shittin� fuckin� thing.

On the triple chair, Tony and I chatted and laughed as we always do on the ride up. Earlier that day, Caryn had lost her nice red fleece headband. It could have fallen off anywhere, but we didn�t lament the loss too greatly since it wasn�t super expensive. Tony and I were waiting for the triple chair to slam into our asses when I spotted something red on the ground next to the lift operator�s feet. I was pretty sure it was Caryn�s headband, so I said, �Dude! That�s ours! Can you hand that to me?� The operator bent down and tossed me the red fleece band just as our skis started to dangle. John and Caryn were a few chairs ahead of us, due to the extreme rudeness of a Harry Potter lookalike and his shorts-and-tshirt-wearing sidekick. They butted right in front of us in line. It took every ounce of restraint for me to give these little preteen shits a stern talking-to, so I just muttered, �Get off the lawn!� under my breath instead.

Tony said, �I can�t believe you noticed that. Are you sure it�s Caryn�s?�

�Um, she was wearing it. That qualifies it as fashion. Do I or do I not memorize people�s fashion?�

Tony smiled. �This is true.�

�I mean, I could be wrong, but I doubt it. And if I am, we�ll give it to the lift operator at the top when we get off.�

�Or...we�ll just throw it in the snow.�

Now, Tony ALWAYS makes me laugh with his off-the-cuff remarks, but this one sent me over the edge. I couldn�t stop laughing. I was laughing when we passed the underwear tree. I was laughing when we leaned into each other and my head clunked against his silver helmet. I was laughing when we went balls to the wall with the guardrail. Fortunately, the weather was nice that day or my face would have been covered with icicles hanging from my eyeballs.

Good thing I had this nice little chuckle, too, because a few minutes later, I was nearly in tears. And not the laughing kind.

Before the hysterical laughter kicked in on the chair lift, Tony and I were discussing our ski goals for the day. I knew he was ready for a blue square, but he needed a bit more time to be comfortable before he would advance. I was encouraging him to do it before the day was over. Okay, insisting. I just knew that he could. I�d mentioned that I might try a black diamond before we called it a day. If I could ski a blue square carrying Caryn�s skis, I could attempt a black diamond with my mental crutches poles, right? Right.

People might call me a bit impulsive. I jump into everything I do, full force and with great passion. I like this quality about myself, but it can get me into trouble sometimes. Right before the entrance to Twinkle, the slope we�d all agreed we�d take TOGETHER, there�s a black diamond called �Thunder Run.� This seemed as good a time as any to give it a shot, so I yelled, �I�m gonna try this!� I didn�t look back. I didn�t think. I just skied.

The run was short and steep and it dumped me off at the shuttle that begins mid-Twinkle and ends at the base of Mistletoe. I assumed Tony, John and Caryn were going to take this route and end up in the same location where I just edged to a stop. I looked left. I waited. �Maybe they�re already at the bottom of Mistletoe,� I thought. I pushed off with my right leg and headed down to the bottom. Nope, not there.

�Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,� I thought. �I�m such an ASS!� It never occurred to me when I made the left turn onto Thunder Run to decide on a meeting place at the end of the run. This is how my impulsivity screws me. I spend most of my time putting the needs of others before my own, but when impulse takes control of me, that�s the only person I think of. Me. And it always bites me in the ass in the end. I guess I just suck at being selfish.

Here I was, at the base of Mistletoe, with no idea where Tony, John and Caryn were. Were they waiting for me on the shuttle? Did they ski to the bottom of Twinkle? And now what should I do? Should I ride the lift back up and try to find them? What if they come down when I�m on the way up?

I decided the best thing to do was to stay put. Isn�t that what field guides tell hikers to do if they get lost in the forest?

I stood at the bottom of the hill, while seventeen years of Catholic guilt crept back into my brain, hoping for a glimpse of two silver helmets and a red jacket heading in my direction...

This weekend, Tony visited me in Buffalo for a weekend of skiing et.al. I�d taken Tony skiing for the first time several weeks earlier, and he was immediately hooked. He was the best first time skier I�ve ever seen, and we were excited to have an opportunity to enjoy the best of winter sports again, this time with Tony�s brother John and John�s girlfriend Caryn, with whom John is convinced I share a brain.

Saturday morning, we managed to get out of bed at a reasonable hour and get ready for skiing. Funny, but Caryn and I were ready to go long before our men, thus shattering another stereotype that women take longer in the bathroom.

I was just as excited to don my new ski apparel as I was to hit the slopes. I looked freaking adorable in my gray ski pants and pink jacket with gray fleece lining. Even my headband and gloves matched. I don�t think Tony fully appreciated the importance of fashionable ski attire until I walked into the bedroom to model my ensemble. He took one look at me, smiled and said, �Niiiiiiice!� I admired his new black ski pants as we considered the appropriate number of layers to keep us warm beneath our outerwear. We�d decided on two, which would prove to be too many for a scorching February in Buffalo. We froze our patooties off during our last ski excursion, so we weren�t taking any chances this time. Ah, well. Sweat is preferable to frostbite.

John appeared in the doorway dressed as the Michelin Man. He pulled on the fleece sweatshirt that I stole borrowed from my friend Aaron. Caryn zipped her red jacket and Tony showed us all up by wearing dress shoes for the occasion. I considered trotting to the slopes in my Guess Maxim heels, since we were apparently going to be fancy, but I didn�t want to get salt stains on them, so I stepped into my cheap ass black clogs from Target. I grabbed bottled water, chips and (vegan) cookies for munching, and we were off.

We piled into the car and took care of the necessities...gas, food, caffeine...before heading to the slopes in the southern tier. The weather was cooperating beautifully, which pleased me since the forecast earlier in the week called for rain on Saturday. The sky was a clear robin�s egg blue and I was glad to have my sunglasses in the car. I�m a crazy enough driver; I don�t need glare to compound my crapass driving skills.

On the way to KB, we passed Ralph Wilson Rich Stadium, where the Bills play. Tony and I wondered how we missed seeing it on our last trip to the ski resort. I suppose the fact that I was driving in the slushy snow with no wiper fluid had something to do with that. Tony and John finished each other�s sentences as they discussed football. What Caryn and I heard sounded something like Charlie Brown�s teacher. Still, their excitement is contagious, especially when they�re together. You just can�t help but smile.

We pulled into the parking lot at KB, which was surprisingly full considering the view of the slopes. They were nearly empty. We were giddy. The giddiness was soon replaced by annoyance as we trudged through the muddy lot to the gate, wondering why a place like this wouldn�t have graveled the parking lot, at the very least. Tony and I looked at each other with the Glance of Superiority we like to share when we�re right. Which is most of the time. Strike that. Which is all the time.

We signed up for the first time skier package (again), knowing full well we�d be skipping the lesson. We didn�t need their stinking lessons. Actually, we didn�t have any intention of walking up any freaking hills in our skis again, which is what we had to do at the last lesson. We�d rather develop every bad skiing habit known to man than do the uphill duck walk ever again. Our leg muscles would thank us tomorrow.

John stopped at the pro shop to pick up a pair of goggles, since my twisted pair from seventh grade with no forehead foam left wasn�t quite up to the task. Our lift tickets secured, we headed to the rental shop. We filled out the form, laughed in the face of danger as we declined any and all insurance offered, and signed away. While waiting in line, Tony and John spotted rental helmets on the shelves. Thus began the Great Helmet Debate. They considered the pros and cons of hats vs. helmets. Eventually, helmets won. Would we rush directly to the black diamonds as a result of this decision? No.

Bunny slope it was.

And it was a good thing John had that helmet on, because he was taken out by the J-bar almost immediately. He rode up handletow style, while Tony and I planned our mockery as we securely rode the J-bar like a couple of pros. Never mind that the rest of the people riding up the hill were no taller than 48 inches. At the top of Candy Cane, we applauded John�s J-bar shenanigans and took our first practice run for the day.

I didn�t see it, but Tony wiped out at the top of Candy Cane, and because I didn�t see it, it doesn�t count as an actual fall. Once we finished our thirty second descent down the bunny hill, we headed directly for the triple chair. I should mention that by this time we were perspiring something fierce in the tropics of Glenwood, quietly cursing the second shirt we each donned that morning. The breeze on the chair lift felt deliciously brisk and as we ascended, we noticed the mardi gras beads and undergarments hanging from the tree branches. They weren�t there five weeks ago. The same branches were heavy with freshly fallen, thick snow. The wintry images were entirely different this day, but equally lovely.

At the top, we referred to the map and informed John and Caryn of our intended path. Our first trip downhill was a success and we felt the exciting rush of a well executed ski run. We were ready for more. We continued skiing for quite a while, and then decided to try another area of the resort. We headed for the quad chair. Thus began the first disaster of the day.

A few minutes earlier, Caryn returned to the rental shop to exchange her boots and skis for smaller models. The boots were a perfect fit, but the teenaged mopheads behind the counter neglected to adjust the bindings of the new skis to the boots. As our posteriors hit the cold seats of the quad, Caryn�s ski dislodged and fell to the ground. Amazingly, the rider behind us was able to grab it and hold on to it for the ride up. During the entire ride, we all wondered how Caryn would dismount the quad lift on one ski. We must have looked completely comical getting off that chair lift. Limbs flew in all directions. We hit the ground, rolled and tried to get out of the way of the riders behind us. Hey, if we were going down, we were going down together.

Caryn popped her boots into her skis and we noticed that the boots were sitting at an angle. That�s not right. The boot should fit snugly against the back of the binding. There shouldn�t be any gaps. John and Tony concurred that Caryn�s bindings weren�t properly adjusted when she exchanged them at the shop. The bindings were set for the former boot size, which wasn�t doing us much good at the top of a freaking mountain. If Caryn tried to ski down in improperly fitted bindings, she would surely be injured, possibly seriously. We couldn�t take that chance. Caryn knocked on the door of the lift watcher�s booth, to see if he might be able to assist us with this problem. No such luck. The only other alternative seemed to be riding back down the chair lift, and any skier knows, you just don�t want to be THAT GUY.

This is when I realized I didn�t have to be wearing my Underoos to be Supergirl.

I said, �There�s no way Caryn can ski down this slope on these skis. They need to be readjusted. Hold my poles and I�ll take the skis down the hill, back to the rental shop to be fixed, and I�ll come back up this lift. Wait for me here.�

Everyone looked at me with concern in their eyes. �Are you sure you can do that?�

�Yeah, I can do it. I�ll take a green circle and ease my way down the hill. Give me the skis.�

I took Caryn�s skis in my hand and headed down the shuttle toward the runs at South. I stopped at the location where the triple chair lets off, and surveyed my options. I could take Mistletoe all the way down, but I haven�t skied that run in a number of years, and it�s a blue square, anyway. I didn�t want to take the chance on unfamiliar terrain with a pair of 138s under my arms. I decided to go to Twinkle, a green circle. Halfway to Twinkle on the shuttle, I changed my mind. I didn�t want to lose momentum on the shuttle that leads from Twinkle to the foot of Mistletoe while holding Caryn�s skis, because that would just suck. Trudging the shuttle is bad enough without carrying cargo. Instinctively, I turned into Hemlock Branch, a blue square. I was a bit nervous because I was familiar with this run and its many twists and turns. I braced myself, tucked the skis under my arms firmly, and started to ski down.

Slowly and deliberately I turned. Small patches of ice appeared as I scanned the path several yards in advance. I avoided them successfully. As I turned off Hemlock Branch onto the shuttle, I knew I was golden. I headed down Mistletoe with my skis pointed straight ahead, picking up enough speed to take me directly to the rental shop door. It took me longer to take off my own skis without poles to unhook the bindings than it did to ski the run.

John and Tony�s assessment of the misadjusted bindings was indeed correct, and the teenage mopheads fixed the problem in seconds. They apologized, and I left the shop saying it was fine, since Caryn hadn�t gotten hurt because of this oversight. My seatmates on the chairlift on the way back up didn�t agree with my laid back attitude, insisting that we contact the resort manager and demand our money back. I closed my eyes and went into Frank Costanza mode, thinking, �Serenity now...serenity now...�

The man sitting next to me on the lift offered to take the skis upon dismount after I informed him of the chair lift dismount debacle that had occurred several minutes earlier. Caryn put on the new skis. Success! It was safe to ski again! While I was gone, Tony, John and Caryn devised a plan for our next few runs and we headed toward the North section of the resort.

All was well and right with the world.

For now.

To be continued...

Let's see. What did I do today?

I shook shook shook my sillies out.

I nod nod nodded my naughties out.

I clap clap clapped my crazies out.

I jump jump jumped my jiggles out.

Oh, and I wiggled my wobbles away.

No wonder I get home and every other word out of my mouth begins with c or f.

5 am.

Every morning at 5 am without fail, Linus hops onto my bed and begins his morning ritual. He walks across my body, pushes himself against my face and begins his futile attempts at licking my hair and face. He’ll settle for my hands, but he makes a valiant effort to get at my head. My alarm is set for six, and I want to lie awake for an hour, eyes closed, not interrupted by a sandpapery feline tongue.

I push him off the bed.

He hops back up.

I push him off.

He hops back up again.

This continues until the alarm begins to chirp sixty minutes later. Sometimes he’ll settle into the crook of my waist and fall asleep, and I will pet him and feel him purring against my torso. He won’t be still for long, though, before the incessant badgering and licking continues.

One day, five in the morning will come and he won’t be on the bed. He’ll have given up on trying to get my attention, my affection. I’ll have pushed him off one too many times.

Tomorrow morning, and every morning after that, I’ll give my cat sixty minutes of my time in return for unconditional love.

Not a bad deal. Not a bad deal at all.

I was so pleased with the timing of my morning ritual today, until I put away the hair dryer.

Placing it back on its shelf, I knocked a brand new bottle of nail polish to the floor.

Red nail polish. (On sale for $1.99.)

To the vintage hexagonal-tile floor.

Needless to say, it crashed. Broke into a million tiny pieces and sent shards of glass flying everywhere. I just spent the last twenty minutes picking them all up with my thumb and forefinger and scrubbing the rouge-spattered surfaces of my bathroom with paper towels soaked in nail polish remover. (Acetone-free.)

I was meticulous in my cleaning because I was concerned my cats would accidentally step on or consume a morsel of glass or droplet of polish.

I needn't have worried. Right now one cat is licking color photographs and the other, plastic bags.

It was approximately eight gazillion degrees in my classroom this morning, so the humor I found in this might be heat-induced.

Our unit for the next two weeks is "Careers and Community Helpers." I put this puzzle in rotation today.

A child looked at the artist and asked, "Is that Jesus?"

Not in a public school. GOD! When will they ever learn???

Now let's all stand up and say the Pledge of Allegiance...

AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!

I'm trying to get to work on time, but Buffalo is making it very difficult for me, what with the thick layer of frost that covers all the windows of my car!

July cannot come soon enough!

(I'm too lazy to scrape off the ice, so I'm letting the defrosters do the work while I sit in my warm house bitching in my blog.)

I am now the proud owner of www.joeparadox.com. New website forthcoming.

I booked my flight to Vegas. I never imagined I'd be flying across the country alone. Go, me.

I booked a rental car for Vegas. The taxis can bite me.

I got rid of three laundry baskets worth of clothing that doesn't fit me any more.

I gave myself a manicure and pedicure. Time to go shopping for open-toed shoes.

I'm having a good hair day.

It was a good weekend.

It's a good idea to s-p-e-l-l anything you don't want a child of speaking age to repeat, because they WILL echo everything they hear.

Last week, one of my students dug the cheerleader costume out of the dress-up bucket. She donned the outfit and assembled her peers on the rug in the block center for an impromptu performance.

Hands on hips, she waited for attention. Once all eyes were focused on her, she raised her four year-old arms over her head and shouted...

I'm gonna kick your butt, I'm gonna kick your ASS!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Effing cats! Waking me up at ungodly hours! Walking on my head! Licking my hair! Hacking up hairballs on my bed!

I was googled for "Marie Osmond eyebrows."

It's good to be awake.

I balance my checkbook by hand. Math on paper is indescribably satisfying to me. Striking out the hundreds place to borrow ten gives me pleasure. The final total at the bottom of the page, however, does not. Though I dread and procrastinate daily, mundane tasks such as checkbook reconciliation, bill paying and laundry, they give me a feeling of simple accomplishment. They bring me peace.

Today’s agenda should make me feel like Gandhi.

I’ve gone to the post office. The current default stamps they’re handing over at my branch depict the snowy egret. The envelopes I deposited in the drop slot before purchasing more postage were kissed with the standard American flag stamps. I appreciate that my post office tries to mix it up a bit for me in the stamp department. I used to request specific stamps, especially when a portion of the cost went to Breast Cancer Research, but now I let them surprise me. It’s worth it. Today I got snowy egrets.

I’ve got a full dishwasher to unload, several batches of laundry to wash, dry and fold, and a house full of stuff to purge and pack. I’ll gather my recyclables, eat some leftover Thai and finish the pedicure I started last evening.

I won’t wear a bra.

I’ll shop online for a new television and probably shoes. I won’t buy either. I’ll talk on the phone, scoop litter and listen to Joss Stone and Rent. I’ll look out the window and curse the black chunks of dirty, melting ice and snow that dot my street, setting the dismal tone for the way Buffalo will look for the next three months. I’ll listen to the wind and wonder if the branch of the giant tree that stands in my neighbor’s yard will finally break free and slam through my attic dormer window. I’ll look up the number of my insurance company, just in case.

I’ll reach down and stroke the fur of my cat when he stops by to slide his seven pound body along my leg. I’ll draft a letter to a college professor, thanking her for her time and encouragement in a recent interview, and postpone her offer of acceptance into a master’s program in Reading Education for another year. I’ll look at floor plans of my new apartment in Virginia and arrange furniture in my head.

I’ll finish this entry, sip lemon tea and squint at the screen because I’m not wearing my glasses. I’ll wear yoga pants and no makeup. I might go shopping for a dress to match my new shoes. I might not.

I’ll read my book, flip channels and rub my favorite lotion onto the skin of my dry legs. I’ll consider visiting my parents, as long as the massive bulldog that chomped my gam two weeks earlier is properly restrained. I’ll remember when I was terrified of dogs.

I’ll sit in silence and think for a while.

”Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.”
-Gandhi

Today is a very exciting day. It’s the first day of Major League Baseball spring training.

I grew up in a baseball family, but somehow, an obsession with the sport never took root in me. This is nothing short of a miracle, since my father and brother are unbelievably passionate about the game. My dad coached, my brother played and umpired. We took family vacations to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY and toured the SkyDome in Toronto. My dad and brother have more baseball cards than I could possibly count, carefully labeled and safely stored in the original boxes. Baseball wasn’t just a sport in our family. It was a way of life.

I love going to baseball games. We have a fantastic minor league team in Buffalo and a beautiful stadium. Every summer during my high school years, my friends and I would buy cheap tickets to the Bisons double-header followed by a Beach Boys concert. We would sing and dance and laugh and jump all over each other, fueled by Coca-Cola, popcorn, sunshine and youth.

Several years later, the old Rockpile was knocked down and replaced with the current field, now called Dunn Tire Park. It’s a great place to see a game, but it doesn’t have the same nostalgic feeling that War Memorial Stadium did. (War Memorial is where the movie “The Natural” was filmed, if that gives you any idea of what it was like.) At least Buffalo’s shitty urban planners had the good sense to put the new ballpark...get this...DOWNTOWN! What a concept. They actually did something to BRING people into the city rather than send them running to the suburbs like diuretic cheetahs.

My father insists it’s a damn shame the Buffalo Bisons aren’t a major league team, and he’s fairly bitter that the reason is because we’re too close to Toronto, which has the Blue Jays. He constantly drives home the point that we’re a TRIPLE A team, which is apparently about as close to the Show as you can get. He told me the Bisons are the only minor league team whose uniforms don’t parrot those of their major league affiliate, the Cleveland Indians. In addition, there is no Bisons logo that would identify them with their parent club or any other major league team. Basically, as far as my dad is concerned, Buffalo has a major league team. The majors just don’t know it yet.

The reason this day holds such excitement for me is because Tony is deliriously happy about the beginning of this season. He’s in favor of making today a national holiday. His love for the game is contagious, and he’s learnin’ me real good in the ways of a die hard baseball fan. He’ll make his annual trek to Florida with his brother to see the Phillies play, and we’ve got tickets to a game in April at the new stadium. When I asked him if the new field was natural grass, he responded with a resounding, “YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES!” This game can’t come soon enough.

I glimpsed Tony’s reverence for all things baseball in December when we visited Atlanta. Our main purpose for the trip was to attend a Clay Aiken concert with dear friends, but there was no question that we would be visiting Turner Field. Our tour of the stadium was nothing short of phenomenal. For me, there was wonder in the design and inner workings of the stadium. I marveled at the attention to detail. The press box and locker rooms intrigued me, the respect for the grass fascinated me, the 21 varieties of hot dogs poster revolted me, the fervor with which our tour guide spoke impressed me. I listened. I learned. But mostly, I watched Tony.

He devoured every bit of the museum, stadium and tour with his eyes and ears. I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he documented every number three and proudly stood in the visitors’ dugout while I took his picture. I didn’t ask him many questions during the sixty minute tour. I knew he needed to drink it all in. After the tour, we returned to the site of the former field, Atlanta Fulton County Stadium. I drove the bases while Tony took photos and phoned his brother excitedly. Watching him, I knew he was feeling the way I do when I attend a Broadway show. When you’re passionate about something since “forever,” you experience the event through ten, twenty and thirty year-old eyes all at once. Memory and discovery mesh simultaneously. It’s inexplicable.

And so, today, I renounce my desire to have a hungry pack of bumblebabies devour the Phillies so Tony can come with me to Vegas instead of going to Spring Training. Actually, I realized that would be a completely useless plan, since Tony could easily defeat them with superhuman adrenaline charged powers in order to prevent the demise of his beloved team. He promised to kick the shit out of the bumblebabies if necessary. It might go something like this.

Come here you little fucker!
*KICK*
That's for Jim Thome!
*PUNCH*
That's for Pat Burrell!
*SLAM*
That's for Randy Wolf!

All jokes aside, I would never stand in the way of the baseball tradition he has established with his brother. I can’t wait to hear the voice on the other end of my cell phone talkinglikethereisn’tenoughtimeintheuniversetosayeverythingthereistosay
abouthowamazingspringtrainingisandhowmuchthePhilliesrule! I can’t wait to see the look in his eyes when we walk through the gates of Citizens Bank Park for the first time ever to see the Phillies play ball.

When I started writing this entry, I thought it was going to be an extension of a joke we shared today. Now I see it’s about something more. I’m going to a major league baseball game, I’ve flown across the country, I’ve read Vonnegut, I’ve walked through Ikea in designer shoes, I’m learning to be patient and wait for things. Tony started his blog, he’s gone skiing, he’s been to karaoke, he’s seen a Broadway show, he’s become a shoe whore. Passion collides with possibility, and the results are extraordinary.

"Welcome back to baseball. Pitchers, catchers and optimism report today."
-Bob Ford

There are more great lines to be written.

Lacy, frilly undies? No thanks.

This is my kind of thirty-something-sexy.

Well, I just give up. I started writing an entry...

In the past, I didn’t have the greatest eating habits. Now I do, so that gives me the right to blatantly and openly judge anyone who doesn’t.

Actually, I don’t particularly care what kind of crap adults put in their mouths, but the thing that really amazes me is what people allow their kids to ingest.

My students bring a snack to school every day and I regularly inquire about breakfast, lunch and dinner foods. In the last ten years, I’ve closely observed the intake of approximately 300 children.

Here’s a list (not exhaustive) of the basic “foods” that comprise the regular diet of a typical American child.

Hot dogs
Macaroni and cheese
Processed fruit snacks (fruit leather, gummies)
Processed cheese
String cheese
Fast food (pizza, hamburgers, fries)
Soda
“Juice” drinks
Juice
Corn (the vegetable of choice)
Anything shaped like a cartoon character
Anything with creme filling
Cookies
Anything shaped like a bear
White bread
Peanut butter
Red dye
Sugar in multiple forms
Yogurt (preferably in a squeezable tube, and preferably dyed blue)

The diatribe was to continue with a reference to this bill, which I find ridiculous, because I don't believe drinking more milk is going to improve the nutrition and health of children, nor do I believe it is the role of the government to subsidize the promotion of increased milk consumption.

I've very strong feelings about a child's intake, for several reasons, but I'm in such a writing funk lately that I couldn't possibly pontificate on this topic without sounding freaking ridiculous. For now, I'll just wonder how hard it is to stick a banana or some carrots in a lunch box instead of something with the word "CHEEZ" in the title.

If it's not spelled like food, it's probably not food, so don't feed it to your kid.

See? Freaking ridiculous.

So, until I can focus enough to scribe something decent again, I'll be posting pictures of shoes and underwear I want.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

And now, I need this.

Badly.

I played this

for hours the other night while watching a friend's kids.

High score, peeps. High. Score.

My logical mind hates Valentine’s Day. It’s a Hallmark holiday that’s become nothing more than merchandising chocolate and anything shaped like, embossed with or remotely resembling a heart. Teddy bears holding pink lollipops that read, “I WUV U” make the rational portion of my brain want to deteriorate into a gelatinous puddle of goo from Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease just to avoid having to process this kind of rubbish. Forced amour takes the place of spontaneous displays of affection. A man is expected to be telepathic and JUST KNOW what will make his partner swoon with glorious glee, because she sure as shit isn’t going to tell him.

That said, my genetic code forces me to buy into the whole notion of Valentine’s Day. Resistance is futile. I’ve realized, though, that it’s not really Valentine’s Day I embrace. It’s romance. In the last six months, I’ve tossed aside miserable, cynical Danielle and replaced her with the real me: a romantic. I no longer look at people hugging, kissing and holding hands with a judgmental, but secretly jealous eye. I don’t recoil when people touch me. I enjoy being on the giving and receiving end of a surprise. For the first time, I tell the people in my life how I feel about them. I say, “I love you,” and mean it.

This year, I’m not going through the motions of planning a false and empty Valentine’s Day just because it’s “that day of the year.” I’ll be scraping thirty six children high on sugar and red dye from the ceiling, as usual. Aside from that, I’m going to relax and let the day unfold as it may, without expectancy or anticipation, happy just to be with the person I love.

I heart February 14.

My students could not keep their hands off each other today. Every teeny little morsel of frustration and anger manifested in punching, hitting and pinching. Not acceptable.

During "circle time," we did a bit of role playing to come up with alternatives to violence when dealing with problems. I pretended to aggravate a child by nudging and elbowing her endlessly. Of course, she sat next to me, giggling and inching closer to me. It's fun when I'm bothering them, but annoying when it comes from a peer.

My failed attempt at promoting positive social skills went something like this...

ME: If someone is annoying you like this, what can you use BESIDE your hands to get them to stop?

CHILD: Your feet!

Ah, yes. Kicking. A perfectly logical alternative for a four year old. I had to turn around so they wouldn't see me laughing. Then we acted out some "use your words" mumbo jumbo. I don't expect them to parrot me or be able to make intellectual decisions about how to handle problems in a social setting. They're four. Impulse drives action.

My purpose is twofold. One, I want to reinforce the notion that violence is NEVER an acceptable way to deal with anger or frustration. Secondly, by being consistent in this approach, one day, they may choose language over action. And the next day, they'll kick. But they're learning.

And sitting on the toilet, yelling to me about 'dancing truck' nightmares.

Good thing I shaved today.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Ow.

My parents’ dog is the devil’s minion. A darling soft bundle with sweet puppy breath one year ago, this canine has grown into a solid chunk of muscle and teeth.

Rhett is an English bulldog. Two tennis balls could easily fit into this dog’s mouth with room to spare. Tennis balls would be preferable to what typically ends up in his yapper - my dad’s extremities. Dad is covered with scars, holes and gouges from “play sessions” with Rhett. Now Dad stands behind the baby gate that separates Rhett from civilization when the beast starts to get out of control. Tony and I witnessed this a few weeks ago. After today’s debacle, hiding behind the baby gate seems like a damn fine idea.

Rhett is fiercely loyal to my mother. When Mom sleeps, Rhett is snuggled up against her with his giant stinky head resting on her neck. It would be extremely easy for him to sink his choppers into her jugular in this position; instead, he sighs softly as he rests outstretched at her side. He follows Mom everywhere and looks up at her with eager anticipation when she speaks. Clearly, she is alpha. The problem is that he considers himself beta, and every other living creature that crosses his path, omega.

I visited my parents today, hoping to see a calmer version of Lucifer’s spawn since they had his boys removed. Clearly the testosterone levels haven’t diminished, because he was as wild as ever. His overactive nature has never bothered me or made me uneasy, because I’ve never seen him mouth anyone aggressively. Until this afternoon, I’ve only made contact with his mouth in a playful way, and I’ve always been able to control him when he gets out of hand.

My mom was giving my black wool coat the once over with a lint roller. We were standing in the kitchen with the dogs and Dad was in a safe position behind the baby gate. No one was yelling or instigating the dog in any way (yet).

Rhett couldn’t tolerate the contact between my mom and me, and started to freak out in his usual way. He ran around the island and tried to put his paws on the counter. Then he started to put his paws on me. I pushed him off forcefully and told him firmly to GET DOWN. Rhett didn’t like this and became more agitated. Mr. Baby Gate started to yell at him and before I knew what was going on, he clamped on to my left leg with his enormous jaws.

The pain was unbelievable. I’ve had four major surgeries and this pain was right up there with them. I could feel the pressure of his mouth getting stronger as he clamped down harder than a. sue’s girl. For those of you who don’t get that reference, trust me, it hurt like hell.

I could feel his teeth sinking deeper into my flesh and I was sure he broke skin. Somehow, my mom got him to release his grip on my calf and pulled him back, but not before he grabbed on to my foot. I heard my sneaker tear and felt teeth come in contact with bone. I looked down and waited to see the blood seeping through sock and pant leg.

Mom pulled Rhett by the harness and locked him in the laundry room while I scurried behind the baby gate. My dad couldn’t stand to see his baby girl in pain, and started shouting promises of euthanasia and “accidentally” leaving the garage door open. I laughed. And limped.

Pulling up my pant leg, I was surprised to see that blood wasn’t pouring from the lacerations. Instead, a giant purple bruise was already forming from the amount of force Rhett used when engulfing my leg with his gnashers. Two deep gashes and three scrapes rounded out the extent of my injuries. If my mom hadn’t gotten him to let go of my leg, I would’ve needed stitches for sure.

I cleaned the wounds with hydrogen peroxide and had a minor piss fit when the supposed antibacterial ointment I was spreading over my open sores turned out to be hydrocortisone cream. I sterilized my skin once more and dressed the boo boos carefully. The pain subsided to intense discomfort, and I continued limping for several hours following the attack. I’m not looking forward to the scars I’ll have from this little incident, that’s for sure.

I promised my parents I would not hold them criminally responsible for the alleged canine assault, but I’m thinking I can bleed this event enough to have a few nice home-cooked meals delivered to me, get my car gassed up and maybe even some guilt-induced spring cleaning assistance. I did learn a thing or two about guilt during the thirteen years I spent in Catholic school, after all.

Unfortunately, my pepper spray was confiscated by the feds during a visit to the US Capitol in 1987, so the next time I visit my parents, I won’t be properly armed to defend myself against their vicious pooch. I guess as long as I avoid eye contact with Rhett and maintain a minimum distance of five feet from my mother at all times, I’ll be okay.

Did I mention they have another bulldog named Scarlett? Um. Yeah.

Need.

Need.

Ugg.

Ly.

I finally found the boots.

My size, but full price.

I didn't purchase them impulsively, but I'm seriously thinking about it, using "congratulations to me on my new job" as justification.

Shoe whores out there, you KNOW this makes perfect sense.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!

These auditions rule! I can't wait to send mine in!

I NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED THIS.

It's the American Idol audition kit!

Click on "Listen and Judge." That's gonna be me, in all my stinking faux Broadway glory, yo.

+

+

=

EVICTION.

Guess what I'm doing March 10?

Stalking Ryan Malcolm!

Wanna come?

Totally addicted to this.

Know why I'm so stoked to move? It's not so I can be closer to a major metropolitan area rich with cultural and intellectual diversions. It's not because the climate is more temperate than Buffalo's. It's not even because of Ikea.

It's because I can finally have American Idol viewing parties, like I've always wanted.

I'm just warning all y'all. I'm a fantastic hostess and I promise to entertain you in a clean and fragrant home, but when it's over, you have to get the hell out so I can go to bed.

Put your shoes and coats on during the last commercial and we'll get along just fine.

I’m procrastinating the reports I’ve got to finish by Friday. I can whip off about eight at a time, and after that I start to sound redundant. I think each child’s report should be individualized. I’ve read comments from teachers in which they’ve copied the same mumbo jumbo on each progress report and just changed the name. That doesn’t fly with me. So I do mine in stages. Right now I’m in the “resting” stage.

Tickets for the Clay Aiken show in DC went on sale last week. Tony purchased a block of eight for the motley crew we’ve assembled to attend this concert. I left my cell phone on so he could call me and confirm that there would be yet another opportunity for me to make a fool of myself in a public venue and possibly cause permanent damage to one of my body parts.

Tony called while my class was involved in our daily calendar routine. Luckily, it was a “student teacher” day and one child was holding court. She was in the middle of asking the “question of the day,” and her inquiry of choice was, “Do you have a dog?” She continued seamlessly while I got the scoop from Tony. When I hung up, she looked at me inquisitively and asked, “Who was that on the phone?”

“Tony,” I replied.

“Oh. (Pause) Does he have a dog?”

I loved that she was completely uninterested in learning more about the person on the other end of the phone. She was on a mission to keep the calendar routine moving along at a nice pace and nothing was going to distract her from that goal.

I’m getting my hair cut today so I don’t have to look like Cousin It one more day. I don’t think showing up to a job interview looking like one of the Addams’ Family will help me secure a new job. I was thinking about Shizzolating my response to every question, but, again, not so professional.

The school district with which I’m interviewing was closed today and yesterday due to snow. We don’t close schools in Buffalo unless there’s a distinct chance your nose will actually crumble from your face if you spend more than two minutes out of doors. Schools closed on account of cryogenics.

I have frequent dreams about telekinesis. Usually I’m willing doors to open and close with my mind. It’s the coolest feeling. Then I wake up and actually try to do it. In my state of half-sleep, I actually believe it will happen and when the door remains immobile, I get pissed off, flop over on my side, fold my arms poutily and go back to sleep. Friggin’ door.

This amuses me because as a child, anything that had to do with the supernatural terrified me. Kelsey and I planned to watch “Carrie” during a sleep-over at her house when we were in third or fourth grade. We ate orange Push-Ups and made “Carrie Juice” to drink. The previews alone sent me running to the bathroom, where I spent the next half hour throwing my guts up in a garbage can and waiting for my mother to pick me up.

Horror movies set me over the edge as a badass suburban preteen. Clearly the ultra cool back pocket comb and Jordache jeans were masking the fear and insecurity I was feeling. We went to the Amherst Theater in junior high and saw a horror film starring Jack Palance. Jack Palance’s leathery face should have been enough to send me running from the theater screaming, but there was one scene I remember vividly, even today. A woman, lying in bed, was stabbed multiple times by an unseen psychopath lying under the bed. I was thankful I had a Swedish box bed at home, but it didn’t stop me from checking under the rest of the beds every night before I went to sleep. After watching Halloween, I also felt the need to check the closets. I’m not sure what I would have done if Michael Myers was standing behind my yoke sweaters and velour V-Necks, but the ritual of checking gave me comfort.

There’s a little town near Buffalo called Lily Dale. It’s a lakeside cottage town on the edge of Lake Chautauqua and a community for psychic mediums. Many of them are seasonal dwellers, but some do live there year round. I am all about the psychic mediums, and I’ve made several visits to Lily Dale. I’ve had group readings and private readings, and I’ve been chosen from an audience of hundreds by more than one medium to be told that I’ve got a bit of the psychic ability in me. I’ll write more about my experiences at Lily Dale another time...

Most of the things that freaked me out as a kid are the things I embrace today. Scary flicks, the supernatural, dogs, roller coasters, boys. I’ve evolved quite a bit in my thirty four years of life. I’m not planning on growing up any time soon, but it’s nice to finally know myself. Hi, me.

Here’s a (loose) conversation between me and my best friend, Amy.

Amy: The roof of my mouth really hurts. It’s all raw and sore.

Me: Did you, by any chance, eat Peanut Butter Crunch cereal for breakfast?

Amy: (pause) Oh my god! How the hell did you know that?

Me: It’s a universal truth. Peanut Butter Crunch fucks with the roof of your mouth.

Did that ever happen to you?

Another question. Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a doctor? A pediatrician. I was preparing to enter college in a Pre-Med track. I was accepted into AP Biology (which I completely blew off senior year - I got a “1" on the exam) and I secured an internship in the Biology Department of a local college.

I was the world’s worst research assistant. I had three jobs.

I had to record increases and decreases in the weights of tiny snails in a black and white marble notebook. I have no idea why this was necessary, but I do remember picking them up with tweezers and inadvertently cracking the shells of more than half of the poor creatures. I don’t think the results of this study were very accurate. In fact, I’m pretty sure I frigged up that whole experiment.

My second duty was taking vaginal smears from mice. Have you ever tried to do this? It isn’t easy. First of all, mice have very tiny vaginas. Also, they don’t really like giant humans probing their hoo has with a swab. They squirm and fall on the floor and hide from you when you try to catch them. I hated that part of the job. It seemed so cruel, well, because IT WAS. Seeing those animals trapped in cages in the name of “medicine” made me realize as a doctor, I would be incapable of being detached and separating my emotions. Plus, I couldn’t weigh a freaking snail without cracking its shell. Who in their right mind would want me as their surgeon?

The best part of this internship was the alligators. I’m not sure why they were studying alligators, but that didn’t concern me. I was instructed to help feed the alligators and clean their tanks daily. The alligators were kept in private quarters, away from the mice, although I think the mice would have preferred being swallowed whole by a gator rather than having homo sapiens poking around their nether regions with foreign objects. The alligators had a knack of getting out of their tank each night. We’d open the door and see them standing on the floor with their unblinking eyes and permanent grins. The goal was to get them back into their tank and remain unbitten. The alligators were three or four feet long, and there were several of them. I’m sure we looked like slapstick comics trying to round up these reptiles and make them climb back into their tanks. We may be the more evolved species, but the alligators are smarter, I can tell you that.

I’m sure I’ll be adding links with fun titles to this entry, so check back later this afternoon for an update. (See, I added them!)

Right now, I’ve got to scrape ice off my car (OMG, my car is completely COVERED in a thick layer of ice! It's going to take a half hour to scrape it off! Why are schools even OPEN???) and head over to school where I’ll be spending the day with another group that beats adult humans in the smarts department: four year old kids.

The writing in my diary tends to lean toward the narrative style, but today I thought I�d give �random crap� a go. Maybe I�ll get some interesting google searches out of it.

Last weekend, Tony came to Buffalo for my birthday. We had a most amazing weekend, and on Saturday, we went skiing at Kissing Bridge. Tony hadn�t skied before, and I hadn�t been in several years. Although there were plenty of comical moments during the course of this adventure, I have to say Tony friggin� rocked as a first time skier. He�s blogging this experience on his website, so I won�t say any more lest I give anything away. As much as I would enjoy a little spanking, I�ll let him reveal the epic tale as it unfolded.

Today I bought me a pink ski jacket for...get this...42 bucks! Buffalo�s not good for much, what with the Zuba pants (Oh, you don�t believe that people here still wear those fashion disasters? Here�s proof. I captured this nightmare with my camera at Target recently...)

and frosted hair and all, but we do have excellent sales on winter outerwear. The jacket has a gray fleece lining, which matches the headband and gloves I bought recently. Now I�m on the hunt for gray or, better yet, silver ski pants and a pair of silver goggles so when I hit the slopes again, I�m not only a kick ass athlete, but I�m stylin�, too.

The ski jacket was not the purpose of my shopping excursion, however. I was on the hunt for a suit to wear to a job interview next Saturday in Virginia. I haven�t been in the market for over ten years, and I�m scared shitless. I know I�m highly qualified, and my references are glowing, but steeeeeeeeeeeeeel!

Speaking of references, I stopped this morning to see my former program supervisor and friend, Dan. He was hired as an elementary school principal (about friggin� time!) over the summer, and his school was holding a pancake breakfast this morning. He was kind enough to write me a phenomenal letter of recommendation, and I went to pick it up. Someone (not Dan) had burned the shit out of the pancakes in the kitchen, and the entire cafeteria was filled with smoke. To me, pancake smoke is as bad as cigarette smoke. My clothes absolutely reeked when I left. I kept smelling myself all day and it honestly made me a little nauseous.

So, I�m at one of the crappy Buffalo malls looking for a suit, preferably with pants. The problem I have is that �misses� sizes don�t fit me for two reasons. One, the pants and jacket sleeves are always too long, delicate petite flower that I am. Two, the size I wear (12 now!) is too big on me in the misses� department and too small in petites. Throw in the fact that everything has been decimated on the racks, and the pickings are slim. I managed to find several nice suits with skirts (ick) in my size and narrowed it down to one sharp black number.

I should have been happy to find anything at all, but I became increasingly violent as I looked for a blouse to wear underneath. I just wanted a plain red or white one with a wide collar, but apparently simplicity in fashion is too much to ask for these days. Most fashion in Buffalo consists of chenille, wide horizontal stripes, or denim appliqued with Disney characters. I walked behind a woman today who was snailing along in her jean jacket with khaki sleeves and Eeyore emblazoned on the back. Eeyore and the lack of decent choices in a blouse made me feel like hauling off and smacking random people with the back of my hand.

I gave up on the shirt search and started looking for the Nine West pumps I�ve been wanting for a while.

In case you don�t know this about me, I�m a shoe whore. I need shoes like I need oxygen. I was TICKT AWF yesterday when I discovered that my lackadaisical attitude of late had cost me the ownership of the fabulous pink patent leather Steve Madden boots with the spiked heels that I�d been eyeing since October when Tony and I were in New York City. I�d seen them for $80 at the Steve Madden store we stopped at so I could buy a pair of comfortable, yet stylish, shoes for walking around the city. I�m the first person to bite my lip and deal with the bleeding toes for a pair of really great shoes, but even I have my limits. The pink boots had finally gone on sale, but I was too busy and too arrogant of a shoe whore to buy them when I should have. Ah, well.

Similarly, I lost out on tickets to see Michael Buble in Atlantic City on Valentine�s Day. Now they�re going for a minimum of $100 on ebay. I�m over this (no, really, I am) because if I�m going to go somewhere for Valentine�s Day weekend, it shouldn�t be to a shit hole place like Atlantic City. Although Neil Sedaka IS playing in York, Pennsylvania. No. No. No. �I will not waste money chasing obsessions to bumblefuck towns...� *repeats mantra*

At the Galleria Mall, (which, by the way, is sinking into the ground because the fucknugget �urban� planners in Buffalo built it on a swamp) the Nine West store came up tiny with the shoe choices. They had every style of shoe in the pattern I liked, EXCEPT the pump style I was looking for. Both department stores were useless. Tony checked the Nine West website for me while I bitched and whined, and found the shoes I wanted at a great price. I would order them online as soon as I returned home.

Still, no blouse. I walked the mall from one end to the other and found a shirt that actually looks remarkably similar to the shoes. I bought it. I purchased two backup blouses as well, and warned Tony that before my interview, he�d have to sit through the same kind of tedious �How Does This Look?� and �Which One Looks Better?� fashion show that he had to endure before we met Clay Aiken in Raleigh last month. Now that he�s a bona fide shoe whore himself (yay!), I know he�ll give me educated feedback.

I came home, pleased with my acquisitions. I didn�t fully relax until the Nine West pumps were paid for and the confirmation email was in my inbox. Ahhhhhhhh.

A surprise package arrived from Erin today, too! (Thank you!) Fellow francophiles, Erin and I enjoy bantering in French, particularly when that French is vulgar. I was thrilled to find this book in my mailbox and I plan to brush up on my cussing so I can talk really filthy in Vegas, but sound oh-so-sexy while I�m at it.

Yeah, I�m going back to Vegas. In March. A whole slew of us are going there to see Clay in concert. Unfortunately, he�s touring with Kelly Clarkson, since they�re represented by the same record company. Said record company clearly understands Clarkson needs Clay to sell tickets, since she couldn�t even sell out state fairs over the summer.

Check out the promo poster for the tour. I think it sucks ass.

Well, it did suck ass until I fixed it up.

I�ll be going to Vegas and DC to catch Clay on tour, since Buffalo is too crappy of a place to attract the likes of a star like Monsieur Aiken. Instead, we get Enrique Iglesias and Bette Midler.

Whoop de friggin� doo.

Still, I�ll get to see him live at least twice, and that makes me as happy as a little giiiiiiiiirl.

Would you like to touch my monkey?

So what else? I�ve got a new book to read, which is cool even though I�m still making my way through Slaughterhouse Five and skimming the pages of an exciting new publication about healing endometriosis through nutrition. Tony and I have this little game going where we�ve listed a number of our favorite books, movies and television shows that the other has not read or seen. So far, we�ve gotten through Waiting For Guffman, Notting Hill, and several episodes of Queer as Folk and South Park. I�m completely fangirly for Don and Mike and Wil Wheaton, and Tony has been converted into a David Sedaris and David Cross fan. I�m plugging through Slaughterhouse Five, and enjoying it tremendously, and he�s about to dive into The Crimson Petal and The White. Yay, us!

I�m listening to Kurt Nilsen, Daniel Kublbock and Joss Stone these days, in case anyone cares.

I guess there�s just one more random topic to discuss and that�s the third season of American Idol. So far I have NOT been impressed, even though I still love the show and will watch every last episode until my eyes bleed. The format is much too formulaic this year. Scripted interviews with the judges precede the shitty auditions (which aren�t even funny), of which there are too many. Guess what, FOX? We don�t need constant reminders of Paula�s overly bronzed skin or Randy�s weight loss or Simon�s man boobs setting up the bits you�ve edited so amateurishly. We can judge for ourselves, thank you. And the decent auditions are few and far between, because the producers of the show apparently believe we, the dumbass viewers with a collective IQ of 60, only want to see rednecks, bucktoothed geeks and hammy overactors sing unrecognizable tunes, only to be humiliated and reamed relentlessly by the judges.

Still, there have been a few beacons of light in the dark chasm of Simon�s abundant arm hair.

My prediction is to keep a close eye on John Stevens IV.

-screencap by Raina

I�m rooting for him because he�s from East Amherst, NY, a suburb of Buffalo. He�s also 16 mofoing years old! A woman I work with knows his family and she told me his entire room is wallpapered with pictures of Frank Sinatra. Boyfriend is my neighbor, has flaming red hair, does a mean Dean Martin impression AND hearts the crooners.

-screencap by Raina

He�s got my vote.

SPOILER ALERT...

I�m pretty sure he�s going to go on to the round after Hollywood, not just because it�s my hunch, but because I clicked THIS LINK today.

Anyway, if you like this cute kid, there�s already a fan site about him. Bless the dear obsessed souls of the American Idol fans.

Hmmm. I guess that�s all. Oh, wait. One other thing. I don�t drink or take drugs of any kind, but I�m a little concerned that I might have an addiction. To Ricola cough drops (the honey lemon echinacea ones).

What do you guyses think?

My students hate when I'm absent. They cry and plead to return home when I'm not at school.

As much as I'd like to think it's all about me, it's not. Kids thrive on predictability and routine. Not in a rigid way, but in a way that makes them feel safe. Kids that come from secure, loving homes are usually the ones that are most willing to take risks.

I set up my classroom so it can run itself if I'm, say, off chasing Clay Aiken all over the friggin' country. I don't want my students to be dependent on me, or any other adult in the room.

At the beginning of the year, they really need me. They look to me for guidance and support, and I encourage them to make their own decisions and choices within a clearly established set of rules and boundaries. I set my expectations high and give them plenty of responsibility. I don't treat them like babies.

By November, the number of times I hear my name called each day reduces from 1000 to around 100. 97 of those are usually uttered in rapid succession by a child attempting to tattle on the kid who's eating playdough or sand.

Today, one of my students found a dead ladybug under a shelf and tried to eat it. I saw him pulling something off his tongue with his index finger and thumb.

"What's in your mouth?"

"A ladybug."

I didn't ask why he put the ladybug in his mouth. When you're four, you just have to know what ladybugs taste like.

Now that the kids are socially independent, I can start to up the academic ante. Since September, I've been modeling readiness skills like letter and number recognition, counting, phonemic awareness, one-to-one correspondence, and left to right directionality. I've taught whole class and small group lessons to expose them to "the basics." Now I need to find out how much they've absorbed and make decisions about where to go instructionally, and whether individual kids need challenge or review.

One way I can assess their progress is by letting them take over as the "teacher" during our calendar routine. Yesterday, I chose a child to be the first "student teacher" of the year.

Oh my god. You would not have believed this kid in action. She didn't miss a beat. She was academically secure, confident on her feet and kept the rest of the class completely enthralled by her presentation from beginning to end. My teacher aide said she'd never been so impressed by a four year old in her life.

We asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, thinking in our egotistical minds that she would say, "Why, a teacher, of course. Is there any profession more noble or rewarding?" The actual conversation went like this.

"You did a wonderful job leading the calendar today. What would you like to be when you grow up?"

"A dentist."

A couple of weeks ago, my classroom had no heat. We had to send the children home because it wasn't safe, healthy or productive to be in a room whose temperature was below 60 degrees. My student teacher broke down in tears when we told her she couldn't come to school that day and had to go back home.

Yesterday, my student teacher came up to me at dismissal and tugged on my shirt. I looked down. Her large brown eyes met my gaze with eager anticipation.

"So," she said, "when are you going to be absent again?"

One of my favorite things to do is create fantasy careers for myself that I'll never have. It's a little hobby I picked up on the road...of life.

::crappy ass midi of "Wind Beneath My Wings" plays in background::

I'm an HGTV addict, particularly shows like "Mission Organization." The idea of buying Rubbermaid totes and little baskets with someone else's money and organizing all their stuff makes me positively HOT.

I love "Trading Spaces," but I love its British counterpart "Changing Rooms" even more. Basically anything is better with a British accent. I watch these shows and think I could do a MUCH better job of designing and decorating than Frank, Hilde or Laurie. But not Vern. I'd never be better than Vern.

All designers begin with an inspiration piece. You've seen "A Christmas Story," right? Anyone who hasn't is dead to me until they do. (Melissa) There's a scene in the movie where Ralphie presents a carefully written theme to his teacher, entitled "What I Want for Christmas." In his mind's eye, he imagines that his essay is the most wonderful piece of work his teacher has ever encountered in her career, and she marks the paper with a large, red A+. She continues writing A++++++++ on the chalkboard and across the classroom walls, while Ralphie is carried through the room ceremoniously on his classmates' shoulders.

I imagined, in my fantasy, I suppose, that I would design the following room. (If any of you bastards try to steal this idea and send it to HGTV or TLC, I will find out and hurt you. Fair warning.)

The walls would be painted with black chalkboard paint. There would be pieces of chalk velcroed to the walls in strategically placed, aesthetically pleasing locations. My guests and I could write quotes, messages and, of course, foul vulgarities all over the room for our own amusement. When there isn�t a millimeter of space left, a photograph would be taken, developed, framed and hung in the room as a chronicle of its history. The walls would be erased to make room for a new collection of thoughts and ideas. How friggin� cool is that? Tony called this idea for a room the �House Guestbook.� I thought that was the perfect description.

I�ll be moving soon. You�re all invited to come over and sign my house guestbook. Oh, and anyone who can find the inconspicuous Corky St. Clair quote in this entry gets to use the COLORED CHALK.

Today couldn�t be any better.

It�s my birthday.

Every year, my birthday comes and goes with no fanfare, which is fine with me. I�ll get a few phone calls and some cards in the mail. People at work will smile and say, �Happy Birthday!� but the day goes on like any other day.

This year, I was absolutely inundated with the most phenomenal cards, phone calls, guestbook posts, webpage dedications, IMs and emails. I was fucking flabbergasted. I don�t know why I find it so hard to believe people like me as much as they do. I�m pretty confident about myself and who I am, but I find it unbelievable when people go out of their way to do nice things just to make me happy.

I was thinking the other day about online diaries and blogs, after reading a friend's journal post. In these diaries, we are able to present ourselves in a certain way. I don�t doubt that most people are completely honest in their entries, but through the written word, we�re able to create a persona that is more complex than our normal, every day selves. We have an opportunity to choose our words with greater care than the spoken word allows. We can be ourselves with frosting and sprinkles.

In the last several months, I�ve met some new friends online. I bought my first computer in June, so all my technological and internet experience has happened in seven months. I�m a self taught geek, with a little help from outside sources. At first, I was very skeptical about the mysterious strangers in web-land. I used a pseudonym for a while. I was leery about ordering merchandise over the internet. Through the magic of email, instant messengers and good old fashioned experience, I quickly learned that most people online weren�t scary or freakish at all. They were pretty much just like me.

Still, how did I know they would like �real life me� as much as they liked �diary me� or �online me�? I wasn�t sure. But it was a chance I was willing to take. I spent the last ten years of my life avoiding chances and living in an emotional cocoon and I wasn�t about to spend one more day hiding behind a facade of lies and pretending to be someone I wasn�t. Several months ago I made a promise that I wouldn�t lie ever again under any circumstances in words or actions. I would be myself, truly myself, and if that wasn�t good enough, too bad.

That wasn�t easy for me because I�ve spent most of my life second guessing myself, criticizing myself and trying to be someone else. Trying to be perfect. I lived my life for approval and validation, hindered by worry and fear. It�s something I still struggle with and probably always will to some degree. I never knew my own evolution could be so exciting and wonderful, because I never allowed it to happen. Now I am, and it feels so good.

I decided to put myself out there, meet these people and hoped that they weren�t going to chop off my head in the night. Or the day, for that matter. More than that, I worried that they might reject me. Head chopping sounded more attractive.

Over a series of months, I overcame a paralyzing fear of flying and met them one by one. And they liked me! They REALLY liked me! I was myself, and that was enough.

I�ll always be a drama queen. I�ll always be a performer. I�m an extrovert who loves attention. I�m impulsive, emotional and I lack self control. But I�ve found a niche of people with whom I can be all those things and not fear rejection, judgment or criticism.

�...and in the end...the love you take...is equal to the love you make.� - John Lennon

Over the last few months, I�ve received more love from the people in my life than I ever imagined possible. They�ve allowed me to give love, unabashedly and without hesitation.

On the day of my birth, I say thank you. Thank you to my new friends and my family for accepting me, appreciating me and loving me for who I am. I�m grateful, today and always.

Happy birthday to me.

I�m a study in contradictions. I�m high strung, but I�m laid back. I�m a drama queen, but I hate dramatics. I worry about almost everything, but I let bothersome little issues roll off my back. I�m a living, breathing Alanis Morrisette song.

This week, Tony got EXTREMELY excited about Joe Gibbs returning to coach the Washington Redskins. A dream he had for nearly twelve years had become a reality and he was absolutely out of his mind with joy. I remarked that I would never understand the workings of the sports vault in a man�s brain, and, in an attempt to bring this experience into my girly girl world, he explained, �This is like walking into Jimmy Choo's and seeing a sign that says "All shoes, 99% off!" My heart stopped a little when I read that. Still, I didn�t get that �jump out of my skin� feeling. I thought about this some more. I considered the idea of the original Broadway cast of �Les Miserables� reuniting for one night at Carnegie Hall and I�d have front row seats. Ooooooh, tingly. I was getting closer to understanding the Joe Gibbs frenzy.

Then I began to seriously consider what makes me truly passionate. I'm a very intense, passionate person in general, so almost everything I do is met with great enthusiasm. I experience everything with all my senses, under my skin and in my bones. Even if I'm quiet, I'm drinking it all in.

So how do I identify myself? I do LOVE shoes and theater, but I can�t rattle off every Manolo Blahnik design, nor can I remember what production won the Tony Award for Best Revival of a Musical in 1995. I don�t have a mind for facts, although I do kick major ass at Pop Culture Trivial Pursuit. I�m fangirly to the nth degree and I�ll always carry around a serious obsession (or three) for sexy crooners, deep voiced rockers and effeminate pop singers. I read voraciously. I write a little. I play the flute, tap dance and sing. I paint and I�ve been known to make a mean latch hook pillow. I speak French and love to travel. Board games seriously turn me on and I know my way around a kitchen. I can figure skate, I practice yoga, and I think with a little practice after my arm ligaments heal, I could remember some of the nifty gymnastics tricks I used to be able to do. I�m a makeup whore and computer geek in the making. Movies and television are my drugs of choice. I love the eighties. I�ve a myriad of interests. I know a little bit about a lot of things. But what is it that makes me feel that life is worth living?

And I realized what makes me passionate. Teaching. I�m head over heels in love with my career. I�d jump in front of a truck for any one of my students, past or present. Once this thought solidified, a few of the passionate moments flooded my mind...

I�ve been tutoring Alex for six years. We were working on a geometry assignment recently, and he turned to me and said, �This is why I like working with you. You explain this so much better than my math teacher. I get this, now. Thank you.� And the �too cool for anything� preteen threw his arms around my neck and hugged me.

Amy�s mother was living with an alcoholic boyfriend. Amy had trouble concentrating in class and didn�t eat breakfast most mornings. I received word that Amy�s brother arrived at school with a huge bruise across his face and Child Protective Services had been called. I needed to be prepared for anything. It wasn�t unheard of for irate parents to storm the school after abusive behavior had been discovered and called out. Ironically, the same parents would storm the school if their child had been disciplined in any way. �I�m the only one who can abuse this child, he�s my property,� kind of mentality. Fucked up. CPS came to school and I talked to the case worker who informed me that Amy and her brothers would be taken from the home immediately since the mother refused to kick the asshole boyfriend out of the house so she could KEEP HER FUCKING KIDS. I nearly vomited. I became so nauseated by this idea that I felt my throat begin to close up and I had to keep swallowing to keep the bile down. I talked to the social worker about taking Amy in, but she had already secured a foster home with one of Amy�s relatives. I would have adopted that child THAT VERY SECOND if the social worker had allowed it. Nothing to think about. She�d have been my daughter and I would have made sure she�d never experience another day of suffering or abuse for the rest of her childhood.

I found out Sarah was attending Boston College. I burst into tears of joy.

I�m having trouble articulating what it is about working with children that makes me so passionate, because as much as I love to say, �It�s all about me,� that�s not what drives me to be a great teacher. It�s nice to be appreciated and I love to hear former students say, �You were my favorite teacher,� or, �I remember when you read this book to me in second grade.� I like when parents say, �I requested you because I heard you were the best teacher on this grade level,� or, �My child never liked school before he was in your class.� I love when kids come up to me to hug me spontaneously or when they call me �mom� by mistake. There�s no higher compliment.

I take my responsibilities as a teacher very seriously. Adults have an enormous impact on the lives of children every single day, and many adults take that privilege too lightly, in my opinion. The spoken word, chosen without care, can leave scars for life. School is a social domain, and the place where we develop as social creatures. An apathetic or indifferent teacher can (directly or unknowingly) foster an environment that encourages counterproductive relationships among fellow human beings. How many people do you know that absolutely despised high school because it was a painful, raw experience? I know lots. I also know the experience could have been somewhat, if not extremely, different if the majority of the teachers gave a shit about how the kids treated each other instead of chalking it up to �teen angst� or �boys will be boys� or �it�s the parents� responsibility to know what�s going on with their kids, not mine� or the rest of the bullshit cliches that permeate the faculty rooms of schools across this country. It�s the teachers� way to excuse themselves for looking the other way while the kid who eventually showed up to school with a semiautomatic weapon was tormented relentlessly by his peers. This is why I go home for lunch.

In my personal life, I�m a study in contradictions. I�m all over the map. As a teacher, I have the opportunity to go to school every day, appreciate the individuality of each of my thirty six students and consistently treat them with the love, respect and kindness they deserve. I make that choice and I NEVER falter.

I�m jumping out of my skin.

Woo hoo!

I picked up my mail from the post office today, and look what was in the pile...

Tony and I ordered this CD last week from Zailor, and I have to say I'm pretty impressed that we were able to navigate our way through a multitude of websites in Norwegian in order to get this puppy. Sure, we could have found it on an amazon site, but muddling our way through the searching and buying process in a foreign language was much more fun. Plus, now I get lots of Norwegian spam!

This is how you make a debut solo album, people. First of all, many of the songs were written by Kurt Nilsen, so they suit his voice. Secondly, this CD shows off his vocal range and ability. His voice is absolutely haunting. Finally, the booklet has ALL THE WORDS to the songs. The one thing that pissed me off about Clay Aiken's Measure of a Man is the absence of printed lyrics and the presence of a teenybopper poster. (Sorry, Melissa. I know you heart the makeout poster. Personally, I'd rather have the words. Don't set me on fire, mmmkay? Save that for he who shall not be named.)

Speaking of setting people on fire, I'd like to see skank ho Kelly Clarkson with a few good third degree burns all over her screechy ass body, but not before I spoon out her eyes. Correction. Spork out her eyes. A spoon would be much too gentle.

I bitched the other day about her immature behavior on World Idol, but today just set me over the edge with hatred for her AND her eye makeup.

"The New York Post's PageSix reports that "American Idol" contestant Kelly Clarkson was apparently none too happy at having to settle for second place in the "World Idol" competition on New Year's Day. Growing visibly more distressed as the tallied votes from various regions showed she was trailing a gap-toothed Norwegian plumber, original "American Idol" winner Clarkson promptly left the set once the loss became official. The night's winner, Kurt Nilsen, was actually a fan of Clarkson's who had even flown from Norway to New York to hear her sing at Giants Stadium last year. Though his win was certainly a great surprise, the 24-year-old father of two was taken aback by Clarkson's abrupt departure, saying simply, "I didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

Who the hell does she think she is? And what's with her attitude? She sang "Oh Holy Night" on the American Idol Christmas special all full of 'tude, and there's only one person in this world allowed to do that, and it's Eric Cartman. Furthermore, a laryngitic Kurt Nilsen could sing CIRCLES around her and, she has the nerve to dis him by throwing a baby fit and leaving because her xenophobic ass didn't win?????

In the words of my favorite author, David Sedaris...

FUCK OF.

Melissa dies.

Why?

Because she discovered this Daniel Kueblboeck dude. He was the runner up on �Superstar,� Germany�s Idol show. This guy is a mess. Listening to him sing is like hearing rats fuck. No. Wait. Correction. Hearing DYING rats fuck.

The fact that Melissa is more than mildly obsessed with Daniel is fine. Terrific, really. The reason she dies is because she has gotten Tony obsessed with finding every bit of Daniel media on the internet that exists. He must continue to look and listen in order to reinforce proof that Daniel really is THAT disastrous. Yesterday, I was inundated on IM with links to pictures, songs and videos, and today I had to DRAG his ass away from the computer so we could go into DC and do something remotely normal. (We went to the International Spy Museum, and it ROCKED!)

We just got home and found no less than ten completed Daniel downloads on the hard drive. Someone save me. Please.

The Daniel hype in Germany is a little bit scary, I�ll admit, but when I remember that this country invited David Hasselhoff to be the headline act at the performance to celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall, I�m not surprised that Daniel�s such a huge sensation. David�s light-up black jacket that illuminated the Brandenburg Gate pales in comparison to Daniel�s striped Bay City Rollers jumpsuit.

What scares me is that Daniel and I are strikingly similar. Our eyeglasses are nearly identical, our names are remarkably alike, we�re both drama queens and we THINK we can sing. Then I stumbled across a picture of Daniel and a picture of me that I took several months ago, and it just made me go�

Ummmmmm.

HELP!

I fucking HEART 2004 already!

Two reasons:

1. The inaugural appearance of Pissy!Drama!Queen!Hissy!Fit!Clay!

and

2. Kurt Nilsen is the World Idol.

I'd write more about why Kurt deserved to win, why it doesn't matter that the World Idol competition is just a three hour commercial for Fox, why the worldwide voting public needs to buy some Q-Tips, and why it pleases me that Kurt kicked the ass of Miss Independent Self-Absorbed, but I don't have the attention span to be coherent right now.

Six months have passed and I haven�t spent one day curled up in bed, save a few days in November when I had the flu. A legitimate illness, unlike the ones I feigned for ten years in order to close myself off from the outside world and retreat into nothingness.

Six months have passed and fear no longer controls me. I had a panic attack in LaGuardia airport three years ago. I vowed I would never step foot on a plane again. In the last nine weeks, I have flown thirteen times.

Six months ago, I couldn�t go to the bathroom by myself. Yesterday I spent the entire day exploring Washington DC. Alone.

Six months ago, I pretended to be happy. Today, I am content.

It wasn�t very long ago that I went to bed on Christmas Eve while the rest of my family sat at the dining room table cracking walnut shells just for the fun of it and debating the great issues of the world. As I placed my head on the pillowcase in my little bedroom with the blue and green flowered wallpaper, I looked out the window and wished for a glimpse of Santa Claus careening through the night sky.

December 24, 2003 was a very different kind of Christmas Eve for me. This is the first year I've spent the holidays away from my friends and family. It's the first holiday I've spent doing something I wanted to do, instead of what I was obligated to do.

Every year, I like to decorate my tree while listening to Christmas CDs, watching Christmas videos and simmering mulled spices on the stove. I love to gingerly unwrap each ornament from its cocoon of tissue paper and dangle it from just the right branch of the frequently crooked fragrant pine brushing against the ceiling of my sunroom. Though the setting changed, this year could be no different.

I insisted on going to Target to get a small tree, despite Tony's reluctance due to space issues. Bah. Humbug. "Look, Scrooge," I said, "we're getting a goddamn tree." How's that for Christmas spirit?

We drove into the parking lot at Target, while Tony repeated that we had to be crazy venturing out to go shopping on Christmas Eve. (However, he didn't blink an EYE about going to his favorite porn shop, Best Buy. I'm not complaining because I heart Best Buy, and because he found the Donny Osmond Christmas album for seven dollars for me. I'm listening to it right now. Stop laughing, fuckers.) I didn't see why should today be different than any other day in terms of my mental stability, and frankly, I would have waited in line for three hours to get my requisite tree.

The crowds weren't too bad and as I grabbed a cart, Tony said, "We're going to have to make the full circle even though it's Christmas Eve, aren't we?" I just smiled with a look that said, "You bet your sweet ass we're circling the store. This is TARGET, baby, my home away from home."

Honestly, though, that man does a damn good job of pacing the aisles himself. First, we stopped in shoes, and Tony was surprised to learn that a snobby shoe whore like myself would deign to purchase a pair of shoes from Target. I explained that the great thing about shoes from Target is that they're cheap and when they have been destroyed, it's easy to just toss them. It's not so easy to toss a pair of Jimmy Choos, no matter how holey the soles are. I don't make up the rules; they just ARE.

We spent a little time browsing the men's department and commenting on the tender spandex blouses that seemed to be rather popular. I was glad to hear Tony say he wouldn't be caught dead in one of those t-shirts. I mean, not only were they tender, but they were just plain fucking ugly. He's got good fashion instincts, that man.

We checked out the pet toy aisle briefly and made our way to the Christmas decorations. The very first thing we saw was a fiber optic tree and we immediately agreed that 2003 must be a Tacky White Trash Christmas. At 19.99 and 30% off, we wondered how we could ever decide on just one! We settled on the white model and began browsing through lights, ornaments and tinsel. I chose a sparkly purple disco ball and jingle bells for the tree. Tony was hell bent on finding the cheesiest folk art ornaments in the store, and holy shit did he ever succeed. He filled the cart with a pregnant angel,

a Santa and a reindeer that looked like they were crapping out candy canes and various kitschy miniatures. I had to draw the line at the clown-faced nativity figurines.

To the collection, I added a giant silver star that would become a makeshift tree topper, a box of Precious Moments ornaments that we would eventually put back due to cheapness, and a shiny white bareassed angel playing a violin.

We just finished exchanging a beaded garland of plastic turquoise snowflakes for a round of blue and silver tinsel with mylar stars when I heard a gasp coming from the endcap at the end of the aisle. It was Tony. He discovered tinsel trees.

Getting a Christmas tree was suddenly the most important thing in the world to him. He knew in his heart of hearts that this was the tree for us. I had grown somewhat attached to our little white fiber optic number, so I needed a little convincing. Before conceding to this change in Xmas decor, I suggested we open both containers and compare the two trees. Tony just smirked as if to say, "Crazy woman, I will go along with your foolish plan, but you will soon see that the fiber optic tree pales in comparison to the far superior multicolored tinsel tree." He was right. The tinsel tree rocked. We put it in the cart and returned the fiber optic piece of garbage to the shelf from whence it came.

We had all the ornaments we would ever need for this tree, having added purple and blue balls (hahahahaha) and multicolored stars to the cart, and we agreed that garland of any kind would seriously mar the goodness of our fine tinsel tree. Now, we needed to find ornament hooks.

Fat fucking chance.

We circled the holiday section of Target at least eight times with no luck. They did not have one damn package of hooks anywhere in that store. We grabbed a small spool of ribbon for to thread through the holes of our ornaments, huffing and puffing indignantly. Marching away, we announced, "TARGET SUCKS!" and headed for the checkout.

When we got home, we donned our Santa hats and popped "It's a Wonderful Life" into the DVD player. Tony went to work assembling and fluffing the Christmas tree while I laid the ornaments on the table in an organized fashion.

Clearly the bareassed white cherub was responsible for impregnating the pink angel, so we thought it best to keep them apart once on the tree.

We wound purple lights around our wobbly little tinsel tree and proceeded to cover it with every last ornament, save a tiny clock that lost its string during the hanging process. We declared it a miracle that the tree remained upright as we moved it back into position and carefully arranged the five dollar white felt skirt at its base. Yay! We had a super tacky Christmas tree!

And then we fell asleep on the couch watching "Weekend at Bernie's."

The feeling I had as a child when I awoke on Christmas morning was unlike any other I experienced the remaining 364 days of the year. Anticipation and amazement drove me to leap out of my bed and run to my parents� bedroom, glancing down the hall on my way to see the abundant treasures left beneath the tree.

My first words of the day were always, �He came! He came!� My parents shuffled out of bed with weary feet, having gone to sleep only a few short hours before I bounded into their room, wide-eyed and anxious. My mother insisted we wait until she had a proper cup of coffee and a loaded camera before tearing into our gifts. My dad sat on the living room floor, cross-legged and yawning, with coffee mug and screwdriver in hand. Christmas was supposed to celebrate the birth of Christ, but in our house we celebrated the birth of the assembly of Star Wars toys that lasted through the greater portion of the late seventies.

In fifteen minutes, every gift was unwrapped, wrapping paper was strewn across the floor and we surveyed our bounty with wide eyes and even wider smiles. I was thinking today that Christmas must be a wonderful day for parents. They spend weeks, sometimes months, collecting gifts for the most important people in their lives: their children. They wrap furiously and find the perfect hiding spot for these gifts, wondering, perhaps, if a particularly curious child might find them and discover �Santa�s� big secret. The look of wonder and surprise on a child�s face when she unwraps something so desirable must be all the thanks a parent needs on Christmas Day.

This year, I didn�t fall asleep in my twin bed on Hawthorne Avenue. I didn�t fall asleep in my king-sized bed with the black and white toile coverlet. I fell asleep four hundred miles away with a tackily decorated multicolored tinsel tree below me. I didn�t peek out the window hoping for a glimpse of Santa and I didn�t wake up with butterflies in my stomach. I just closed my eyes and woke up feeling very content.

We opened presents on Christmas morning while we watched "Home Alone" and sipped soy eggnog.

I called my family around 3:30 to wish them a Merry Christmas. My sister-in-law was buying cookies from her cousin and gave the phone hurriedly to my mom. My mom pretended to be happy that I was doing something different, something for myself this year, but I could hear sadness in her voice. My dad and I discussed the weather, the snow. My grandmother could barely hear me, but I heard her say, �I love you,� before handing the phone to no one. After a few minutes, my mom picked the phone up and asked if I was still there. �Yes, I�m here,� I said. �We�re really missing you this year,� she said. �I know,� I replied. My brother got on the phone and talked while installing a dart board and farting. It was a bittersweet phone call.

I said goodbye and we sat in front of the tinsel tree, watching the best of Will Ferrell on Saturday Night Live and eating soba noodles with homemade spaghetti sauce.

A few hours later, John, Caryn, Tony and I craned our necks from the front row of the theater watching "Paycheck" and nibbling popcorn. I'd never been to a movie on Christmas Day before. Thinking about that made sitting in the front row much more bearable.

Christmas Day came to a close with my back propped up against a red and white striped pillowcase and my eyes glued to a videotape of "World Idol" on TV.

And because I'm not a total heathen, (well, okay, maybe I am, but it was Christmas, so cut me some slack) I thought about the many things for which I'm grateful this year. I'm grateful for change, for courage and strength, for friendship and love, for adventure and routine, for companionship and solitude, for words and actions and life.

And I'm grateful for tinsel trees.

I didn't think it was possible to be any more of a klutz, and then along came four hours ago.

I was walking to the car when my feet decided they didn't feel like functioning any more. I tripped over the curb, fell forward and broke my fall with the palms of my hands. Scraped and bleeding, I could feel my left arm begin to spasm and shake and the only reaction I could muster was complete and total hysteria. Yes, laughter.

Right now, my arm fucking kills. My shoulder is so tender, I can barely stand to touch it and when I try to lift my arm, it trembles. Whatever ligaments were beginning to heal from last week's fall are all torn up again. So what am I doing? Typing on a computer, doing laundry and not wearing my arm sling.

When my mother hears about this, I'm certain she'll be able to quote some television show about people losing their balance and falling frequently. She'll try to talk me into going for an MRI or CAT scan, and I'll try to convince her that I'm really just very uncoordinated when it comes to walking in shoes that are made for, well, walking.

From now on, I'm not leaving the house in shoes with less than a two inch heel.

On a more pleasant note, here's me and Tony with our new friend, Clay Aiken.

�Twas the night before Tuesday
And all through the house
The keyboard was clicking
And so was the mouse

Two tickets for hockey
And a chance to meet Clay
Was what we were bidding
On eBay that day

The Visa was ready
And we waited to hear
As the close of the auction
On eBay drew near

�The tickets are ours!�
Danielle heard Tony shout
And she ran to the kitchen
And promptly wiped out

The arm was not broken
Nor fractured, just sore
So on Monday we packed up
And walked out the door

The rest of the story
We�ll tell you in prose
But let us just mention
WE TOUCHED CLAYTON�S CLOTHES!!!!!

Raleigh is a lovely city. There's a very nice touch-less car wash close to the RBC Center and the bathrooms at Whole Foods market are extremely sanitary. After visiting these two landmarks, we could see why Clay is so fond of his hometown.

Breathing became increasingly difficult as we neared the door to our suite. We presented our tickets with shaky hands and proceeded to have great difficulty putting on our electric pink wristbands. Repeated attempts taught us that it helps to peel the backing off the sticky end first.

We surveyed our domain and quickly realized our suite had no restroom. It wouldn't be prudent to greet Clay with big wet spots on our pants (again), so we decided to take it easy on the beverages. A small bottle of water would suffice.

The suite began to fill up with people wearing hockey jerseys featuring AIKEN 03 on the back and Bubel-Aiken Foundation logos on the front, carrying gifts for Clay and sporting wide, excited smiles. We were about to jump out of our skin, so we planted ourselves in Row D, seats 4 and 5 of suite 213.

After much anticipation, the evening�s festivities began with the �Star Spangled Banner�. Clay sounded magnificent, more developed than his Durham Bulls performance and more assured than his World Series performance. Clay performed vocal gymnastics the way Andre Agassi plays tennis: perfection. His pitch and vocal control were impeccable. If his initial performance was any indication, this would be a great night.

During the first period (apparently, there was a hockey game going on in the building), Clay visited Suite 212, the largest of the three suites he�d be visiting. We discovered that 15 minutes to meet 100 people is not a great deal of time. We were hopeful that we would receive a little more touchy feely time with Clay than the folks in the first suite, since our suite was considerably smaller with only fifty attendees, but we knew some thought still needed to go into our plan for his foray into our suite. And since we are superior at multi-tasking, we were able to plan our strategy AND rubberneck simultaneously!

At the first intermission, Clay skated onto the ice wearing his Hurricanes jersey. He circled the rink several times while singing �I Will Carry You�, finishing the song at center ice. Danielle was very satisfied that her Skating Clay fantasy was fulfilled, but she would have liked to see some wobbly bendy ankles. How dare he be so sure-footed on ice skates!

We knew that Clay would be visiting our suite next. Clay�s bodyguard, �New Jerome,� a hulking tank of a man, came by our suite to give us the ground rules. He spoke softly and respectfully to the fans. One picture per person or group, since the multitude of bright flashes was starting to irritate the Tropical Green Pools. Those with cameras on the left, those without on the right. Everyone swarmed to the left. We were bouncing with anticipation. We could see him down the corridor in Suite 211, posing for photos, TOUCHING AND BEING TOUCHED. Soon that would be US! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Danielle began to hyperventilate. Tony said, �Breathe for me,� while the people standing around us just smiled and said, �Oh. Oh. She�s got it bad.�

We realized that he would not be signing autographs, so we put our cds away to remain unencumbered by unnecessary baggage. Our next thought was positioning. We had to maintain the premium sight line and still get our picture with Clay. We moved to the edge of the stairs within the suite and waited.

We should note that this decision was not made willy nilly. Oh no. Many a discussion had taken place prior to the event regarding optimum positioning. Tony felt the end of the line would be most desirable, since we could observe Clay for the most amount of time and collect ourselves slightly before meeting him. Danielle was nervous that being at the end of the line might jeopardize our chances of meeting him at all, in the event that they might need to whisk him away in preparation for his next performance. He might need a Chloraseptic throat spritz or a Ricola lozenge before each song! No, the end of the line was too risky. Danielle wanted to barricade the doorway so she could jump on him and maul him like one of Siegfried and Roy�s tigers the moment he entered the suite, but Tony didn�t think that would be wise. Entertaining, yes. Wise, no. So, we agreed that the middle of the line would be our best bet.

And then, it happened. In. Walked. Clay.

His bodyguard swept him into the room, but Clay appeared unfettered by this routine. He strolled in smiling and greeting people casually and situated himself at the base of the staircase that led from the hospitality area of the suite to the seats. Once comfortable, Clay�s first words were�

�Where�s mah favorite couple?�

�Ah was told they were coming tonight?�

�Danielle and Tony!�

It was clear he wanted to spend the entire meet and greet time with us, but we agreed he should have his photograph taken with some of the other charitable souls in the room. We�re so generous that way. So we waited. Three feet away.
And watched.

Halfway through the line, we jumped into the fray. This was it. The moment we had been planning and discussing for the last week. What to say? What to say? What does one say to a man who has honestly and truly impacted one�s life in unimaginable ways? Our friends insisted that we tell Clay the tale of how we met on the purple pages. Teacher Danielle wanted to thank him for inspiring her to be a better teacher and for the incredible work he does to enrich the lives of children, particularly those with special needs. Should Tony give him his amazing DVDs and thank Clay for providing him with the opportunity of discovering new technical challenges and creating his masterpiece of a tribute? Would we congratulate him on his awards, his record sales, his graduation? No. Bossy Danielle marched right up to Clay, and in true Shoe Whore style, announced, �I LOVE YOUR SHOES!�

�Well, thank you very much!� was his response. There may have been a cliggle. More likely, a look of utter confusion. Perhaps fear.

Before Clay could shoot New Jerome the �I think we may have a stalker here� look, Danielle grabbed Clay around the waist and drew him into her body. She was holding on the way Rose and Jack gripped the bars at the helm of the Titanic as it plunged into the Atlantic. Holding on for dear life. Her fingers palpated the soft skin under the black pinstriped shirt with French cuffs while Tony fought to get in the frame of the picture. He managed to get his arm around Clay�s shoulder, but he had to duck and lean in since Amoeba Danielle was trying out her new osmosis moves and engulfing Clayton Aiken.

Click. Flash. Snap.

As Danielle moved back to our primo vantage point, Tony took full advantage of the opportunity before him. He stuck out his right hand and shook hands with Clay. Clay gave a firm, confident handshake and flashed his perfect smile.

Clay took his final pictures with the rest of the group. At one point, when a group of women and the usher taking their picture didn�t realize the flash hadn�t gone off, Clay hollered, �Wait! Wait!� and insisted that the usher take a second photo for those fans. How cool is he? His smile was as radiant and sincere in the last photo as it was in the first.

His bodyguard guided him out of the room and the meet-and-greet was over.

At the second intermission (Carolina and Dallas were still playing hockey � what do you know?!), Clay rose above the crowd on a hydraulic lift. �Don�t Save It All for Christmas Day� was followed by a phenomenal performance of �The Way�. His voice was perfect and he commands the audience, even when he�s not moving across the stage with hoppy feet. A few moments later, Clay returned to sing �Invisible,� Even though he was in a tight space instead of a stage, he managed to perform �Invisible� with gusto, holding out the microphone and encouraging the audience to sing along while his name scrolled across the marquee around him in shimmering lights.

The crowd cheered and the suites sighed. We planned to hear two songs that evening, but we never expected a five song mini-concert!

Apparently the stars were in perfect alignment last Monday night when Danielle found the eBay auction for tickets to the Hurricanes game in Clay�s hometown and Tony clicked the �Buy It Now� button. We agreed that we would have paid triple the cost of the tickets to replay the entire event exactly as it had occurred. Well, maybe for triple the price there ought to be a pantsing, at least.

Clay entertained. The Bubel-Aiken Foundation raised a considerable amount of money. We met Clay. It was the perfect evening.

Today is my last day of work for two weeks!

I'm hyper.

I am the biggest klutz ever to walk the planet.

I'm amazed that I, the woman who has been dancing for the greater portion of her life, can trip and fall over a grain of rice. I can walk in heels on uneven icy pavement, but I am forever falling out of chairs, hitting my head and injuring myself needlessly.

A few days ago, I fell down the stairs. There was no obstacle on the steps to impede the flow of traffic, and I was not wearing slippery socks. No. The sheer ineptitude of my feet to coordinate alternate movement caused me to bounce down four hardwood risers on my ass. Good thing it's cushioned nicely.

Last night, I was running from the living room to the kitchen. Don't ask why. I'll tell you why another day, but for now, let's pretend I had something in the oven that was burning, mmmkay? I took off at a clip in my red, white and black striped socks, and as I turned the corner into the kitchen, I wiped out. I made an attempt to catch myself on the kitchen counter, but lack of balance and gravity won out in the end. I hit my head, specifically, my ear, on the cupboard on the way down, sliced up the base of my pointer finger on my right hand, and landed on my left shoulder. Hard.

When I got up, I tried to lift my left arm, but the muscle kept spasming and my entire arm was trembling. Instinct told me to bend my elbow and rest my arm against the front of my body. It felt better, but I had a hunch I had done some damage to this arm. For the next few hours, my left hand kept quivering uncontrollably and the ache in my shoulder wouldn't cease. I figured it would be better the next day, and went to bed early.

I didn't sleep much last night, and when I got out of bed to get ready for work, my arm was pretty much immobile. I couldn't lift it independently. Shit. I decided not to fool around in case I had fractured or broken a bone, though I knew that was not likely. The more probable scenario was that I dislocated my shoulder or did some damage to my rotator.

And so, today I spent the greater portion of the afternoon at the emergency room, getting felt up by a med student and holding still for the x-ray technician. The final diagnosis? No fractures or breaks, but a fair amount of torn ligaments and a nice healthy sprain. They stuck my arm in a sling and gave me a prescription for Tylenol with codeine, which I promptly threw in the garbage. They suggested rest and ice as needed, and told me if I didn't have relief and movement in a week, to call my doctor for an orthopedic referral.

In case you're wondering when this boring, mundane entry is going to get remotely interesting, it's now. This is what was hanging on the wall outside the x-ray department at the hospital.

Funny, huh?

Atfuckinglanta.

These reports are in no particular order, but I'm getting them down as I'm inspired to write them.

Here's the first one.

Living in Buffalo, New York has made me one tough broad when it comes to weather. I brush my car off in the winter with my bare hands and I don�t even own a pair of boots. All of the buttons on my coats are missing, and the zipper on my black leather jacket doesn�t work.

But this tough Buffalo chick was almost beaten by the Atlanta rain. Waiting in line for the concert, Tony and I shared a pair of gloves. One gloved hand would hold the umbrella while the naked hand warmed up in a pocket. Our toes were numb from the cold, wet earth under our feet. Mine were especially cold in my shoe whore heels, which seemed to impress Lila tremendously. Like I�m going to see Clay in flats. As if.

The heat from several hundred bodies pressed together for a couple of hours was not sufficient to warm our extremities enough in preparation for the next leg of our journey. Tony suggested we walk over to the stage door and wait to see if we might catch a glimpse of Downy Ball close up and in the flesh. We knew exactly where to go, because we could see the door from the window of our hotel room that day.

As we walked, the rain started to come down harder and harder (and ooooh harder, baby, harder!) by the minute. We waited. And waited. And waited. Melissa and I broke into �Still the One,� complete with show choir choreography. We snubbed JC Chasez. I asked him to give me his Burberry scarf, but JC just ignored me. Tony asked, "When is NSync getting back together?" I don't think JC was amused, because he pretended not to hear that. He just went to his bus without a backward glance. Yes, I said BUS. Um, Clay travels in a black stretch limo. Neener neener.

Finally, one of the stage hands came out and said to Carlos, our friendly security guard, �Five minutes.� Five minutes! Waldo Clay would be in front of us in FIVE MINUTES! OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!

Yeah, well, five minutes turned into about 20 and the rain was starting to get the best of me. After hearing rumors from Carlos that there was an alternate exit for celebs, hope was draining. I turned to Erin, Robin and Tony and said, �Okay, I�ve had enough. I�m ready to go.�

And that�s when Lila�s voice came to me like an angel from heaven.

�HERE HE COMES.�

Clayton Aiken came walking down the ramp, smiling his spectacular smile and radiating positive energy and genuine kindness. I couldn�t believe he was sick. We had already agreed that we would NOT ask him for autographs, since it was cold and pouring and we didn�t have any Vicks� Vapo Rub on hand for Erin to rub into his chest. It would not be wise to give that job to Melissa, since she would concentrate solely on the clipples, and that�s not going to help Clay get well, now, is it?

Everyone was shouting to him, and I heard Erin call, �LECHEROUS BROADS LOVE YOU, CLAY!� He responded, �I love you, too!�

Clay disappeared into his stretch limousine and we went running after him, waving frantically.

(As an aside, some people find it "ironical" that I can run through the wet, slick streets of Atlanta in heels without losing my balance or missing a step, but this morning I fell down the stairs in my own home while walking barefoot. I'm going to have a bruise the size of Texas on my ass.)

I wasn't in the limo, but I'm sure that Clay told the driver, "Please blow the horn, becos they're mah favorite fans."

The driver honked. We all fell into each other�s arms once more. It was the closest encounter any of us had experienced to date, and it happened while we were all together. The love in the air was palpable.

We returned to the hotel later that night, only to learn that Clay likes to be on top. On the top floor, that is. I can now say I've slept under Clay Aiken, and it felt goooooood.

Sitting on the bed in our hotel room, I peeled the cold, wet socks from my feet and pulled off my red sweater with purple tah tah tassels (thank you, Paula, for decorating me!). I was warming up again, but not because of the heat emanating from the vent. I was warmed by the smile of a sparkly eyed redhead from Raleigh and the sincere love I felt for the people in my midst.

I guess this Buffalo gal isn�t so tough after all.

I'm out of control today. I'm going to TM Melissa and apologize up front for my behavior and this entry.

I am jumping out of my skin for four reasons.

1. I GOT SUPERGIRL UNDEROOS YESTERDAY. Erin turned me on to the fact that Target has Supergirl panties, and I RAN MY ASS THERE last night to get me some. I got four pairs - two hipsters and two thongs. I was out of my mind with glee. I AM SUPERGIRL.

Aside: I am deliriously happy about this, DESPITE the fact that I saw two, count them, TWO styles of Zuba pants in the men's department. Buffalo fashion is evil, EVIL, I SAY. I will rant more about this at another time.

2. Last night I got a scanner and every family photo album from 1970-1989. I plan to chronicle my entire childhood through young adulthood if I can ever get the friggin' thing hooked up.

3. I'm going to Atlanta in a few hours to see CLAY sing and, more importantly, spend the weekend with my Broads, Erin, Robin, Melissa, Kat, Wendy, and my Brude, Tony. There are no words. I bought a Santa hat to wear tomorrow night to the concert. I'm four.

4. Next Saturday, I'm going to Virginia for two weeks. I'll be spending Christmas and New Year's there, and then Tony will be coming to Buffalo for my birthday. I'm very happy.

Details on the Atlanta trip will be forthcoming. Right now, I need to go find my Supergirl panties, bra and cape so I can get ready to fly down there! Weeeeeeeee!