A bee and its stinger

So life seems very normal right now, but I'm still having a hard time shaking that feeling I got last Thursday when London was attacked. The feeling is made even worse by the fact that this attack wasn't "close to home" as it were. I wonder if this is how the rest of the world felt when the World Trade Center was attacked. It's awful, it's the most horrible thing to happen, the world is very scary - and yet life is normal.

We haven't heard from our friends who are stationed in London yet, but we have heard from our civilian friends and family, and I'm grateful to say they're fine. But angry. Everyone is so angry. After September 11 I spent a few days looking up the renewing lists of casualties finding names of people I knew and feeling that clenching, stabbing terror of "Oh jesus, I worked with that girl. I slept over at this girls apartment. She slept over at mine. This guy and I went to school together."

I spent days doing that, being just plain scared that it was never going to stop. And I was sad, and upset, and I was angry. Frighteningly angry. I was angry my family was upset, I was angry people were hurt, people were killed, I was angry that because of all this more people were being sent away from their families. And I was viciously angry at the people who did this, even though I knew the hijackers themselves had already died, and I was certain they were sent to hell, I was bloodthirsty angry at them and of course as their leaders. It frightened me because before this I had no real notion of that kind of vengeance. I'd seen a lot of evil up close, felt the same pain and anger when my friends were murdered before. And of course I knew in the abstract sense of the atrocities that have been committed all over the world...but I'd never wanted anything more than for them to rot. In jail, in history, be forgotten. This time however, I wanted the people responsible to suffer, really really suffer. I wanted them to feel the same rage and fear and sadness that I felt and everyone else around me felt, and I wanted them to be helpless about and have to feel it over and over and over again.

I don't think I was different from anyone else. It was just new to me because it's the first time I really felt something like that so powerfully. I didn't stop to wonder then where it came from. I wonder now, when it's happened all over again and there is a shadow of the same feelings over me - when people I know and love are shouting the same things I felt back then - I wonder where it comes from.

I don't know, but I think it's something inherent. I think we learn it young and I think we hold it on to it for comfort. It's easier to be angry than sad.

And I think this because of a bee.

Yesterday at the autocross I got stung by a bee. It got stuck in my hair (which is actually something that happens a lot with bees when it's windy...lucky me) and as I checked to make sure it had been shooed away it got my finger good. I went through the "bee sting dance" of flicking the damn bug, shaking my hand, blinking away tears (I am after all still a girl) and then biting my finger really really hard - and as I went through the motions of relieving the small pain the first thing that popped into my head was: "When a bee stings you, it dies right after." the second thing that popped up: "Serves him right."

I learned the bee thing from my Dad, who was certain that when his three year old daughter came running to him crying over another sting the knowledge that the bee was breathing his last would be enough to comfort her. I don't know if the fact that the bee was dead comforted me, or the fact my Dad took the time to tell me. Regardless that moment did bring me solace and ever since that's what I look for when I've been bugged by some stinging bug. Solace. I got hurt, and the thing that hurt me died. Solace and Vengeance at the same time.

I know a lot of people have that same story with their first bee sting. I've even seen it in a few movies and television shows. I think it's a common experience, at least in my world, and I wonder if that's where everyone gets that idea of vengeance. That vengeance will give us comfort. Do we link suffering with closure because we're taught too? Does the fact that revenge feels so right when we're children mean it's already a seed planted in us? And is that thing something that keeps us alive and perpetuating the species, or is it the thing that will topple our empires?

Of course I think it's more than right that the people who were touched and hurt by any of the attacks feel that anger, and they do deserve their revenge. I personally would do anything in my power to help them find it - even if it gave no solace. But I worry sometimes what will happen when those that do deserve to pay have, and our loved ones and heroes are still gone. I'm afraid that it just might not be enough to really help. And I want it to help

Who's not 22 anymore?

Me! Me! Me!

Today is my birthday and previously I've been a little wary of letting people know that. Mostly because my husband/boyfriend/best friend has either been on deployment, on work-up or at training, in short he's been very far away. And of course when you're busy preparing for war, or actually in a war, you don't remember things like birthdays. So while he was away training and fighting I had to go through my own battery of lessons that a Navy Wife needs.

First Lesson: Don't pay attention to dates. There is a man in the Navy who has a crummy job. I believe he is little, because I just happen to picture a little man, with a comb-over, and those awful glasses everyone in the military has to wear. He sits in a small cubicle in the smallest office, with no windows, and his light flickers. It is his job to go through file after file after file and make crazy schedules for crazy things. He's very systematic in this. He goes through each name and picks them out thinking "Ah, Petty Officer and Mrs. So and So...we haven't screwed them in a month. Into the 'you're f***ed' pile you go." Because he is truly sadistic he makes it a point to write down the important dates that civilians put so much worth in and there is a little buzzer in each file that goes off when those dates come up - meaning he will never miss a Birthday/Anniversary/Due date for a newborn/Funeral/Graduation/First-childs First step to truly make life miserable for all Navy families. When you are the said 'f***ed' family you learn that any day you get to spend with your sailor is an event and that birthdays and anniversaries mean diddly.

If I don't pay attention to the fact that everyone else thinks this is a special day I don't feel so bad that my husband forgot the day. Which is why I didn't like telling other people it was my birthday...so they wouldn't wish me happy birthday and I wouldn't get that icky feeling that I hadn't heard from my sailor in a week. And thus I have trained myself to become that rare girl who is totally okay with not being told "Happy Birthday" from my guy, and there are no hurt feelings and no fights in the future.

This year however, everything is different, because we've been on shore-duty for the past year and a half, and he's finally getting a hold of it. Last year it was awful. His Chiefs were terrible, the work sucked, he felt bad because he wanted to back to the Gulf and keep doing work he knew was important. He just couldn't find his footing in the environment. This year it's much better, he's definitely found his nitch there and is doing work he believes in. And I believe in too.

And he's home.

And he remembered my birthday. Yesterday he reminded me that I can have dinner where ever I'd like (provided it's the French place) and he promised champagne.

So I don't mind letting people know it's my birthday. I don't feel sad or jealous when I see happy people. I feel happy too. Today is a good day, today we have a real special day to spend together. Today I get to turn 23 and I'm not alone.

It's nice to not be afraid of caring about the silly things for once.

Lobster

Earlier today I was planning to come home and write a post praising Neutrogena's Sheer-Touch Sunscreen and all the wonderful things that it provides. Especially the fact that it's portable and perfect for those days when you find your half-sleeping form unceremoniously dumped in the car and driven down to DC for some autocross thing at the track.

However, since my nickname could now be changed from "katydyd" to "Lobster-girl from the province of Lobsterville in the country of Lobtonia" without any room for debate I am formally resigning from my post as Unofficial Neutrogena Sheer-touch sunscreen spokesperson.

Since I'm scrapping the sunscreen praise I'm gonna go with the following post:

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

Thank you.

Some women are from Mars too...

Warning: Again, more talk about sex. I know, I'm a slut, whatever

I could have got some today.

This morning, after a long sleeping-in period, my husband woke up with his arms out and a twinkle in his eye. He was that perfect kind of cuddly frisky that always makes me gush and giggle and usually results in lots of warm, fun coupling.

Unfortunately, as is usually the case when he gets this way, he caught me at the tail end of my "time". I have my period. I'm past the whole cramping, pain, very ill part of it (which in my case is always pretty bad) and now into the "when the heck is this going to go away" part. Around this time I'm sure there is some extra new hormone coming back and others leaving, etc. that affect my mood and needs, I dunno. I do know there are some serious disconnects between what I "want" and what is physically possible. I can definitely get aroused, to the point where I'm flushed, my heart rate accelerates, my breathing is heavy and my skin gets that familiar, hot, over-sensitive tingle. However, though fore-play for me right now is great actual love-making sucks.

For some reason I don't get wet, or wet enough. Skipping the whole "blood thing" which is actually rather low...and I have that cup thing that works quite well, I just don't get wet. Sure, there's always artificial stuff but it never really works for me. I think it's an ego thing, I will either feel guilty that I need it or offended that he thinks I do. Hey, I'm a girl...no one ever said we were logical.

My actual body is a different "shape" too. My cervix won't move up (the position it's in during ovulation to provide better access for making babies) it hangs low and is horribly uncomfortable. My muscles refuse to loosen up enough for actual penetration, imagine you being a virgin again...then imagine it not getting better. Yeah - it feels like that. Likewise I feel pretty cold down there, no matter what, so I don't really feel anything at all except "ow".

In short - I can't get it up. And when I can't get it up...C. can't. Well he can, but he either can't or won't keep it that way. I'm never sure. There is always a lot of pressure for me because if I don't keep up the moaning and the screaming (something I usually have no trouble doing - I make noise) in just the right way he usually comes to half-mast and that's the end of playtime. I think it might be because he's 1) afraid he's hurting me or 2) doesn't want to finish if I can't or 3) can't stay aroused without his partner being aroused and egging him on. I figure this is pretty normal. I mean two people who live together all the time aren't always going to be in the same place at the same time.

So after convincing him that it simple was -not- going to happen this morning he rolled over and went to play on the computer.

This is going to sound selfish but here goes: I still wanted him. I felt horribly guilty pushing him off (I offered of course to help in other ways but lately he's been less enthused about alternate forms of sex. It's a phase.) but I was still in the same state he was. Hot and denied. Okay, it was my fault I was stuck there, but the fact is I was stuck there. I've heard a lo of girls say that they get horny when it's their time of the month. I'm no exception...I get flustered easily and often. And this morning I was flustered. This particular moment in the whole "woman" time frame is a perfect one for masturbation for me. I say masturbation because that is the only way I can get any useful attention paid to my clitoris. My husband for all his eagerness to please gets a little over-zealous. He has big thumbs and he presses really hard. I've often commented that I am not, in fact, an elevator and he does not have to beat the button to make it go, but it is cute that he really wants to try hard. I'm lucky, some men don't care. Still I find myself thinking of the Monty Python bit with the boys in "Sex Education" class whenever his fingers or tongue go wandering "Why don't we try something else before we go STAMPEDING FOR THE CLITORIS".

In any case...I wasn't about to try anything after I had just essentially dumped the man and so I went off myself. Hot, bothered, and really overly clingy. I get that way too. I'm not a romantic, but I do like it once in awhile. Call me girly, go on...

So, 12 hours later, I'm still a little bothered. We had to take a long drive, lots of shopping, more driving while he napped. It took the edge off, but the real problem is I spent the whole day thinking about someone else. And thinking things that didn't help me calm down.

I think I have what could be called an "abstract lover". I stole the abstract from him. But abstract or not, he seems to come into my thoughts at odd times. And he is damn sexy too. It's a different feel than being with my husband, again I'm the other girl in his company than in C.'s. He's a whole different story and I'm still a little confused about how the story goes. Expect future pondering in other posts. In any case he was pretty frisky today too, and I just couldn't reciprocate. All I wanted was to curl up and snuggle and I couldn't snuggle with anyone because I was pure sexual tease poison. I could have gotten laid twice today really, and I walked away from both times. And yes, I still can't get it up. And yes, I still want too.

See...not only men have this problem.

Something fluffy

Sometimes, especially on quiet weekend mornings when the house is dark and everyone is snoring, I like to do silly things like personality tests. So:

You Are:
The Sonnet
Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer (DGLDf)

Romantic, hopeful, and composed. You are the Sonnet. Get it? Composed?

Sonnets want Love and have high ideals about it. They're conscientious people, caring & careful. You yourself have deep convictions, and you devote a lot of thought to romance and what it should be. This will frighten away most potential mates, but that's okay, because you're very choosy with your affections anyway. You'd absolutely refuse to date someone dumber than you, for instance.

Lovers who share your idealized perspective, or who are at least willing to totally throw themselves into a relationship, will be very, very happy with you. And you with them. You're already selfless and compassionate, and with the right partner, there's no doubt you can be sensual, even adventurously so.

You probably have lots of female friends, and they have a special soft spot for you. Babies do, too, at the tippy-top of their baby skulls.


ALWAYS AVOID: The 5-Night Stand, The False Messiah, The Hornivore, The Last Man on Earth

CONSIDER: The Loverboy


Find this at OK Cupid.

And now for something completely different!

Wal-Mart is a four letter word, or really a four letter word with a three letter prefix, but still.

YELM, Wash. — The town council barred residents from mentioning Wal-Mart (search) at meetings, prompting a challenge by civil libertarians who said a "free and accountable" government depends on a citizen's ability to voice concerns openly.


Found at Fox News.com.

Disjointed

When my great-grandmother was nine the mill in her small town blew up. She told the story a few times, and wrote it down once so we have a copy of it, I have a recording of her telling it. I taped it the last time I saw her before my great-grandpa died. For some reason whenever anything bad happens around me I think of this story.

She was nine and she said she was playing outside with her brothers and sisters when she saw fire over the trees and heard a really loud sound. She said her younger sibling started to cry. Her Mother said it was the mill and sent her off to get her Father. I can see her as a little girl running through the fields better than I can remember her voice telling the story. I remember how she wrote it. "I ran into the field and told Pa. He and the other men went to the mill and I went back to the house." I keep wondering how she told him, was she scared, was she out of breath, did he yell to everyone else, did he already know? Or was it just as simple as she makes it: "They need you at the mill, it blew up."

When she went back to the house her Mother and sisters were already getting ready. Blankets and water. Her story was so calm. "We put blankets down so men could lie down. Pa and the other men brought lots of them back home." Boys and men who had lost limbs, were tore in two, were burned and cut. I guess all they did was all they could. Hold peoples hands, wash what could be, give them a chance to rest. She didn't ever really say. She talked about a boy she knew who she always liked. She said he "talked soft and was shy" he "always had stuff in his pockets, like a baby bird or a kitten." My mom used to talk about him too, and she never knew him obviously. But she always cried when she talked about the boy who carried kittens in his pocket. I cry too. My great-grandma didn't cry. Not when she talked about him. But she said it was sad because he was hurting and "then he died." And then she wrote about how they spent days cleaning up, and the house was full and noisy. And they had to rebuild the mill.

And it seemed all so simple. All her stories seem so simple. This is what happened, this is what we did. They were living in California during the Depression. All their friends lived in the 'dust bowl' and were starving with no money so they moved back and hired them to make furniture. That's just what they did, because they needed too. I first heard of the Depression when I read Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath" about a family who just wanted to get to California...that's all they wanted. Then I find out that's where my family was...and they moved back...so they could be with their friends. Just because.

My great-grandfather joined the Military at 16 (he lied about his age) and went overseas to World War I because he wanted too. Just because he was needed. We were sitting in the living room talking about my sister going to Sarah Lawrence College when he piped up with his story: "I met Sarah Lawrence. When I got lost." My mother explained later that my great-grandfathers division had been killed and he was about to find another one to join when he met Sarah Lawrence and she made him drive an ambulance for the rest of the war. My mom thinks it's because she knew he was too young to be there. That's what happened during the war.

These stories to me are incredible. Everyone talked about these remarkable things as if they didn't matter. As if it was just normal and didn't require a lot of thought and worry. As if it was nothing.

And I think about it when bad stuff happens because I realize that it is normal. For the people I know, for the people I love, it's normal. When September 11 happened, my brother couldn't call his wife so he walked from Queens to Manhattan and they met near "ground zero" where she narrowly missed being under those buildings. Then they called her Mother and went to his office and had some tea. He forgot to call us, his family, but obviously we've heard from him since.

I heard about a plane crashing in New York and went to school. I was in a class full of Military girlfriends and wives. We watch the television and my teacher said "Be scared today, tomorrow we won't be." The bus home was getting full so I walked the 15 miles back to my apartment and baby-sat for one of the ladies whose husband needed to be driven to base.

My husband-then-boyfriend was on a ship headed for home from a six month deployment. He saw what happened, went down to the head to brush his teeth, then went to work. He called me later to make sure my family was alright and said "You're not scared, stay that way. Stay at home." And then we hung up.

Yesterday, I turned on the t.v. and saw what happened in London. I went over, kissed my husband then ironed his uniform and sent him off. Just because he needed to go. And we were both scared, scared for our friends who are stationed in London, scared for our family there. But it was simple. You just do what you have to.

And I'm still thinking about my great-grandma and the boy who carried kittens in his pocket and how I think she just held his hand.

And I'm thinking about how complicated everything is when you don't know to be scared or not, or worried, or optimistic, and there isn't anyone to hate or blame because the whole thing is caused by hate and blame. And it isn't really that simple when you're scared the people you love aren't okay and they might be scared too.

So I just keep thinking about my family. My friends. Our blood relatives, our military brothers and sisters, and my family and my loved ones who I'm lucky enough to have just a phone call away.

Chain Letters

I'm against them, big time. My friends and non-friends will know that as soon as one comes my way I will research the heck out of it then send it back with all the proof that they are hoaxes and not to be trifled with. Some unlucky people have also gotten quite a tongue-lashing from me about it too.

I just read an excellent essay about them on Snopes, which has been one of my favorite sites for many years now.

Found in amongst the essay is this quote from the USPS:
Recently, high-tech chain letters have begun surfacing. They may be disseminated over the Internet, or may require the copying and mailing of computer disks rather than paper. Regardless of what technology is used to advance the scheme, if the mail is used at any step along the way, it is still illegal.


Read the whole interesting, eye-opening, essay here.

Bar

The Sailor and I are sitting in a cramped bar eating mediocre Mexican food and watching poker. Between my constant and annoying poker questions and his insistence that, although he says he knows everything, he knows nothing about Texas Hold'em poker and has no idea what it means to "check" or why they keep thumping on the table two men start talking behind us.

"Hey quitters can't be choosers."
"Man, I bet he does beg."
"Huh"
"Beggers can't be choosers right."
"Yeah that's what I said. But man is she ugly."
"She's a'ight."
"No you didn't really see her. She was ugly."
"But hey if she wants to give him her digits..."
"Dude, I got a pocketful of digits that night, none of 'em looked like that."

I'm piqued, but not yet drawn. I haven't turned around yet, still fixated on torturing my poor husband with his lack of card knowledge. I am just about to bless him with my fried-chicken style poker wisdom

"Honey you need to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to..."

"Yeah she's pregnant."

*perk*

"He is so screwed."
"He's moving to Las Vegas. You can't hold us down."

My genetic predisposition toward gossip and my well-honed skill of poking my nose in where it don't belong kicks in and I have to abandon poker to listen to these two gentlemen continue on with their stories of threesomes, granting multiples to particularly deserving girls, the hot chick who danced with guy #2 last night a myriad of other salacious details in their high-rolling, pimp-style life. I still haven't turned around...but one of the guys barstools is sliding into my butt. It must be a good barstool. I feel blessed. I'm certain these men, by the stories they tell, must be hotter than hot. One of them is latin, I'm sure of it, multiple guy is latin. I know they are dressed like the guys from "Swingers" in those linen and silk swing/bowling style shirts with silhouettes of beautiful women that pale in comparison with the vixen I know they slept with last night. They are tall, dark, handsome. Chiseled chins and bulging biceps that make their sleeves just tight enough. They don't carry their money in a wallet, they have money clips, made of gold, the same color as their credit card. One of them, the multiple guy, is wearing loose fitting silk pants over his brown Italian leather shoes. His companion is doing the tight, but fitted, jean thing with a pair of oh-so-delicious black Kenneth Cole sneakers, with white stitching. They are drinking scotch, on the rocks. I can tell all this from the barstool being pushed back into me.

They are standing up.

They are walking around me, towards the door.

They are two short, skinny, white guys with beer bellies. One is wearing a button down red shirt tucked way-too-far into his way-too-tight jeans, with a brown belt and white sneakers. The other is in a black wife-beater, with a baseball cap, and shorts, with wicker shoes. Both have too much hair gel...all over their neck. They leave their budlight bottles on the bar with a fifty cent tip.

My eyes leave my two amazing potential playas dejectedly and fall on a woman who is sitting at the bar breast-feeding her very, very tiny 2 month old.

Then I remember I live in Maryland. *sigh*

I turn to my sailor and put his cigarette out for him while I point to the baby. He doesn't mind and he stands up to give me a kiss and go outside to start another one. I watch him walk out, decked out in his button-down, stripped, swinger style shirt, his biceps just big enough to make the sleeves deliciously tight. I tilt my head to watch his tight butt move in his nice khaki pants, ending in the new pair of Kenneth Cole brown leather sneakers.

Then I remember I live in Maryland because of him.

Link to Die By

I don't believe I am part of the "blogosphere" (other than - you know - owning a blog). There are only three blogs I ever had the guts to comment too, and only just a little bit. I tried on a fourth...but had trouble so I just told him via IM. No bloggy friends here. Which is fine. But I am fascinated with them. And most recently fascinated with the whole blogger language. Which I suppose is chatter language...but I rarely come across that anymore. I think I may intimidate random chatters because I insist on spelling out the words "you", "are" and "four"/"for".

Still I am drawn to blogs such as the ones I've listed below like a bug is drawn to the zapper. It is engulfing me. I cannot tell what these people are talking about, which makes me believe it is very important and I must design the next "Enigma" to decode it therefore unlocking the hidden secrets of the "blog people" and saving the world from certain doom (and possible death by banana). It is my quest, it is my destiny.

Take a look:
Blog 1
Blog 2
Blog 3
Blog 4
Blog 5

I'm not picking on anyone who writes these. I just want to know what they say. What are they trying to say? What are they telling me? Why can't I get this babble out of my brain? What is it you children of yoda know that we masses must learn? Speak..speak...preferably in whole sentences with the use of conjunctions...speak!

My friend wrote about what he titled the "SMS" Culture (which I'm sure is the proper title, but how would I know?) in his blog a while back...which I'm going to steal then ask permission later (because 1. He's brilliant so of course I want people to read it and 2. At the time of my back blogging from this weekend he is not available for permission purposes and 3. I can take it off later if I want and 4. What are you gonna do about it? Huh punk? *wink wink*). I like this because I have absolutely no idea what this conversation is saying...but I think the SMS culture person (Labelled Person 1) is rather clever...I can't actually tell if he's clever, but I think he is. And it ends with a good comeback, if it is a comeback, if it was an insult. See, I don't know what this is about and I'm still enamored. Person 1 has me so hooked I'd have his lovechild...really...it's like he's speaking Italian or French or some other Romantic language, except it's nothing like it and I have no urge to swoon in joyful lust.

Also notice Person 2 (the none SMS culture person) is clever too...and brilliant...and funny. And if he's a he then I could be convinced to have his lovechild too. Maybe.

Person 1: wot u bi doin xcept singin u cnt do it 24/7
Person 2: Well, I sleep, eat, and work, too.
Person 1: u sure?
Person 2: I'm pretty sure that I sleep, eat, and work, yes.
Person 1: oh ok thn
Person 1: wot bwt drink?
Person 2: "Eat" generally refers to the imbibation of foodstuffs required to make the body function. Drink, being a foodstuff that is required to make the body function, is therefore capable of falling under the "eating" category.
Person 1: shut up wiv ur knowledge of crap
Person 1: makes u snd well posh there
Person 2: Nah, it's because I utilise the whole keyboard, and don't use it as if I were sending an SMS. Or if I were an AOL user.
Person 1: #qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm,./['=-098765432x
Person 1: all letas utilsed
Person 2 :...Your grammar sucks.

You can read the whole brilliant piece here Under "Ahh, Supportive Friends".

Links to Live By

I'd just like to point out a few good blogs that aren't on my list on the side yet.

Try Not to Panic

Doing Time

honest/(dis)honesty

I haven't read everything on all these blogs...but they strike me...or struck me...and the last one is because she stole my normal nickname which makes me oddly fascinated and partially jealous.

Also I have learned via Statcounter that I have had a few hits from Technorati under the following searches:

Depeche Mode
Pee - Standing (???)
Penis

Hmm, bet they're disappointed when they end up here. Oops.

(And I do realize that by posting these things yet again it will cause even more confusion and frustration for the little penis-pee-porn depeche mode fans out there on Technorati...which is why I did it twice. Sometimes you have to let the little demons win - ya know. *wicked-evil-grin*)

Fourth of July

Okay children, today we're going to describe what we did on the Fourth of July for no reason other than I say so. This won't be graded, because I don't really care, but go down memory lane anyway...and don't forget to wear sunscreen.

I love the Fourth of July. To me it's one of the more fun holidays.

When I was a kid we would go to the Third of July party at the big hotel. Food, music, Fireworks. It was fun. Then on the real Fourth we would go see the Paniolo (that's cowboy for you non-Hawaiian types) Parade in our neighborhood. A few years I was in that one, but mostly we just watched. It was great walking through the old shops in Makawao and watching all the horses pass by and oh-ing and ah-ing over the dresses of the Hawaiian Court. The beautiful leis, the gorgeous haku's. It was a lot of fun.

Then of course there was the rodeo all weekend with the big stuff on the Fourth. I loved going to that. I was even there the day the Bull escaped from the Bull pen and slammed into the fence right where my Dad and I were sitting. You'll still see videos of that pop up here and there on t.v. It was scary, but no one was hurt and now it's an exciting story.

And of course after the parades and the rodeo and all the parties and saying hello to friends around the country there was the bar-b-que. My Dad made the best. He had a secret recipe for the Baked Beans and the sauce. His ribs were always perfect. There was plenty of slaw and cornbread. We'd make homemade ice cream in the old-style hand churn sometimes. My Mom and I would sneak sweetcorn before it got cooked. There were blueberries and watermelon. We always ate "real good" on the Fourth of July.

This year was a lot of fun even if it was Grown-up style. My husband and I were in a Parade on Capitol Hill with our Mini Cooper S. A long line of us, all decorated with flags and pinwheels. Everyone waved at everyone else and the best part was driving by the Fire Station. All the little Mini's beeped there horns "Meep meep meep meep" Until the Fire Truck answered with a "HONK HONK". It was great, everyone loved it.

This was my husbands debut in a parade. He was pretty excited about it too. The whole night before he'd perk up and say "We're gonna be in a parade. That's exciting." This was particularly cute since his previous expression of anticipation was "Are you excited we're going to see Formula 1 in person honey?" "Yeah I guess." So it was fun watching him get all his car stickers together and babble on about being in a parade. It was a short one, he didn't have to walk (which is a very, very good thing but a whole different story) and it was fun. I think we had more fun looking at all the dogs out on the town than we did driving the Mini...but it was a perfect induction to the world of Parade-ing. And my husband is soooooo cute.

It took us awhile to drive back out of DC. We drove by the Lawn so technically we did go to the Capitol on the Fourth of July...even though we drove by it fast and couldn't wait to get as far from it as we could.

We had barbecue at Famous Dave's, which is in my opinion the second best chain BBQ restaurant in the United States. The first being a small chain in Florida which I forget the name of, but I know it when I see it. Of course there's nothing better than real BBQ...but it's a good second. And Famous Dave's has really good corn bread.

Then came my favorite part of the day, we went home and took a nap. We didn't mean too, but the bed was comfy, the room was cold, the sheets were soft, our cat was purring and as soon and I snuggled up close to my guy and nestled onto his shoulder I was out. By the sounds of his snoring so was he. It was nice, it was perfect. There is nothing better on a hot afternoon than to be held close by your favorite person in the world and be able to close your eyes and really sleep without a single care in the world because you're safe - and cozy - and have everything you need in the world right there in your arms.

It was a good nap. When I was a kid I'd most surely be running around pretending to rope cattle or chase bulls, but yesterday we were two grown-ups who were just too worn out. And that was okay.

Later that evening we went to the local fair. Had a hot dog, looked at all the booths, then walked away from the crowd and saw a movie together. We got out just in time to start heading back to the fair while the fireworks started. We weren't on the lake to see all the really fancy stuff, but we snuggled under a tree and watched what went off over the trees. It was very nice. By the time we started walking again and had gotten to our car the finale was going and we were ready to go home.

I watched the Capitol version on television once we got there. Got to hear my yearly fix of Overture to the War of 1812. They set off the real cannons, which was exciting even if it was just on t.v. I hummed along and was glad to find that the song and the fireworks and the feeling of the night is the exact same as when I was little. My heart was warm, I felt proud and joyful and oh so very incredibly lucky.

And I still feel that way, incredibly lucky.

My Home

Warning: Happy-go-lucky-US-Patriotism Follows. Don't read it if it'll make you upset. It's my blog...so there.

Excuse me while I say something unpopular:

I love my country.

I know, I know. I shouldn't love my life, I should be disenchanted with the status quo and my lot in it. As a young person I should be disgusted with the world my parents created (and I'm not saying I'm not a little ticked off at that whole Social Security mess you guys left. Thanks Pop.), but despite it all - I love this place.

I love working and living side by side with people from all over the world. I love that my neighbors to the right of me are Jewish, to the left of me are half Muslim half Buddhist, above me are Christian and that I happen to be a pagan married to an atheist. I adore that as I walk down the street, through my supermarket, in the hardware store, I will hear at least three different languages being spoken and probably have fifteen different people smile and say hello to me. And I'll smile and say hello back.

I know there is a wide disconnect between poor and rich. But this is only my second year where I have made enough income to lift me, barely, over the poverty line and I'm always amazed at what just a little stick-to-it-tiveness has wrought for myself and my husband. We worked long hours, in crummy jobs and now we're both taking another step up to having those things that fill out the little stereo-typical dream: A home of our own, the time and means to raise a family, enough money to not be worried when the bills come and a little extra to fund hobbies and the little things that make life a little more happy.

Sure I'm still a little assistant and he's just a petty officer (1st class) but when we look back to when he was wearing green bars instead of black and I was dressing in maroon cowboy shirts with not-so-matching "vests" it's really rewarding. I like the fact that I can live anywhere I want, do anything I want. I can go to school anywhere in the world even though my Mom never graduated and my Dad isn't part of some huge secret fraternity. I like that.

I like reading any book I want too from Uncle Tom's Cabin to The Turner Diaries (which actually I haven't read, but I could, if I ever wanted too).

And I'm not saying I wouldn't find that anywhere else in the world, I know I would in most countries. But I still like it here. Because it's my home and I like the special parts that make it my home. I enjoy saying the pledge of allegiance. I enjoy it with or without "God" (I personally prefer saying God because 1. That's the way I learned it when I was three and 2. I think "God" is a good all encompassing word for anything divine or wonderful.) I'll say it with the word "Duck" if you want as long as it's still the Pledge to my flag, our flag. I like our flag too. If you feel you need to burn it to express yourself...that's fine. I don't mind. As long as you don't mind if I walk away and fail to listen. It's a pretty flag and it means a lot to me. But I get how sometimes you need something big to make people pay attention. It's showmanship and that's fine.

I like our songs. I like our anthem. I like listening to it, I like singing it. I like that it was hard to learn and I'm proud that our kindergarten class worked so hard and were so proud when we finally got it right. It makes me happy to sing it and it makes me happy to think about that night when he walked out on the deck of that ship and saw that big-huge flag flying. I like thinking about the women who stayed up days sewing it, I like thinking about how brave everyone there was to stand up and say "We may lose, but at least we'll lose our way." I like knowing that's where I came from and that my children will get to hear these same stories and know that that's where they came from too. We're not alone and we can do anything if we get up and try.

Again I know I shouldn't be content. Apparently I should hate our government, hate the war, hate our president. I don't. I won't say who I voted for (Of course I voted for Inoye for Senator...duh.) but he's our President now and I respect that. I respect him. In a few years someone else will be the President and I'll respect them too. Even if I didn't vote for them. I respect our government too - sure there are things that could be changed, but I know everyone is working hard to do what they think is right, and that's what matters to me. Things can only get better that way.

What I'm saying is this, I love my home. I was born here, I was raised here, for my whole life this has been my home. The people I live with are my family, no matter where they came from. I like it here. It makes me happy. I like what my home stands for, I like what it reminds us of everyday.

I love my country.

A Sad Day for Cars

OBITUARY: FORMULA 1 (1950 - 2005)
Sniff Petrol is saddened to report the tragic death of Formula 1 motor racing. Following a long decline, F1 finally passed away in America on Sunday 19 July. The sport was surrounded by fans and family. Although Formula 1 had been suffering from several maladies and needless complications for some time, the actual cause of death is yet to be confirmed. Many suggest it may have been hastened by being repeatedly abused and shat upon by a Prancing Horse, but it is believed that the once-loved sport's actual demise was brought on by a number of other factors including dangerously swollen egos, over exertion caused by money grabbing, and a bad reaction to certain kinds of rubber. Some close to F1 are already pointing the finger at those who were meant to care for the ailing sport, and in particular Dr Max Mosley. Critics allege that Mosley himself was in no fit state of health for the position, suffering as he was from several osteopathic ailments including a weak spine and severe inflexibility. "F1 needed a taste of its own medicine to wake it from a fat, lazy sleep," noted Maurice Ital of Every Other Sunday magazine. "Since Michelin were involved perhaps this could have been administered in true French style, as a suppository. Or, to put it another way, Max Mosley can shove the whole thing up his arse".

From SniffPetrol. Also check out the article about the "Massive Mini".

So does that mean this is common now....

A quote from the House of Commons:

Mr. Jamie Reed (Copeland) (Lab): I crave the indulgence of the House in interrupting such an important and enjoyable debate to deliver my maiden speech. Furthermore, as the first Jedi Member of this place, I look forward to the protection under the law that will be provided to me by the Bill. I pay tribute to the hon. Member for Dewsbury (Mr. Malik) for his convincing and searing testimony in support of the proposed legislation. It will be a privilege to serve alongside him.


Found at The United Kingdom Parliament House of Commons Hansard Debates for 21 June, 2005 Part 23

*gasps for air*

I for one welcome the faith of Jedi into politics - I can't wait till the hover craft podium things are built because that was cool.

No, in all serious, you go boy...more power to ya. Yey Jedi!

Now is the nap-time of our discontent...

I'm very very tired.

I am so exhausted right now that it took me 20 minutes to remember I needed a fork for my fruit salad, another 20 to actually get up and get one and now that I have it I'm too tired to open the box and eat it.

I have a tuna sandwich too...I've had half of a half and just can't drink anymore. I mean eat. Eat anymore. See how tired I am?

Tired Katy does awfully bad things. Like snapping at her husband before he goes to work in the morning. He took my car today to get it checked out at the dealership. Last night I told him multiple times that it needed gas. This morning I reminded him again and he snapped at me:

Him: It does?! Damnit I'm late already!

Me: I told you like five times last night.

Him: I think I heard you tell me once.

Me: I told you tons of times. It's not my fault you can't get anything through your thick skull! (What I was thinking though was "Once ought to have been enough. Not my fault you're thicker than the hamburger grease I asked yo to clean up last night too and it's still sitting on the stove, lazy, bullheaded prick!...grumble grumble grumble.")

I took a shower, locked the door in his face and said "Bye!" instead of "Love you have a good day etc etc."

We talked on the phone a little while ago so it's all smoothed out and there are no grouchy feelings from him. But I feel bad. We don't have really big fights, mostly because I will back down and just let him think he's won. If I don't he gets really mean and I just can't deal with it. I can usually stop them before they start and find a new way to discuss the issue later. We have little snapping matches that die down quickly because we both know now that the snapping is really at the rest of the world...we just happen to be handy targets.

Still I feel awful when I've behaved that way. I still think it's stupid I have to repeat things six or seven times before it registers with him, but he's thick headed and dumb and freaking inconsiderate so I guess it shouldn't surprise me.

Okay, maybe I'm not that tired. Enough energy to fuss at least. And here's the reason why tired is bad. I'm already so tired I'm being snippy and now I will wear myself out feeling guilty that I was snippy. I'll still feel bad tomorrow and the next day. He has already forgotten it. He won't ever remember. It's not just that he ignores me when I'm being nice and helpful, but he ignores me when I'm being a brat too. I'm screaming in the middle of a room and he's oblivious. I'm gonna use up all my energy trying to get his attention and I'll be so tired I'll start trying in all the bad ways.

I don't have the energy for it anymore...and that's why I can't eat my lunch.

I'm too tired.

A little bit of the Divine...

Overheard as I was walking to my car in the parking lot of Safeway:

Woman Opening Car: God hears big prayers and God hears little ones!

Woman In Car: What?

Woman Opening Car: There was only ONE bottle of A&W left...only ONE. And God left it there for you!

Woman In Car: Thank you both.

I think that's kinda sweet. It's a nice thought to imagine that those really little things that make the day nicer might be because someone divine loves you.

It sure makes it feel nice to be living huh?

Penis Envy Part II

Warning: More talk about sex and many, many, many grammatical errors and unfinished thoughts.

There is another reason I think a penis would be handy besides the whole peeing standing up (which is still high on the list of good things about it). I think quite honestly the sex has to be more fun.

Not that sex isn't fun already. I have some misgivings about giving up my clitoris in exchange for a penis. The clitoris has three times as many nerve endings than the head of the penis does...and as that line from "The Vagina Monologues" goes - Why use a hand gun when you have a semi-automatic? (not direct quote)

However, despite how much I love that part of me (and yes, I really do, it's definitely a good part) I can't really say there is anything sexier and more arousing than a good, hard, cock. Oh I still think girls are prettier and definitely more erotic, and definitely much nicer naked. But there is a certain something about a man when he's erect...and there is a certain something about the erection itself.

Yesterday I got home absolutely primed. I think I was so utterly aroused and needy that my vibes were rubbing off onto others who reflected it back. Every conversation I had yesterday was charged with sex. It sparked. People flirted with me, I'm sure I couldn't help but flirt back. I got tons of looks from normally-oblivious people, I got honked at while -in- my car. My skin was literally tingling with electricity, my muscles kept stretching and tightening all on their own. The air was so thick with sex that I kept licking my lips to taste it. I could have set leather on fire I was so hot. And of course I was flushed red, my nipples damn near tore holes through my shirt and I was simply soaked. All I could think of was going home and throwing myself at my husband.

He had other ideas. No matter how close I got, how much I rubbing my breasts into his back, trailed my wet lips along his shoulder - he wasn't buying it. He made me work - and work hard. Damn near naked, pressing my erect nipples into him, whispering horrible dirty things into his ear, all but humping him to lure his ass into the bedroom - he didn't get it. Of course it could have been that he was tired, not in the mood, preoccupied. That's fine, that happens...but even then I thought I could woo him away from all the day-to-day worries and bring him along to the wonderfully sex-crazed place I was in. I was able to turn men on all day just by looking at them...I couldn't turn my husband on and I was using more than my eyes.

And again, I know sometimes two people just can't be in the same place at the same time. But here's the thing...if I had a penis...I think I could definitely had persuaded him to come with me. My proof, after four hours of working my ass off I gave up, sat down with a fruit-rollup (which I've decided are God's gift to men) and watched some documentary on the making of Star Wars. I had exhausted all that pent up, primed, sexual energy and simply had nothing left. I hadn't orgasmed and I felt no need to anymore - I was just tired. After the show I changed into the boring pajamas (you know the kind every girl has and wears when they intend to not brush their hair and only put oatmeal on their face, eat chocolate, complain about men - I went sans oatmeal obviously), curled up under the covers, rolled over and started to drift off to sleep. Then he did it. He put away the books, turned off the lights and spooned up behind me. We fit perfectly, comfortably. One strong arm wrapped around my neck, one sliding up my stomach to my breasts. His broad chest pressed against my shoulder blades, his chest hair scratching at my skin. Our knees interlocked seamlessly and most importantly my ass nestled perfectly into the hollow of his lap where his hard, rounded cock poked straight into me.

I was his, I was awake, I was wet, and I was his. I kept my eyes closed and thrilled at that feeling, enamored by the urgent way it pressed into me. I mean it was just pressing right...but it seemed urgent. It seems like it has a mind of it's own and it's mind is thinking really dirty thoughts. All I had to do was wiggle a little and it twitched. Sway side to side, it grew. My husband didn't have to say anything, his cock invaded my brain...all I could think of was how hard it was, how nice it felt, how much I wanted to touch it - taste it - fuck it. I swear to god it brainwashed me. It was sending out waves that pushed straight into my mind and clouded everything in there except how aroused I was becoming. It wasn't my husband...he was still...it was the cock. It talked to me.

I know it sounds insane, but I can't imagine any part of a woman that can make such an instant impression. How could two small nipples no longer than a few centimeters compare to the insistence and grandeur of a long, hard as granite dick? You know when a man is aroused...it's easy to tell. There are signs for a woman, but honestly you could mistake a sunburn for female arousal. Sure our bodies pulse...but it's little pulses, not the dramatic, intriguing, hand teasing, leg clenching, pussy-pulsating flicks and pumps of a cock.

Even orgasms are more dramatic and amazing. He explodes, he gets tight and long and hotter and he -explodes-. It's like Hiroshima, it's like Mount Vesuvius. It overwhelms you and then floods you. You're covered in sex, in hot, sticky, change the shape of a city sex. It sticks with you, makes you think of it long after. It's amazing. A female orgasm - an earthquake - fun ride, sorta short, generally breaks a few things, easy to pick up the pieces.

God - no wonder men are so fixated on their dicks. They're just a lot of fun.

And they seem to built for so much more than a pussy is. Even when I'm riled, hot and angry, needy and wild, my fucking isn't that impressive. I don't know if a woman really can fuck a man. Sure I can push and pull, wrap the guy up in me, pump him dry - but it doesn't have the overpowering essence that a good hard fucking from a man has. It's like he's wielding a weapon. It spears straight into me, tears me open. It's that delicious, tangy, violence. Even when it's soft, it's violent. It's a struggle and a fight. A cock invades, conquers, forces thoughts out of my head. It's insistent and overwhelming. I can't form words, I can't register pain or not. My pussy feels it cleave it's way in and the rest of my body answers, no matter what. It drives that idea of sex and orgasm and skin and god and space and time right home. It makes itself bigger than it is just by pushing itself in. And it can push it's way into anything. A cock is perfectly shaped to fit into a woman, or a hand, or a mouth. A woman doesn't fit into anything...sure a tongue can touch a pussy...but you can't slid it in, overwhelm someone, get into their body, get into their soul. A cock can...it just pushes and pushes till it invades everything and leaves it's essence behind. It can slide into a mouth easily, stealing away breath, becoming a kind of sustenance, it can replace essentials for a minute - and it always leaves you begging for more.

A woman can't do that. All our tricks and moves are psychological to physical. We can take a man in hand, pull him, surround him, invade his mind till we can find his body. But a man...a man can invade a body and the mind can do nothing but follow along.

I want that. I want that violence sometimes. I want to be able to force and invade. I want to drive my point home, figuratively and literally. I want to fuck him. Not just pumping onto him, but into him. I want that power. To leave my essence with him so he knows how much I want him, love him, need him. I want him to know instantly, without mixed signals and interpretation, that I am ready for him. I want to feel what that's like...to carry that kind of control with me all day long.

I can imagine now why men are so concerned with their dicks. Imagine what they command, what they can do in a moment, and how few of them know how amazing it is to a girl like me. How infatuated I am with the idea of it, how my mouth waters at the thought. How much I want that. Yeah...I envy it.

Penis Envy Part I

I have had quite a few phases where I wished I was a man. Don't get me wrong I adore being female. I like being pretty and soft and nice. I like not having to prove how strong I am all the time or how tough I can be by slamming pins into my chest. I like my long hair, I like lipstick, I like pretty flowery skirts, I love heels. I love going backwards in heels - and I am very good at it.

Nevertheless, I often wish I was a man. Sometimes I wish it for silly things, like I'd rather be male so I could do the "staring at breasts" thing instead of someone doing it too me. Sometimes it's because I'd like to be able to walk through my neighborhood at night and not feel so vulnerable. Sometimes it's because I'd like to be able to talk like I'm intelligent and shoot the bull without being viewed as less of a girl.

But lately it's been for a whole different reason. I think a penis would be awfully handy. I came to this conclusion on our roadtrip to Montreal a few weeks ago. After the third rest stop, where it only took Craig a few minutes to go in and out - leaving him plenty of time to stretch his legs and relax outside of the car, I realized how much easier it would be if I could pee standing up. There is a rumor that women's restrooms are somehow cleaner than men's. I don't believe it. For some reason women have this need to attempt to pee without touching anything in the stall - the wall, the seat, the door, none of it. Of course I get a little squicked about germs and thousands of hands rubbing against the same handle too - but I carry disinfectant soap and I wash my hands, and take a shower everyday. I don't feel I need to worry that much. Other women do though. I can't tell you how many times I've heard a mother screaming at her kid in a public restroom because she had touched the toilet paper dispenser.

Because women are so freaked about touching anything they attempt to squat over the seat while still in the standing position. This is an impossible proposition. Women are not built for this and there is absolutely no way to aim. None. Sorry, it can't be done. So inevitably there is either pee on the seat, on the floor, or down the poor gals leg. It is no where near the actual commode.

I've been in Men's rooms. I'm of the mind that, unless the restroom is in a bar or other establishment serving massive amounts of alcohol, the liquid on the floor in there is probably water. Mostly water at least. In a womens room, you can bet most of it is urine. And because women attempt cleanliness (but lack the guts to actually clean gross stuff) they compound the floor problem by throwing toilet paper on the puddle to soak it up. So not only is the floor covered in pee, it's covered in dirty toilet paper too. (And people wonder why cleaning ladies are so belligerent.)

The other problem with the "squatting" method is the seat itself. Even when women are provided with those seat cover things...they'll still try and squat. Which as I said gets pee all over the seat. And the seat is something a women will -not- attempt, even halfheartedly, to clean. She'll leave it. Women also do this with the flush, I have no idea why someone wouldn't flush in the first place, but if they don't other women will simply leave it and move to the next stall before doing it for them. Both create a horrible cycle for the rest of us normal people who just want to get in and get out. If the girl had just sat down in the first place to pee, there would not be pee on the seat. But because she didn't, there is pee on the seat and therefore no one else will sit down to pee, getting more pee on the seat. Over and over and over.

So I went off on a little rant there, but it all comes down to this. If I had a penis, I could pee standing up. I wouldn't have to look for the non-mucked up seat, I wouldn't have to deal with cleaning it off before I sat down, I could aim, I could keep my distance. And it'd be faster, thus getting me out of the icky bathroom, away from the crazy people, and allow me more "stretching legs time." These benefits carry over from public restrooms to port-a-potties as well (where speed is essential, particularly when it's 95 degrees outside and you're at an event housing 150,000 people). In those peeing standing up is doubly great because you don't have to try and turn around in that small thing and you can finish before you have to take another held breath.

I haven't even touched on the fact that the penis also allows men to -not- remove their pants during the whole ideal, which has to shave off tons of time and hassle.

I'll leave this first portion of my fascination with the male anatomy by pointing out that I am not the first woman to think of this. In the book "Mr. Darcy takes a Wife" there is a paragraph where Elizabeth marvels at the way Darcy can relieve himself into the chamber pot while still perched on the bed...and never have to walk over the cold floor with his bare feet. Amazing! Indeed!

A good use of money

For awhile now I've been bickering with my husband (good naturedly) about what would be a good use of money. Since I keep the books and the house he usually needs to ask before any huge purchases (in order to escape what he calls me "look of supreme irritation). He pointed out the other day that whenever he asks if he can buy something I ask "Why?" I don't think that's so bad of a question. Why does he need two more sets of tires? Why does he need a cleaning robot when we have a broom? Etc. Etc.

Today he told me about this:

The Penguin Classics Library Complete Collection

And I want it. Why? So...er...I can read it. So I will have 11,000 books at my disposal all the time? So when I wake up at two o'clock in the morning I won't stare at my bookcases and go "I've read all these!!" (Which brings on my husbands own look of "supreme irritation"). I don't know why. I just want it.

Oh well, guess my green library card will have to take precedence over my blue visa.

Hi Fish, Bye Fish

We bought three new fish today to round out our family.

Persimmon the orange cichlid, Mango the other orange cichlid and George the sucker fish. They joined the three previous fish Lemon the yellow cichlid, Guava the other yellow cichlid and Pumpkin the huge orange cichlid.

Persimmon and Mango are a tad smaller than the other guys but the fish guy said they'd be okay and they were plucky little fish anyway.

I say 'were' because we've already had an incident. We have a filter in our tank that has a little grate on the hose so fish and big things won't get sucked up into it. My husband didn't like the grate because it would get clogged with yucky fish food remains and have to be cleaned regularly or slow the filtration down. Today we had an arguement (before the two new fish were released into the tank) whether the grate should be taken off or not. I was worried the new fish would be too small and get vacuumed up into the tube, he was certain they were too big for that.

Of course when I released the fish they started exploring and I watched for about ten minutes later before going to fix dinner. No sooner do I turn around but Mango get sucked up into the tube. I turned from the stove and saw him just hanging there swishing his tail for all he was worth and his head halfway up the tube. I panicked. I tried turning off the filter but couldn't get the plugs unplugged from the outlets because they were pushed in too tight. I tried shaking the tube to let him go. Finally I ran outside and knocked my husbands cigarette out of his hand.

"Timmy is stuck in a well!"

Actually it was "Help help the fish is stuck...help!!!"

He took his sweet time getting there and tried to use the butt end of a long knife to knock him lose. (Instead of using his braun to unplug the filter like I was asking him too.) He either knocked too hard or the filter is damn strong because Mango swam out of it bent in half. He kicked around for a little before sinking to the floor and laying down.

Lemon kept him company for a few hours, I'm sure uttering "Come on little fish, you can do it." to him in fishy-language. While I did the same in katy-language.

Ten minutes ago I noticed Mango is lying at the floor under the bubble tube...he's not breathing anymore. The fish is dead.

I said that too and my husband snapped "Well just wait till morning...christ!"

Of course he blames me. I was lectured that the next time that happens I should just unplug the filter right away. (Gee, never would have thought of that.) Also that it was stupid I didn't do something right away when I noticed he was stuck and why didn't I put the grate back on. (Only because he said in no uncertain terms that I better not because it slowed the filter down too much.)

Am I allowed to say "I told you so"? I have been very careful not to mention our conversation. I have not given him any back looks or given a "cold shoulder". I'm trying not to feel resentful. But my fish is dead! And I really liked him. He had sass.

Although I'm making a concious effort not to blame anyone...I know I'm mope-ing and I can't help it. It seems the death of our fish are precursors to more bad news.

Today my mother revealed the latests results from her ultrasound. They found a lump awhile back, the mammogram showed nothing but after the ultrasound they found a mass right in front of her chestplate behind all the brest tissue. She finds out what they want to do next week. This on top of the mystery bleeding, years and years after menopause.

If this is...that...then every woman in my family on my mother's side will have had breast cancer except for myself, my sister and my cousin. And last year after my mother's problems with other forms of lesser cancer (if there's such a thing) I thought we'd be done. I knew we wouldn't, but I thought we would.

I had Macaroni and Cheese tonight. We didn't have any grape juice, but it was as close to a comfort meal as I can get.

Yesterday was a good day though. I'll have to write about it later.

Things I've Learned from the Navy

1) Sailors like beer.
2) Sailors like to spend money.
3) The sailorette that has a crush on your husband will use his drunken state as a good excuse to convince him you (the wife) are fat, boring, and undesirable while making her seem like the saint who shops for clothes with him and spends afternoon tending to his alcohol induced headache.
4) The Navy needs to stop having drunken luncheons.
5) I am far prettier and far thinner than any of the stupid sailorettes out there.

I don't care if that sounds arrogant. I am not a size 14...I am far far far from a size 14 and way less that her stupid size 20!

Bitch.

/end female induced jealousy and estrogen-high, low self-esteem driven rage

*edit for one more thought:

It is a fact that when I am truly pissed at a woman I will go straight for the appearance. My mine goes from "that bitch" directly to "that fat bitch" or "that ugly bitch" or if I'm really angry "that fat, ugly bitch". This is the arrogant and narcissistic side of me that I do not particularly like. Not being an incredibly gorgeous woman I have been on the wrong side of "ugly bitch" before - and it didn't feel good. However, it felt better than someone maligning my character. At least I can shake off a bad appearance insult. Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder.

However, it still remains that when I get pissed I instantly get off at "fat-land" and start hiking. Not that being fat is a bad thing, and more often than not no reflection whatsoever on the persons worth as a human being. Nonetheless - it's easy. I do see it as a gross form of prejudice. I'm not proud of it. I let myself be conditioned into it and I make little effort to shy away from it when I am truly incensed.

Take this as a look into the female psyche. If I had an outlet other than a blog to show how upset I am at this woman right now it would involve hair pulling and cat-scratching.

Just goes to show - women ain't that pretty.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven...

I read a cool article today about how the color of ones eyes is supposed to match ones personality.

It goes like so:

Hazel - Hazel is a color combination of brown, green,
and golden-yellow which matches the flexible personality
of people with this color eye. These people go with the
flow and can adapt to any situation.

Blue - People with blue eyes can remain calm under the most
stressful circumstances. Emotionally, however, mood swings
can take place at any time.

Green - People with green eyes project independence and
mystery. Affectionate with people they are close, but keep
their distance with new acquaintances until they have proven
themselves trustworthy.

Brown/black - People with brown eyes are thought of as trustworthy
and responsible. People seem to seek advice more from people
with brown eyes. Loving and passionate to a fault.

Gray - People with gray eyes are strong in nature and leaders.
They are able to see both sides of an argument and settle
disputes. Directness is their strong suit.


Of course I wonder about people whose eyes change color as they grow. And what about colored contact lenses?

Although I do definitely see similarities with my personality and my eye color - Brown.

Definitely gives you an excuse to look people directly in the eyes now to try and glean something about their personality.

Books Books Books

Someday I am going to die by being crushed in a book avalanche and people won't find my body for years and then they'll only discover it because someone decided they wanted to read Anis Nin.

I'll die happy.

I had to go to Borders today. I try and avoid that place, me in Borders is like cokehead in a crack den...things will only get worse. I have an audition this weekend for "All My Sons" and since I don't have a copy of that one in my collection anymore I figured I pick up a paperback and re-read it to prepare.

I started at Waldens, where they do not actually have a section reserved for plays or scripts but rather three rows of shelves labeled "Fiction" filed alphabetically by first name. By first name except of course Arthur Miller who I found between the O's and P's. In fact I barely found him, they had one Arthur Miller book - Death of a Salesman - one copy. I asked around but if the cover didn't have Justin Timberlake on it I'm sure the register girls there wouldn't have any idea what I was talking about.

So off I went to the mega-book deathmart that is Borders.

I used to be in awe of Borders. I would walk from my little retail job everyday, forgo the needed food, and wile away my hours in the shelves of Borders, blissfully lost in the labyrinth of obscure books that no one really wants to read. I used to spend every spare penny there. I lived for two months on energy bars and red bull that was 50% off to us GNC employees just because I spent all my food money on books. Oh books how I love you.

There was another store that was like that too when I was growing up. "Friends of the Library" where they sold old books Libraries were trying to discard and then giving the money back to system. Books there were ten cents a piece. My Parents would spend hundreds of dollars there everytime we visited. I'm not kidding. $50 for me, $100 for dad, $50 for mom. Books books books.

So I went into Borders with a mission...I would get my script and leave. I would not be distracted, I would not go any further that the Drama section, I would not be lured by the pretty sig...ooooh Sylvia Plath's letters...

I was screwed. I came away with the big bag, but I did get my script.

And I feel justified. I make money too. My husband spends large sums of money on tires and knick-knacks for the cars. I can spend a few dollars on my little growing library.

Now I just need to buy a few more shelves...

Mmm, someday I'll die under an avalanche of books and no one will ever find me.

Ummm...Oops

Amusing article today (well earlier this week but I read it today):

ROVER SELLS TF 'BY MISTAKE'

Chinese carmaker owns it but doesn't want it

News emerged Friday that MG Rover has sold the rights to the MG TF sports car -- almost by accident -- to the Chinese car company SAIC. This can only reduce its value to potential buyers, who have until Wednesday to submit final bids and pay a 10 per cent deposit, as the TF was seen as one of MG Rover's most valuable assets.

I see London, I see France...

I'm often surprised at the things I find myself doing during the course of my job. One of the reasons why I like being an assistant is because I get to do a multitude of things in one day - true they're only the things other people don't want to do - but I'm okay with that.

Yesterday for instance I found myself walking throughout the entire building carrying a hefty and scary knife in search of a large cake that had gone missing.

Today I packed up a bunch of clothes, cd's, and a half a bag of "Bugles" for some guy out in Phoenix. I didn't actually pack the "Bugles" I don't know how old they are, but I left them in the breakroom that services "The Pit" and the "Pit Vultures" ate it. I get a little satisfaction out of that - "Pit Vultures" are horrible - I know - I used to work there.

It was an odd assortment of clothes today. Some nice shirts, pressed suits, etc. And a bag of gym clothes, as well as some random socks and underwear. I'm not that perturbed by this, living with two sailors who don't know how to do their own laundry I often find myself elbows deep in gross PT gear and unmentionables. It's not a big deal, except that it is. I am still shy about leaving my clothes out around my roommate. In fact I make sure that even if I don't take all the clothes to the dresser the second the dryer is done I still remove my bras and underwear...just so he won't see them. My husband used to play that pirate game with my thongs...and I have nightmares I'll come home and my roommate will be doing the same thing.

But guys don't seem to be that shy about it - case in point the box of clothes today. I'd never met this man before and he had no problem calling and telling me to pack up all his junk and send it on it's way. Why aren't guys worried about this stuff? Is it something girls are taught as we grow up? And why do we only teach girls. I mean sure I remember the whole "You can't climb trees in dresses" lecture...do boys ever get that lecture?

I don't think they do since I see boys walking around with their pants hanging around their knees and their underwear hanging out plain as day. What was it that made the "underwear covering" stick with me? Why are guys so open about their stuff? Why do they find the idea of thongs on their head so compelling?

I suppose it's another mystery of life.

Which Witch is Witchy-er...

The other day I was confronted by a teenage witch who lectured me on "the old religion" and the "burning times" as well as her encyclopedic knowledge of "Silver Ravenwolf" and how proscecuted she is for being a "wiccan". Of course if you've studied modern day paganism and wicca you know that the religion is actually fairly young and new and the only "burning times" I really know about is that big party out in the desert. Furthermore, having studied and practiced magick and paganism for a few years now - I've yet to really run into any persecution. I once had a friend who was worried my soul would burn if I didn't accept Christ and she wrote lots of poems for me about it - but she would have done that if I told her I was Catholic too (go figure) - and really she only did it because she cared...it wasn't persecution.

Anyway, in one of those freaky cosmic timing things I got read this article today:


-------- Modern druids partying 6 months too early ---------

SHEFFIELD, England - Some 20,000 robe-wearing hippies,
would-be Druids and science buffs who greeted summer's
arrival at Stonehenge early Tuesday were six months too
early. The scientific background to the claim is found in
Neolithic piglets' teeth that indicate the ancient Druids
gathered only to celebrate winter's vernal equinox, and not
the summer solstice, The Telegraph reported. Dr. Umburto
Albarella, an animal bone expert at the University of
Sheffield's archaeology department said pigs in that period
were born in spring and were slaughtered in December or
January, which supports the view the celestial revelry
happened only once a year, and not in the summer. The news
didn't dampen this year's turnout, however. The newspaper
said the overnight celebrants were all told to be away from
Stonehenge by 9 a.m. to allow a day-long massive clean-up
of modern garbage left by the crowds.


Quite honestly I'd rather be in England in the summer rather than winter too...better a warm Druid than a cold one. But I found it interesting that I've run into two examples of ill-informed "witches" in two days. Must be that time.

Oooooh Goddess!

By the way if you want to read a few simplified explanations about the true age of Wicca and some essays by very well-informed Pagans go to The Celtic Connection and specifically their Message Boards even more especially their Newbie Haven. Also look at the essays they have, and their book suggestions. Very good ideas.

The article came from Bizarre News.

I'm just happy.

I'm prone to being depressed. It's partly genetic (thanks mom, grandma, great grandma) and partly a side effect from the dreaded "pill" and part of it is probably my need to analyze everything and really get into the nitty-gritty of everyday life.

With the loss of the sun this winter and a rather bad year last year followed by another really bad spring I was in a pretty awful depression.

Today I realized...it's gone.

For the past year and a half I have been discontent, something always felt wrong I just wanted to curl up and cry or sleep - or preferably die. I kept running around looking for something to help it. Perhaps more exercise, more sex, more food, more sleep. Then I got mad at myself for going the "more" route and tried the less food, less sleep, less sex path. Of course neither worked. Depression isn't about what you do or don't have...it's about losing yourself in the mess that is an overly complicated brain. I resigned myself that I would forever be depressed and because of that went looking for things that would keep me that way (subconsciously of course.)

Today though I realized that I only felt bad because I was doing things that were stupid. Of course I know it's natural to crave stress and drama - put any group of people together and they will create conflict just because. However, last night - this morning, I realized that the only reason why I was depressed anymore was because I was making myself so. While I was truly depressed I was looking at all the wrong places to find some solace. And when I searched in the right place I felt guilty that I had to search and would berate myself for not just feeling happy with my horrible lot. Vicious cycle that.

Today I realized I don't need any of it. I'm happy. I'm really happy. I wake up in the morning excited to go to work. I like the things I do there. I like my apartment, I like the people there. I have something most people never have, a good husband who loves me and compliments me perfectly. I have a cat who makes me happy just by being cat-like. I have a nice very small family that I come home to everyday and I like being part of. It couldn't be better.

I know it's bad form to be so content with my life. I should want more, a better job, a nicer home, the perfect relationship, more money. I should want all these things, but I don't. Sure I'll work towards more goals, but I don't need anything else right now to be content. I have it all...and it's nice to know that life really can be this good.

It's also nice to know that the only thing that can make me sad right now is me. It's very...freeing.

Nerd Nerd

Hehe...I am in such a good mood today. I'm ready to go-go-go. I could dance...in fact once I get away from my computer I will dance. In the meantime I'll do funny quizes like this which is pretty good...I am a nerdy girl.

You scored as Nerdy Girl. Nerdy Girl 75% Slut 44% Goth 38% Popular Bitch 38% Athletic Tomboy 31% Loser 25% Hippy 13% Preppy Girl 6% What type of girl are you?!! created with QuizFarm.com

Ashamed

I got a comment:

Katy, may we assume that you failed to nail Schumacher? Englishman


I know I haven't written about my trip in it's entirety yet. It was not very noteworthy besides the amazing seats we had at the Grand Prix (and the after parties where - no - I didn't "nail Schumacher" obviously).

The seats were great though, you could see the guys waving as they passed and shaking fists in fury. We were so close we could have thrown a rock at the car...but unlike my other American counterparts I don't throw things at sporting events.

I've just finished watching the USGP and honestly I'm appalled and ashamed at the behavior of the fans there. We're all disappointed that the Michelin teams didn't race. But you don't throw things. Morons! You're lucky you didn't kill someone.

I'm ashamed at the classless, appalling, gross conduct of the fans at Indianapolis. I hope none of them were celebrating Father's Day there...I'd hate to know inconsiderate idiots like that actually reproduced.

Horrible.

Ew Ew Ew

My regular gym is closed for renovations. I'm upset.

In my little community there are three gyms. They are all owned by the community's company and other gyms (like chains) are kept from opening shop. It's astronomically expensive to join, but when you got no competition you can do stupid stuff like ask $900 every six months in order to allow one to use the treadmill.

I do not have that package...I use the weights and run outside.

In anycase, since there are three gyms to choose from you wouldn't think that one gym being closed would be that much of a deal. Just go to another. Well yeah...that's what I thought too.

Then I went. The first one is the 24 hour big huge sport center. It looks like a lot of fun...if you want to walk around getting hit in the head by little kids who need to have their endless supply of candy confiscated. Honestly when I have to go to the suburban house wife gym I often fantasize that they give the little no-neckers "Mommy's Little Helper" and the their moms the freaking candy so they'll be awake enough to hit the brakes before they ram my car a third time. (Long past story...)

Anyway after a few minutes of walking the maze of kids rooms and women's gyms (which I can't go into because I didn't buy that package...) I left.

Gym choice number two. The Athletic Club. I used to call this my regular gym. It's very close to home (walking distance) and has all the stuff I want where it is easy to find. The only problem...it's sweaty.

Yes, I know...gyms are suppose to be sweaty. That's what you go to gyms for. To sweat. But that's not the kind of sweaty I mean. It's gross. It's dirty. And honestly it freaks me out. My biggest problem was when I would have to watch the men who rode the bikes. You know those guys...remind you of members of the Russian mafia only in tight bike shorts with their ass hanging over one side and there stomach oozing out the other. And then they get on a bike for 30 minutes and sweat. They sweat a lot. In puddles on the floor. And they don't shower so they smell bad when they start, smell really bad when they end, and then go and use the weight benches afterward. Call me a wimp...but I can't take it. I walk around with disinfectant wipes incessantly. And because I am such a anti-sweat freak I noticed that this gym does not clean their equipment daily. I'm not sure they ever do. I suppose they think that their customers will clean up after themselves. But I've yet to see anyone but me even carry a towel. I finally got fed up and decided to go to the gym further away but much cleaner.

And am I glad I did. I walked in today grabbed a fresh towel, grabbed a handful of wipes and stealed myself for the trials ahead when a little, tiny, notice caught my eye at the scanning table. "We have had an out break of a skin rash that is caused by a staph infection. Please remember to wipe down your equipment after you've finished using it."

EWWWWW! I think I knocked a couple of kids over in my haste to run out of there. I could already feel my skin crawling, my whole body felt hot, it was on me get it off get it off!!!!

Okay so I might have overreacted. But the last time I used a gym that had a mysterious "outbreak" it turned out to be flesh-eating bacteria and killed a young Marine recruit in San Diego. I never went back to that gym again (except for when they made us so we could get screen and inoculated) and I will never ever go back to the Athletic Club again. As it was I skipped the work out for a 30 minute shower and I still feel creepy crawly. Eww ewww eww.

Over 12 hours later I can't shake the feeling I'll wake up and my arm will be sizzling off. My regular gym better open up real soon.

Click your heels three times...

Repeat "There's no place like home, there's no place like home."

And you'll be there.

Provided you drive for a really really long time.

I'm home - my apartment is trashed, really trashed, but my bed remains and I'm going to crash into it.

The trip was very nice. The Grand Prix was exciting. I missed my cat a lot and seh won't come out till I crawl under the covers and pretend to sleep. So I'm gonna go cuddle with my cat.

There is no place like home.

(and vacation continues for two more days...)

Packing thoughts

We leave for Montreal tomorrow morning.

We're packing tonight.

As we're packing I'm struck by a few thoughts.

1) I have a really awesome wardrobe and most of it is stuff my husband bought for me.
2) My husband has A LOT of clothes.
3) I have more jewelry than I thought.
4) I have a lot of lingerie that my husband isn't into...which is strange because it was bought for him or by him.
5) Feminine products should not have to resort to full length videos to instruct women how to insert the damn things.
6) If above product doesn't work I am going to be one very angry and slightly sexually frustrated woman when I get home.
7) Despite impending sexual doom and the fear we will not be able to get back home without passports...I'm really excited about this trip.
8) Staying up really late without having had ANY caffeine for 72 hours makes for weird katy-thoughts.
9) Our newly bought fancy soap is beginning to bother me it smells so much. Soap should not have cake-like icing on it.

Okay, that's all for the posts for the next two weeks because I will be in Canada seducing my husband (and maybe Michael Schumacher) in french.

She's this kind of girl...

Global Personality Test Results

Stability (28%) low which suggests you are very worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious. Orderliness (60%) moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly organized, reliable, neat, and hard working at the expense of flexibility, efficiency, spontaneity, and fun. Extraversion (35%) moderately low which suggests you are reclusive, quiet, unassertive, and secretive.

Take Free Global Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

trait snapshot:
depressed, introverted, neat, needs things to be extremely clean, observer, perfectionist, not self revealing, does not make friends easily, suspicious, irritable, hates large parties, follows the rules, worrying, does not like to stand out, fragile, phobic, submissive, dislikes leadership, cautious, takes precautions, focuses on hidden motives, good at saving money, solitary, familiar with the dark side of life, hard working, emotionally sensitive, prudent, altruistic, heart over mind, unadventurous

Boy I sound like a lot of fun...???

She's that kind of girl...

I've mentioned before how when I learn new words or phrases I will hear them used in excess shortly afterward. Well in addition to my growing vocabulary I seem to fall into similar patterns of topics with people, through very little prompting from myself. I'm not sure if this phenomenon is normal and simply part of good 'ole Murphy's Law or if it's unique to me. In either case it's happening right now...and when it rains it pours.

My blog's description is "a lost member of the Y generation" for good reason. I am rather lost. It might be the random and frequent moving, the crazy mix of military and college life, the fact that I spent 12 years of my life preparing and planning on a completely different kind of life which I walked away from. It might just be that I'm crazy and wishy-washy. In either case I find myself often confused by my own changing views and convictions and the normal status quo surrounding me.

Yeah I know...join the club...everyone my age feels this way. And that's the problem, the very people who can relate at this moment are going through the same thing, which renders them useless in helping me figure it out and vice versa.

I'm not entirely worried about this, though I have my moments of panic. I bring it on myself though, I'll let my whole lack of definition sit for awhile then think, hey, I should ask some questions, which lead to more questions, then more, then unanswerable ponders, then I'm starring at the stars screaming "Argh! It's too big - get me out of here." Then the cycle starts again and I blissfully run around not being introspective or philosophical. Tra-la-la.

But even when I am not attempting to define myself or my place in the world other people are. I've have a few people tell me I'm the kind of person who would "cut off my nose to spite my face" in reference to how undefinable I am. I'm too eclectic which I think makes people even more determined to define me.

This week in particular people have been making large general comments on who I am, and I'm even more confused by it. They've hinted through conversations with me and with others that:

I'm full of "piss and vinegar"
I'm too graceful and beautiful to be attainable.
I'm too plain to have a league.
I'm very organized.
I'm a good negotiator.
I'm far too shy.
I'm the "marrying kind"
I'm the girl next door.
I'm exotic.
I'm straightforward.
I'm coy.
I'm a tease.
I'm an openbook.
I'm very "together"
I seem sad.
I'm funny.
I'm too reserved.
I'm a brat.

So what the heck am I?

Of course these things could just be passing comments about how I am behaving in a certain situation or a particular moment. At any given time any person could be any one or two of these things. But people have been using these very definitive statements to define me as a whole. It's much like saying someone is a bitch. They're a bitch no matter how unbitchy they may be acting on Easter day.

Thankfully no one has said I'm a bitch to my face or behind my back, that I know of, yet.

I think perhaps I'm not so much confused by how people are defining me but more that I want to live up to their expectations when they do define me. It's that whole "tell someone they are something enough and they'll be it" thing. Tell a kid their bad at math and they will be bad at math, tell me I'm a take charge kind of gal, and I'll try and take charge. And of course that's a contradiction right there.

An independent, take-charge person in control of all the situations would not hop too when told what they should be. They'd tell people what they are...they wouldn't let others do it for them. Someone says "jump" and they say "do it yourself."

Someone tells me "jump" - I say...usually nothing...I just jump.

And I think that makes me happy. I know doing things for other people makes me happy. I know that I get a great satisfaction from my job when I can take the burden from my boss and my fellow admins and make their job easier. I enjoy completing tasks - it makes me feel accomplished and content. Even though I complain about the ironing and the cooking and the cleaning and all the other chores I do for my husband - it makes me feel warm knowing that he looks good and sharp in his pressed utilities. I positively glow when he says "thank you" after I've cooked for him or run a bunch of silly errands. I feel more proud of the fact that my husband and my bosses don't have to worry about things because I take care of them without being asked or told. I actually prefer it that way...just slip in finish this report here, send out this notice there, pay a bill, handle the household chores before Craig notices they need to be done. I like it that way.

It makes me feel like a brownie. When I was a little girl all I wanted was to be a girl scout...more importantly a brownie girl scout. It took forever for me to be old enough - and when we were initiated I was fascinated with the brownie story. The two little kids who would sneak into their grandmothers house at night to clean and cook. I loved that story. I was disappointed when I turned Junior, then Cadette and Senior, to find out they don't have stories like that. I guess we're too old...but I still like it.

I suppose I'm contradicting myself again. I started saying I don't know how to define myself, but I do. I define myself through others...and I don't think you're supposed to do that. In fact I'm pretty sure (because I did pay attention in school and at my Girl Scout meetings) that as modern day women our "selves" should never be defined by someone else. We're all individuals and we can never connect with others before we connect with ourselves.

And then we all sit in a circle and sing.

Actually it makes sense. Sense of self is so important, and if you don't know exactly who you are then how can you relate to other people with honesty? I often wonder if my desire and willingness to be in the shadows and do for others is my personality or my umbrella to hide the fact that I don't have a personality.

Well of course I have one...I just am to shy to let others know what it is.

So am I hiding or am I being who I was meant to be?

I know none of my rambling really makes sense to anyone else. There used to be a time when I could communicate well with words, but lately I've been writing more for myself than others. The irony is that the writing is posted for others to read...not just myself. I suppose I need to start focusing on this new format and stop journalizing in the old fashion. Irregardless these questions and random thoughts all came from a semi-conversation (meaning a chat-based one) that I had this morning...that I'm still a little confused on so I'm not going to write about it. Too many thoughts...have to get a few out of my head.

I hope that if someone actually does read this they'll find some solace in the fact they are no where near as crazy or messed up as I am.

Apathy

They revealed who Deep Throat is...

Drumroll...

Mark Felt.

And I am filled with...well...not much. Actually I did have a bagel for breakfast this morning so I am full - but I don't care about Mark Felt.

The fact he keeps being called the "Number 2" man for the FBI makes this all seem rather anti-climatic. It's much like pulling the mask off Batman and finding Alfred.

Well no, that might be slightly cooler.

Mark Felt, Mark Felt, that's a craft corner not a Notorious Snitch.

Or I guess a hero. Or at least a good man.

Maybe I should care more about this, but I'm too young to remember and the most I really know about is are the snippets I learned from my Father. And that really bad Robert Redford movie.

My dad used to have (might still have but I haven't seen him wear it) a shirt that said "Don't buy books from crooks" with a thumbs down hand in the shape of Nixon's profile. I particularly remember this shirt because there are numerous pictures of him holding me as a baby with it on. I guess he either really liked it, or really hated it so didn't mind a little baby drool.

He also had a plastic Nixon mask that he would wear on Halloween. He had a good time telling everyone he knew he was the adults creepy nightmare. When I asked why he said it was because he did things "You're not supposed to."

I didn't think it was near as scary as Freddy.

But no matter how much I read about the "scandal" or hear about it...all I really associate it with is that "Crook" t-shirt and the weird mask.

And now a bunch of felt.

And markers.

Poor guys...even when they make history they really don't make history.

But I do still make it a point never to buy books from crooks. Which is why no one will get "Martha Stewart Living" for Christmas this year.