*GUEST BLOG* - F@CK EU...EUROPE!
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Nine Inch Nails
The following is an excerpt from the T-Shirt Hell newsletter. It amused me so much, I'm posting it...enjoy!

Last week in this column, I mentioned a sport European's call football. We Americans like to call it soccer, when we talk about it at all. Which, fortunately, is not often. Usually, it's only to say things like, "I was having trouble falling asleep last night, luckily ESPN2 was showing soccer." Or, "How did it feel when that rabid badger bit you in the face?" "It was about as enjoyable as soccer."

Anyway, tons of annoying, European people took the time to unhitch their oxen, and come in from the fields to "educate me" about soccer.

"We call it football because we use our feet." They all whined. Yes, but aren't you wearing socks on those feet? Socks? Soccer? I rest my case.

Like most Americans I have no use for Europe, especially since we built such a swell version of it at Epcot, not to mention the one we built in Las Vegas. Far superior to actual Europe in terms of rides, as well as buffets, both of these versions of Europe include things that appear to be kryptonite to most real Europeans; manners, toothpaste, and deodorant.

Yes I said manners. Europeans are rude.They refuse to speak English. And the ones who do speak English speak it poorly or with a funny accent. We didn't save your pusillanimous asses from Hitler to put up with this kind of piss poor attitude.

I understand that most Europeans hate Americans. Good. We hate you more. Which brings me to another point:If you all hate America so much, will you please stop coming here? I don't think they have patrol boats off the coast of Spain picking up flimsy rafts full of Americans trying to sneak into Europe so they can start a better life.

I guess there are some good things about Europe, like EuroDisney, and I hear they've built a Hard Rock Cafe. But other than that I think it's pointless and much too far to be of any use to anyone.

If You Like Pina Coladas...
Mood:  spacey
Now Playing: Beastie Boys-Licensed to Ill
It started out as a bad day. And when I say bad day, I mean bad like wrong.

Imagine: You wake up the morning after a party at your house. You realize that a hamster apparently built a den in your mouth at some point during the night. A glass of water calls your name from the kitchen. Shift to stumbling sleepily out to the kitchen. You spot a glass of water by the sink. Hey, you think, it's the one you left there last night--SLICK! The lazy chick's way for water--pre-existing (it's just less effort that way). Take a giant glug...and when it hits about mid throat, too late to turn back now, you realize it's not yours--it's not water--it's someone's leftover, flat, 12+ hr old, warm, NASTY ASS gin and tonic.

UGH! No, double UGH!. Actually, let's just go for infinity UGH!

Note to self: Call the Guiness Book of World Records and ask if there is a record for not hurling after chugging day-after party sludge.

I prevailed. I did not chum the kitchen. In fact, I didn't even roark when, an hour later, I decided to hook myself up with some breakfast eats.

A bowl of cereal was just the ticket. Enter: the Lucky Charms. I know some of you are thinking "Hmmm...sounds benign enough." Yeah, sure everything's benign...until you add Pina Coladas. Add Pina Coladas to a bored New Jersey housewife on a cruise and she'll end up sleeping with a 20 yr old male cabaret dancer. Add it to sugar crusted flakes and artificially colored marshmallows and all hell breaks loose. (Or so it seems when you are hungover and mistake the leftover Pina Coladas for the milk...)

Lucky Charms and Pina Coladas...things that make me go UGH...

That's not to say that I won't someday revisit the whole cereal/Pina Colada combination thing. I mean it is a healthier version of the traditional Mickey Mantle breakfast--it has cereal--cereal's fiber.

I'm leaning more towards Fruity Pebbles myself...

More Mom...
Mood:  a-ok
Now Playing: Kenny Chesney - No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem
So I call my mom Friday to check in to see what plans are on for my grandmother's birthday...

ME: "Mom?"
MOM: "Hi honey--talk about telepathy!"
ME:"Telepathy?"
MOM: "Well, I was just thinking about you..."
ME: "And I called..."
MOM: "No, the new Speigal catalog came and I started looking at the Fall fashions and I forgot all about you."

Yup. There it is...my relationship with my mother in a nut shell...

Oh Mother!
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: History of Punk-Prototype Punk
My mother, at best, is a pain. She can't help it, but she's a pain. A severe pain. In the tuckas. At worst, she's a shrewish harpy.

So my parents stop by my office on their way back home from vacation. The first words out of my mother's mouth were "You smell like smoke--I thought you quit". I said "I did mom". "Well then why do you smell like smoke?" So I tell her I was sitting downstairs with my boss (the CEO) and our controller, both of whom smoke. She proceeds to grab the fabric of my shirt and bring it right up to her nose, huff it and say "Are you sure? You smell like smoke".

Can you feel my aggravation level rising? I say "Mom, I told you, I quit." So she says "Let me smell your breath". WHAT?!!! My response? "No. Mom, A) we are standing in my office with my coworkers meandering the halls and B) I am 36 years old and don't want to blow in my mom's face." She starts going on and on about "You're smoking again...then why won't you let me smell your breath?" (Hmmmm mom, let's think about it...there are just so many things wrong with that) Finally I relent (gotta know what battles to pick) so I breathe into her face and she says "Ewwwwwwwwwwww--you need a breath mint!"

I guess in Denny's world, minor post lunch, onion-induced halitosis is worse than smoking...I feel like I am back in kindergarten.

Is that a Horse?
Mood:  a-ok
Now Playing: Ottmar Leibert
Last year I lived in a gated Homeowner Association-ruled community--hated it! Gated communities are a joke--They don't keep the riffraff out, they keep the riffraff in. The only decent thing about the place was the automatic back gate entrance which made it a tad bit easier to get to my house.

One night I went to the local cowboy bar, The Silver Pony, to meet some friends for a drink. When I say cowboy bar I mean it...literally. It is the watering hole for all of the local cowboys as they can ride in from the trails and tie their horses up outside. While there, a buddy of mine--`Cowboy Mark'--rode up. He said a bunch of guys were going on a moonlight margarita ride and asked if I wanted to come. Even though I was completely not dressed for riding, (think crocheted blouse and clogs) I was all over it as liquor and horses make me a very happy girl.

After riding the the mountain trails for hours on end, I was pretty blotto to say the least. When it's a gorgeous night with amazing city views and you are cruising along on what amounts to a mobile lazy boy chair with an endless supply of margaritas--these things happen. When we got back to the Pony, I realized I was far too tanked to drive my car home. Graciously, the guys offered to escort me back to my house...on horseback.

It was about 2:30am when we reached the back gate and I used the clicker to open it for us to ride through, which I doubt was ever the HOA's intended use. Everyone rode through and things got crazy. Next thing I know, 20 horses are at a full run down the middle of my street with drunken cowboys a hootin' and a hollerin' at the top of their lungs. Sparks are flying off of the horses' shoes and tumbling like burning embers down the street into the night. It looked like a Wild West version of the horsemen of the Apocalypse tearing through suburbia.

We pulled up next to my house and I see my 20-something ASU neighbors are partying poolside. Being the polite neighbor I am I say "hey" in greeting. Jason gets up and walks over to the fence and peers over at me. "Is that a horse?" Being a smart ass (no, not me!), I replied, "No sugar, it's a jungle cat--you'd better put down that beer."

The guys needed a rest stop so I opened the back gate and they rode into my backyard. They stayed for about an hour or so and then took off into the night for parts unknown. I woke up later that morning with a fridge full of liquor they had left behind (bonus), a lawn that was alternately eaten down to the dirt or covered in horse poop (not such a bonus) and a `love' note from my Homeowners Associations tacked to the door with a warning about "illegal hooved animals pursuant to..." (no bonus whatsoever)...Ah! The life of the urban cowgirl...yee-haw!

Jester Wanted...
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Big & Rich - Horse of a Different Color
So I read an article the other day that England wants to bring back the Court Jester and is going to advertise the position in the paper.

There is just something strange about a Help Wanted Ad for a court jester. Exactly how do you advertise that position? `Jester wanted. Must be mirthful and have own outfit complete with bells'?

I would think the fact that there hasn't been a court jester in England for over 350 years should probably tell them something. Does the future King Charles I really need a court jester to aid his digestion and prevent state affairs (like Camilla Parker Bowles) from weighing too heavily on him?

How does one garner experience in the court jester `industry' anyway? What does your resume look like? Education: Gleefulness 101; Lightheartedness 200; Advanced Laughing and Joking. Skills: Ability to carry off an outrageous clown outfit with a triple-pointed hat; willing to feign stupidity and madness for the sake of other's enjoyment (Hey now, maybe I should apply for the job).

I think they are missing one key component in the court jester job description: Midgets. I think that anyone applying for the court jester job should have to be a midget, dwarf, vertically challenged, little person, growth hormone deficient individual...whatever PC (or un-PC for that matter)nomenclature fits.

Think about it. Court jesters may be funny, but they have to work at it. Midgets just make people laugh. Who better to entertain a crowd I say?

Take for example the Swamp Stomp in Scottsdale. They know midgets are entertaining. They have featured midget wrestling with the Bloody Midgets (www.bloodymidgets.com) and midget boxing several times. The place is packed each time those short folks are in town.

I went to one of the shows and it was a scream! I'm not sure how good the actual boxing was as their arms are so short they are literally standing toe-to-toe when trying to slug each other's oversized craniums, but the showmanship is outstanding!

I actually got hit on by a midget while I was there. Apparently, lots of 'full size' (as in normal size) chicks likey the midget love. According to TEO (which he told me stands for TOTAL "E" Outstanding), "Once you go small, you'll never want tall"...uh, yeah. I had a lovely time talking to TEO, but had no desire to bring on the funk with someone I could literally swing over my shoulder in a fireman's hold and carry out to my car. (Although I would hazard to guess that he would travel well...)

According to my sister though, this was where I screwed up. It was a stellar opportunity that I passed by to totally torque my parents. How fun would it have been to show up at their house with TEO and introduce him as the future father of their grandchildren...as I held him in my lap.

I'm telling you--the world would just be a better place if everyone had his or her own midget jester...bring on the frivolity!

It Wasn't My Fault...
Mood:  cheeky
Now Playing: Modest Mouse
I can honestly say it wasn't my fault...although, it never is. I am an instigator by nature I am told, but you know, you just can't believe everything people tell you...

But really, it wasn't my fault. It wasn't even the Tootsie Roll pop's fault. I can lay the blame squarely at the feet of the big jack off who just couldn't leave well enough alone.

SCENE: Out with a group of friends at a Mardi Gras-esque bar called Fat Tuesdays in Tempe and the frozen libations are a flowin'! As DD for the evening (designated driver as opposed to designated drunk, a role I greatly prefer), I am quaffing back massive amounts of diet Coke (This on top of a Red Bull and 2 Ripped Fuel tablets--the energy charge champion of the late night party scene).

I am yakking with everyone when I decide that I need something sweet so I grab a Tootsie Roll pop out of my purse to mack on when it happens...The new Fox reality show: When Assholes Strike.

I am just sitting there minding my own gawd damn bidness (to quote the 9-1-1 deer attack tape) when this jerk off sitting nearby with his brat pack of frat rats starts mouthing off.

Ok, the first couple of comments were amusing "Hmmmm...wish I was that sucker". Oh snaps big boy for the exhilarating sexual innuendo...perhaps after you pass English 101 you could try for the double entendre. I blandly smile and ignore him, but he has started talking and he apparently can't shut up.

The idiot comments just start flowing from him like lava from the I'm a complete nimrod volcano (it's located on the island of Molokai if you are wondering...).

At first, I keep up the Oh ha, ha, you funny, funny, little man. Then it becomes the exasperated eye roll. Then it progressed to just staring straight ahead and ignoring the juvenile cretin.

Suddenly, the situation comes to a head rather quickly.

Jack off: I bet I have something you'd rather be sucking
His friends: snigger, snigger, hee, hee (like a bunch of fricking little girls I tell you)
Me: Oh, I highly doubt that.

If it had just stayed at that point, it would have been fine. Unfortunately for Jack off he made the fatal mistake: he reached over and attempted to grab me. WRONG ANSWER DICK WEED! No one touches me without my express permission and strangers need not apply.

Rumor has it that I am a very patient person (refer to `What Idiot Let You on the Road'). My patience, however, does not extend to unwelcome physical contact from annoying, drunken, ASU shit weasels.

The play-by-play from those highly amused and soused souls in attendance is that I reacted quicker than a smoke ninja to counter his frontal attack. As he reached out to grab me (just where we will never know now),I reached up, grabbed him by the ears and performed a WWF style head slam...AKA head butt.

It was like watching the giant fall from Jack's beanstalk - all slow motion and kind of surreal. Down, down, down, he went until he hit the sticky, drink-encrusted floor with a resounding thud. Silence fell across the forest. I could hear the crickets chirping in the vacuum...well if crickets could be heard over the DJ's pounding tunes and the bar hadn't yet been closed down by the health department for a cricket infestation...

Anywho, as I looked around in the aftermath with my Tootsie Roll pop still firmly clenched in my mouth (which I figure is definitely one of the "activities not to do with a sucker" rules every adult nags you about when you are a kid--You know--don't run, don't play on the swings, don't head butt others...)I see that my friends are just rolling and laughing hysterically.

His friends' eyes were bigger than the subject of a Margaret Keane "Waif" painting and they were completely freaked out. Apparently it was an alien concept to them that a Tootsie Pop wielding Betty wouldn't meekly submit to being man handled but instead would run a great defense and drop their buddy. Eventually, they did pull themselves together long enough to pry the large jack off blob from the floor and make their way out of the bar.

In celebration, I unwrapped another Tootsie Roll pop...

Anger Managment 101
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Alanis Morrisette - Jagged Little Pill (Angry Chick Music)
Have you ever had one of those days when your last nerve is toast? When it is all you can do not to launch yourself over your desk and throttle the living hell out of someone? When you are so aggravated that you actually have crescent marks in your palms from digging your nails in to your hands while trying to maintain your composure? When you are struggling not to hurl heavy objects and truly vile obscenities at someone? No? Yeah, me either...

An ode, of sorts, to bathroom scents...
Mood:  smelly
Now Playing: Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack
Lately our office restroom has had a disturbing trend in scents. And when I say scents, I don't mean your regular nostril burning gag-me-out ones that normally accompany a restroom that has an office of 20-something people taking care of their business there(NOTE: never go in there after lunch). What I am talking about is the auto air refresher AKA the `your shit don't stink' machine on the wall.

Usually, the auto scent deal is ok. I can stand the new car smell bathroom and the `I fell asleep in the Wizard of Oz poppy field' smell. But lately scents are coming out of that thing that are just wrong I tell you. Wrong. There are just some scents that should never be associated with bathrooms.

You are now wondering what. Number one scent that should NEVER be used in a bathroom: banana. Banana and stink do not play nicely together-they will never hold hands and sing Kum-Ba-Ya. In fact, banana actually exacerbates the nasty funk smell in the restroom. Think about it. (Unfortunately, I did). I walked into the bathroom with our rock star receptionist, Tammy, and she verbalized my thoughts exactly "Ugh! God, who ate a bunch of bananas?" Yup. That's what it smelled like. Banana scented poop. Can you say unbelievably vile?

Number two on the list of smells that don't associate well with the bathroom is spearmint. Whoever thought that mint (especially spearmint) and poop were a good match should be taken out and shot in the nearest cornfield. Now it smells like mint scented poop--yeah, not a well thought out concept.

In fact, I think that no bathroom air freshener should ever smell like something edible...food scented bathroom air fresheners are simply unsettling as an area where people `take care of business' (nice bathroom euphemism) should not smell like victuals...

RIP Dearest Sandals
Mood:  sad
Now Playing: Best of Steely Dan
So the other day I pulled...well, I pulled a typical me.

My sister (Lindsay) called to let me know she was sending me a package. A package, hmmmm? Apparently, she and Darci were all excited that Jackson Hole got a `dollar store'. I find this amusing as Jackson is very strict about what stores can come into town and yet, they allow a dollar store...go figure. So anywho, the girls go to dinner and over sushi imbibe a tad bit too much saki (why does that always happen?) and decide they just have to check out the new dollar store. While in the dollar store, they find all kinds of random things that they decide (naw, the liquor's not talking)I simply can't live without (nor should I) . Next thing I know, I receive a big box at my office.

So, I leave early for the day, carrying the box, to go pay my water bill. That little voice inside my head says "take the elevator" and I think "Naw, it's light, I'll just take the stairs." Then the little voice inside my head says "take the elevator...bitch" and I think "Bite me...I'm taking the stairs." Needless to say, never ignore the voice in your head/gut instinct/whatever that is telling you to take the elevator instead of the stairs when you are wearing your favorite black, strappy, 4-inch-heeled sandals and carrying an oversized box. Never.

I am merrily barreling down the stairs while talking back over my shoulder to our incoming President, Tim H., when disaster strikes! After rounding the landing, I start to pitch forward on my way down the second set of stairs! It looks like I am about to take a total header and complete a never before attempted triple Firkin with a quarter twist when I reach out and lay a death grip onto the stair rail like a Jewish American Princess onto a diamond tennis bracelet.

I yank back with all my might and start reversing the direction of my downward trajectory back towards vertical and safety, mind you, all the time never losing my grip on the box. I step back and hear a gawd awful crunching sound.

Tim looks at me and says "Holy crap--was that your ankle?" And I say "I don't know..." I look down and see the heel of my left shoe laying on the stair like road kill. Then I realize that I am standing completely level. Oh so not good. I look down to the other side and see the heel of my right shoe there as well. I start to curse and froth at the mouth. Tim says "Well, it could have been worse...you could have broken your neck." With all my might, I control my mouth and simply mutter "They're my favorite shoes." He starts to say something else and I say "Tim, please, not now." (Men just don't understand observing a moment of silence to dearly departed shoes)

Only I would break off both of my heels. No, it couldn't be one like most people, it had to be two. I am standing there bitterly reviewing the accident when Tim says--"Hey, that doesn't look that bad." I look down as I am standing on the curved soles of my heeless shoes to see my toes curling up like a fricking lawn gnome's. Typical man.

I realize that I had better went or I won't make it to the Water Department before it closes. I also realize that I am not taking off the shoes and walking barefoot across our grubby lobby and substantially grubbier parking lot--can you say Planters Growth waiting to happen? I also think that I may be able to salvage the shoes so I pick up my mutliated heels, toss them in my purse and decide to walk on the balls of my feet so as not to ruin the heel area. Yeah, I know...but great idea in theory...

So, I pop out of my car at the water office. As I make my way across the parking lot, I glance over at the plate glass windows and catch a glimpse of myself mincing across the parking lot in my non-existent heels looking like a total `tard! I walk into the office, take a number and lean against the wall so I can keep up the pretense of my seriously faux heels.

I am waiting patiently for my number to be called when I notice this enormous black security gal staring at me. Starting at my head and slowly lowering her gaze down to my shoes and back up again...several times. I am beginning to wonder if she is a denizen of the `dark side' and trying to hit on me when I realize it has to be the footwear.

I look over at her, smile and say "I broke the heels off of my shoes." She looks back at me and says "Did you just notice?" In the infamous words of Bill Engvall, "There's your sign."

So I go home-still furiously pissy. I let the muttlets out and drop my serious clothes to the floor. I pour myself a 3 finger vodka on the rocks and decide to open the box I risked my neck and ruined my favorite shoes over.

I take a steak knife to carefully cut it open (knowing my predilection for accidental self mutilation with anything sharp) The suspense was killing me--what did they send?

They sent all kinds of fun stuff like notepads and pens, dog toys, fun little kid hair goodies, a super cool nightlight and a pair of toddler boy's 101 Dalmations underwear...don't ask.

Nothing breakable and nothing over a dollar...please ignore me as I sob...

What is up with Teresa Heinz Kerry AKA THK?
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: The Best of Edith Piaf
As many of you know, Presidential candidate John Kerry and his family made several stops in Northern Arizona on the `ol campaign trail.

The photo op is ready and the family is posing by the Grand Canyon. Wait! Who is that bag lady in the picture? It can't be! John and the kids were all attired in business casual and THK looked like a refugee from the Salvation Army!! While I understand that this was supposed to be a family-friendly, warm, casual appearance, her interpretation of casual left much to be desired. I believe I would call it sloppy and ill advised. Whenever you appear to be the hired help instead of the Presidential candidate's wife...Houston, we have a problem.

What is up with that? Here is a lady who is listed in Forbes as one of the richer than God people that inhabit our little planet and then add to that the fact that she's foreign. I mean Jeezy Creezy, she is richer than hell and foreign--that usually equates to some sense of style...bought or bred as it were.

She is trying to help her husband become the leader of the free world and she is wearing floods! Her pants were about 4 inches too short--and they weren't capris!!!

Isn't it a law somewhere that the first lady is supposed to have some style? I mean, I know Hillary and Barbara weren't exactly Jackie O, but at least they didn't look like homeless street people!

And what is up with her perma scowl!?! Although I did hear she invested in some Botox, apparently she is more toxic than it is and it didn't work as she always has the bitter bitch face on like someone took a dump in her Wheaties...

Note to THK--you more than have the money so get a fricking stylist. Nobody wants a low rent house frau masquerading as the wanna be first lady.

'Supposibly'
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: OutKast
I have to admit, although it pains me to do so, I have become my mother and boy, is my sister laughing! I have become what I swore I never would--a grammar Nazi (even though I come by it honestly as my mother and grandmother could have edited William Strunk Jr.'s book "The Elements of Style" and probably found it gravely lacking).

To this day, my mom and grandmother constantly correct me when I speak. When I was a kid, there were times when the vein on my forehead would throb incessantly and my head would pound as I was trying to tell a story in which every third word was corrected by the two of them throughout the retelling (and mind you, you had to repeat the correction back before you could continue). It was like having a multiple personality disorder with that many voices clamoring in my head.

My grandmother was the worst. She just wouldn't let things go. She was like the rat terrier of grammar. The worst part was when I was using slang and she would correct me and correct me over and over, ad naseum (I may have a bad slang habit, but I can still sprinkle my verbiage with those impressive Latin phrases). The one thing I learned NEVER to say in front of grams: "We're going together".

I know that you know what "going together" means. It means that I liked some little dork boy and we were hanging out together with our newly found hormones racing, writing stupid quiz notes that we passed back-in-forth in class, ceaselessly walking by each other's lockers in the hopes of glimpsing each other between classes--you remember. It did not mean dating as in 8th grade it wasn't really dating now was it? Gram's standard response was: "Where are you going?" and I would explain "No grams, we're going together" and she would say "But where are you going". She just couldn't let it go much like my sister's Jack Russell, Stella, after she hunts down a prairie vole.

I was a verbally traumatized kid and it was all about sentence structure, proper conjugation, verb/noun tenses, and the proper use of adverbial clauses and prepositional phrases. Flash forward to adulthood. What am I guilty of? I am a card carrying member of the grammar police. What annoys me almost more than anything? Poor grammar and mispronounced words. The word that sends me over the edge? 'Supposibly'. What is up with that? I hear it everywhere! Newscasters say it, it's used in advertisements and sprinkled in conversations. 'Supposibly' is scattered about more than laxatives in a sorority house!

Let me just 'spill' the 411 on 'supposibly' for you--IT'S NOT A WORD FOLKS! I guess there are just tons of people out there who are nimrods (I already thought this, but this definitely confirms it). I think the word they believe they are using is SUPPOSEDLY. Supposedly as in allegedly.

Here is a simple test to perform to see if you are using the pseudo word 'supposibly'. Take the adverb supposedly and remove the -ly and you have the adjective supposed. Repeat with me: "The supposed criminal". Yep-that sounds right-the alleged criminal. Now do the same with 'supposibly':"The 'supposib' criminal"...what the hell does that mean? Nothing!

Won't you help me to take a stand against the insane butchering of the English language? Just say "NO" to 'supposibly'!

Maybe
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: Pink Floyd-A Momentary Lapse of Reason
Maybe. Have you ever really given much thought to the word maybe before? Me either. It's a complete cop-out word for sure. It gives you the option to follow through or to give up or to just not reveal your hand in the poker game of life...but it also keeps the lane of possibilities traffic-free because you aren't committing one way or another to anything much like a lane jockey on the feeway.

By definition, maybe means `by chance' or perhaps. For example "maybe he'll call tomorrow". Personally, I think that the majority of the time maybe means "no". Even all-American surfer turned musician Jack Johnson says so in his song "Flake"..."It seems to me that maybe pretty much always means no..."

Think about it. When someone tells you maybe in response to your question, whatever it may be, more than 9 times out of 10 it will end up as no. Some people will argue that it means "I don't know" but that only flies when there is one excuse attached to it like "Maybe I can help you with your bikini wax this weekend but I may need to flea dip my dog" as opposed to "Maybe I can help you with your bikini wax this weekend if I don't have to take my dead grandmother to the doctors, build a suspension bridge over the Amazon or finish my master's dissertation on the molecular composition of bratwurst."

So why does everyone always use it? Is it our inability as a culture to feel comfortable enough to come right out and say no or is it more the fear of hurting someone's feelings? I don't know. I just know that I would rather hear "no" than "maybe" or even worse...the dreaded "definite maybe" `cuz as we all know, there is nothing definite about maybe...

What idiot let you on the road?
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Dork Country Favorites Mix
Do you ever wonder if some --oh hell, I'll just say it-- a large portion of our fellow drivers took a double toke on a crack pipe before venturing onto the local highways and byways?

I am a patient person (just ask anyone who knows my ex husband), but I swear there are days when I just don't seem to have enough middle fingers to deal with it all. I constantly find myself wondering if I am the only person, in what basically amounts to a 1-ton or greater mobile weapon of death and destruction, who knows how to operate a turn signal or understands the three second rule. (I bet you are asking yourself now what that is...)

I have realized that many of the driver stereotypes are solidly grounded in reality. Apparently most women drive like they have sex--with little imagination or attention to the act itself. The majority of men who drive giant pick up trucks are indeed compensating for being hung like Dachshunds. Those people with the Jesus fish all drive like total idiots--apparently they feel the big "JC" has them covered. Then, there are the minivan drivers who suffer from the delusion that their vehicles have no accelerators. The worst though are the old people. If all you can see of the driver ahead of you is a set of bird claws clamped in a death grip on the steering wheel of a land yacht, you are behind a 3' 5" rapidly shrinking senior citizen who thinks he/she is off to play canasta at the local Moose Lodge in Coral Gables...never mind the fact that in reality, he/she is tooling around Arizona.

While some people on the road piss me off more than others, I am starting to understand road rage in a way I never thought I would. I also am coming to a greater understanding on a daily basis of why I should probably not buy a handgun and if I do, why I should NEVER, EVER allow it to enter my vehicle...unless I have an excellent criminal defense attorney and a wad of bail money available.

Just what is it with some men?
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: A mix of AFI
My friend Dawn met a guy on eHarmony. We?ll call him ?Ivan'. She was thrilled as ?Ivan? was making it clear that he was Mr. Wonderful in search of true love and a happy ending and he thought she was the one for him. The reality was that although ?Ivan? talked the talk?he sure as hell didn?t walk it. Apparently he mistook eHarmony for Swingers.com?

He was all into her?the pursuit was on! Torrid and intense emails are zipping back-n-forth between them like Internet Red Rover. The phone conversations were filled with flowery prose, tingly nether regions and Vulcan mind melds. Oh the promises of eternal bliss he made? ?I'm drawn to you, I want to pull you close to me...to feel your body against mine...and to make love to you...to connect deeply with you?to fall asleep with you and wake up with you?to focus completely on you and I.? This goes on and on as she is pulled further and further in like a Marlin caught during a sport fishing contest off the coast of Mexico.

Then, when he felt he had reeled her in, he dropped the atomic bomb?or at the very least, hydrogen, when he said:

?I can't promise fidelity. I so much want to... but I've looked deeply at myself... and I can't promise you something that I can't promise myself.?

Head snap. Huh? What? What happened to ?I want to focus completely on you and I?? When would that be exactly? When you?re not wildly traversing every street in tuna town like a drunken sailor on shore leave?

See ?Ivan? fancies himself a player. I can?t conceive of how as the man who describes himself as ?very good looking? and ?height-weight proportionate? has apparently not gazed upon his countenance in a clean mirror recently and is somehow harkening back to a 6th grade school photo (or perhaps a random hallucinogenic vision) where he actually has hair on his head (not just meandering up his neck like a school of anchovies who have lost their way to the ocean) and doesn?t have a fat apron around his waist that threatens to black out the country of Denmark.

I think we can all agree that there is nothing quite as nauseating or pathetic as an aging wanna be free love boy of the sixties trying to live out a lothario lifestyle when, quite frankly, he ain?t got the goods to carry it off (unless you count telling everyone ad nauseum how much money you make and how brilliant you are).

Apparently though, if you attempt to charm enough women with smarmy lines you will eventually find one who is emotionally delicate enough for you to conquer. It?s a numbers game folks. It?s not dissimilar to the loser who asks every woman in the bar to go home with him. Eventually, the odds will momentarily swing in his favor as he has asked 100 women and one was finally drunk enough to say yes. He?s thrilled. WAHOO!!! I?m a stud! He doesn?t care that the chick will wake up the next morning and be desperate enough to pull a ?coyote? to get out of there (you know, when a coyote is trapped it will chew its own limb off to escape) ?cuz he finally scored and it is all about him!

Men like ?Ivan? HATE when they encounter a woman like Dawn?strong and intelligent-- and mistake her for an easily dominated ?girl?. When they do, watch out ?cuz BAM! (to quote Emeril) they will go from Prince Trying to Charm Your Pants Off to crabby bitter boy faster than a beer bong being swilled down at a frat party.

It must be an acrimonious pill to swallow when some mere ?girl? out maneuvers your tired old reasoning and catch phrases. I don?t know about you, but the red flags fly in my mind when a man refers to the principles of Archimedes and Newton while defending his position on monogamy and fidelity (or a complete lack thereof) within a relationship. (I tend to reference Feyerabend and Epictetus myself?)

I think what I take away from this third-person encounter with ?Ivan? is that I find it an amusing, albeit sad, testament to our society. Women obsess over every grey hair, new wrinkle and sagging bit of flesh while most men seem to be completely oblivious of their true physical appearance. I think it calls for a new reality t.v. show??You are nowhere near as hot as you seem to think you are!? I?ll call Hollywood and suggest ?Ivan? as their first guest?

What is it about nuns anyway?
Mood:  quizzical
Now Playing: The Best of Yes
I never realized how many people have "nun phobia". It seems to rank right up there with the fear of clowns, snakes, and Oprah...

My ex-father in law had an overwhelming fear of nuns. Well, not all nuns, just one nun in particular. Sister Mary Claude. To this day, he cannot speak of her without pouring a stiff 3 finger scotch. I find this amusing as he is an older and distinguished circuit court judge in Michigan. Apparently, it doesn't matter how old or successful you get, a bad experience with a nun can haunt you for years.

So what power do nuns hold over those accursed folks who spent their young educational lives being force fed catechism? Is it the fact that nuns look like overgrown vampire bats? Or that we consider all women who dress in black sacks and act asexual to be suspect? (Unless it's a burqua and then we just pity your existence). Is it because everyone knows that Sally Field and the whole sweet and loving flying nun concept was just Hollywood propaganda?

I ran across something disturbing about nuns just the other day. Apparently an "ex" nun has written a book of love poems that the Synergistic Press describes as "lusty"...does that just make parts of your anatomy pucker or what?! She credits writer William Blake with "wresting her from the convent..." Well, I guess it could be worse...she could credit Robert Blake...

So what is it about nuns that can hold people in such a grip of fear? Personally, I have no idea. I'm a Methodist. We don't have nuns. We just like to drink wine and sing...hence why I like the religion. It's kind of like summer camp but without the fire or the roasted wieners...

Say it isn't so!
Mood:  sad
Now Playing: Etta James singing the songs of Billie Holiday
My favorite blog, other than my own neophyte and amateurish attempt at one, is the infamous "Rance" blog at: http://captainhoof.tripod.com/blog/.

If you have never checked Rance out--look at it as you would a one day 50% off sale at Nordies and light a fire under your ass to go check it out! Apparently, much like Elvis, Rance's rage to keep blogging has left the building.

If you are unfamiliar with Rance here's the deal: Depending on what day it is, Rance claims to be a bitter A-list Hollywood star or some loser who overdoses on Access Hollywood in his grandmother's basement. Some claim he is John Cusak. My girlfriend Deb swears he is George Clooney or Matt Damon. Some say he isn't really even alive. Maybe, just maybe, he is the ghost of Elvis being channeled by that John Edwards guy of Crossing Over `fame'. Who knows. Do I want to know who he is? No. Do I care? No. I find his blog amusing, droll and insightful. Much more interesting than the vanilla blah, blah, blah I hear daily at my office. But then again, I am easily amused so I could be overrating it as I also find the monthly newsletter from tshirthell.com to be hilarious to the point of tears. I was told once that I could probably be left alone in a room with a bowl of hard candy and amuse my self for hours...true story. (But is that necessarily a bad thing I ask?)

So what does it all mean? It means that I will have nowhere to go day after day for my three minutes of titillation...I better find myself a cabana boy.

In Search of a Liver...or Speaking of My Trip to Minnesota...
Mood:  party time!
Now Playing: Ry Cooder
Now, having been there, I wonder how anyone in Minnesota ever gets anything done. From what I observed -strike that- observed sounds too much like Marlon Perkins on Wild Kingdom. From what I saw while there, everyone seems to be in a continuous stage of drinking and usually in their garage.

Once again, I must put forth that I think this is a regional thing (the garage part). During my visit, I thought Clan Erickson was just `odd' until I was driven around the neighborhood on the two buck tour and saw numerous families partying and BBQing in their garage.

One would think that there would be that nagging little carbon monoxide inhalation problem with grilling in an enclosed space, but apparently the generations of mutants that have evolved from this practice breathe through their gills or something...but I digress.

In four days, I consumed more liquor than I have in the 14 years since I graduated college. Seriously. I went to bed Friday night/Saturday morning at 4:30 am (A happenstance as I apparently missed the tag-team action that went on mere feet away from my drunken slumbering minutes later. Apparently in Minnesota, no house warming party is complete without a threesome blessing your basement) and awoke at 10:30am with the bonus buzz (AKA still drunk). This went on for a matter of days. I couldn't figure out why I hadn't been hung over, but then I realized, I had yet to be sober.

Upon my return to Arizona and some semblance of sobriety, I logged immediately on to eBay in search of a new liver...to no avail. What's up with that? I thought you could find anything from a Filipino house boy with knee pads to performance fleece on eBay...

Fried Food on a Stick...or the Regional Cooking of Minnesota
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: Sound Track from Tank Girl
The regional food of Minnesota (otherwise known as fair grub) consists primarily of things that I had no idea could be fried (e.g., Snickers bars), food on a stick, or a combination of the two. Now don't get me wrong. There is something to be said about food on a stick. I can see the marketing campaign for it now..."It's fun. It's convenient. It's portable. It's food on a stick."

Now I am a firm believer that more meat should be offered on sticks. It takes out that problem of appearing like Henry the VIII (8th for those not well versed in Roman numerals) or a gremlin when sucking down an Atkins-style snack. However, when you start venturing into the realm of "pickle on a stick" you are just getting frigging lazy!

I do find it amazing though that a state where the consumption of beer per capita is more than anywhere else in the United States...ok, not more than Wisconsin, but close, would encourage the promotion of food on a stick. I mean, it's all fun and food on a stick until someone loses an eye...