My pursuit of yet another extraneous degree has some merit. I feel that I'm exposed to things I normally could care less about. I saw in the washington post today that George Kennan (otherwise known as "X") had died at age 101. But for my recent classes in Cold War strategy and policy, I never would have been so affected by his death or realize that he wasn't the war-monger that many paint him to be as the "father of the cold war strategy." Sure it led to a massive arms race, but as usual, I think it was the administration of the policy and not the ideas themselves that caused that. His ideas still apply today:

A touchstone of his worldview was the conviction that the United States cannot reshape other countries in its own image and that, with a few exceptions, its efforts to police the world are neither in its interests nor within the scope of its resources.

Uh, Vietnam...uh, Iraq...too bad they didn't listen to him.

Blatantly stolen from Welfare Queen--the ultimate source for entertaining net quizzes--Belief-o-Matic! Ever wonder why you wonder as you wander? Now you can find out. Look at me, I'm the religious left:

1. Neo-Pagan (100%)
2. Unitarian Universalism (93%)
3. Mahayana Buddhism (88%)
4. Liberal Quakers (88%)
5. New Age (85%)
6. Reform Judaism (80%)
7. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (71%)
8. Secular Humanism (67%)
9. Sikhism (67%)
10. Theravada Buddhism (66%)
11. Jainism (64%)
12. Taoism (63%)
13. Hinduism (63%)
14. New Thought (61%)
15. Bahá'í Faith (59%)
16. Scientology (54%)
17. Orthodox Judaism (48%)
18. Orthodox Quaker (44%)
19. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (41%)
20. Islam (38%)
21. Nontheist (38%)
22. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (25%)
23. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (23%)
24. Seventh Day Adventist (20%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (16%)
26. Roman Catholic (16%)
27. Jehovah's Witness (10%)

There goes me ever claiming that I was Catholic. I think the schooling made recognizing the wrongness of it easier. Time to check out that Unitarian church (and all the cute gay men), because I think you can be a witch (pagan) on your own. Blessed be.

Being the terrible government major (and good psychology major) that I am, I always wondered if your average American could pass the US citizenship test. So, I took a tour of a few sites that offered examples of the citizenship test and I now know that the average American couldn't pass it worth a darn, not even the easy questions like who's the current Vice President (RoboDick) and where does the President reside (1600 Pennsylvania Ave, big white house--even terrorists know that). But I admit, some of these questions were tough and I wonder if you all knew the answers (give me some snarky comments). Try these without googling:

1) How many Senators are there and how long is their term in office?
2) How many Representative are there and how long is their term?
3) How many times can a Senator or Representative be re-elected?
4) Who elects the President?
5) Name all the requirements for being the President. Hint: intelligence and eloquence are not included.
6) How many amendments does the US Constitution have?
7) What are the first 10 amendments called?
8) Excluding the 1st amendment, name 4 other rights within the first 10 amendments.

BTW, included in the citizenship test and interview are questions that would keep some natural-born Americans from becoming Americans. But these are our god-given rights, non?:

Have you ever been a habitual drunkard?

Right, most of them voted for our current President

Have you ever been a member of a communist, socialist, totalitarian group or terrorist organization?

Dang Greenpeace and PETA

Have you ever advocated overthrow of any government by force or violence?

Oops, Mellie wait for your birthday present.

Have you ever been a prostitute or "procured anyone for prostitution"

Ha, ladies is pimps, too.

Dorky moment of the day

Next office door neighbor, whom I've aptly dubbed Suzilla, has just given me the nickname of Gothra. Like being the savior of the cosmos, even if it involves saving insipid Japanese. I need a new nameplate.

Now I know there are many things in this world that are dangerous when eaten undercooked (which led to many people's unusually high aversion to prepare chicken, the non-vegetarian ones that is), but I never in my life would have thought that gooey sweet cassava balls would lead to the death of many schoolchildren. Poor kiddies. But there's food poisoning and there's cyanide poisoning.

Cassava is a starchy, tuberous root that is a low-cost source of carbohydrates in humid, tropical areas; it is also the source of tapioca.

Cassava contains amino acid-derived cyanogenic glucosides--some more than others--and must be thoroughly cooked to remove toxic levels.

Eaten raw, the human digestive system will convert part of it into cyanide. Two cassava roots contain enough to be fatal.

Well, I always said Asian vegetables tasted more "interesting" but yikes. I've been eating detoxified cyanide throughout my life. I am quickly becoming a picky eater.

Felt like being silly today, so I give you the everchanging, never boring web quiz (thank you Welfare Queen):

What Gay Childhood Icon Are You?

I'm two in fact.

You Are the Very Gay Bert and Ernie!

Two grown puppets living together, sleeping in the same room? They've even got coordinating striped shirts!

And, an alphabet meme just because (thanks Heathen):

A - Accent: East coast valley/southern...sorry, I'm Asian, it happens.
B - Breast size: 36B.
C - Chore you hate: Cleaning bathrooms. Someday I'll have a husband and children to do it for me. Right.
D - Dad's name: Armando
E - Essential make-up item: Does lip balm count?
F - Favorite perfume: Dolce & Gabbana light blue or sicily
G - Gold or silver: White gold
H - Hometown: Virginia Beach, VA. Hence the accent.
I - Insomnia: Only when I take cold medicine.
J - Job title: Senior defense analyst.
K - Kids: Not now, but hopefully someday. See item C.
L - Living arrangements: It's like I never moved from Williamsburg. Townhouse next to the ubiquitous golf course. I have a lot of senior neighbors.
M - Mum's birthplace: Casiguran, Aurora, Philippines. But she's Chinese.
N - Number of apples you've eaten: On average per year? Probably 12. I like oranges better.
O - Overnight hospital stays: 1 for tonsilectomy.
P - Phobia: Needles and sticky hands. Hey, phobias are irrational.
R - Religious affiliation: Agnostic. Make me believe.
S - Siblings: Two. Thank god.
T - Time you wake up: 6:30-7am. Naturally-8am.
U - Unnatural hair colors you've worn: Blue. It's blue now. At least I've never had blond stripes.
V - Vegetables you refuse to eat: Okra (slimy), cucumbers (tasteless), green onions (overpowering), and ampalaya (nasty as hell).
W - Worst habit: Procrastination.
X - X-rays: Teeth.
Y - Yummy foods you make: Desserts.
Z - Zodiac sign: Aries. And a Dragon. I don't eat men alive I swear.

I've decided that I'm too impatient to click my mouse twice when I can click it just once to feed my obsessive need to read about people I don't actually hang out with (ah, the power of the internet--socializing, bah humbug)...so I bring you Spanish Sheep and Hello Kitty Fan. Yes, they are both men. What can I say, they're interesting in a sick and twisted way. It's like being a psychologist, without those frivolous medical degrees, ethics, and compassion. I also read People magazine, so sue me. Thank you Munkeigh for bringing them into my life.

I really need another hobby.

Word of the day: Schadenfreude

Feeling a lot better now that the plague has passed my hometown and moved onto greater populated metropolises--sic them politicians, yee ha! Always feels good to level some hurt on others (I'm joking...but not really). For example, felt good to take money from sad, poker obsessed, uber-competitive, angry teachers. (Sorry...OK, I'm not. OK, I only partly am. Mostly about the ones that shout "Playstation Poker! $19.99" Shut up and pay me already!)

And it feels good to inflict this on you all--the fashion fugly. I really hate the word fugly, but the site's quite snarky in a funny way, especially for those of us who agree the Britney Spears is the queen of fug. If anyone can comment on bad fashion incorporating Buffy the Vampire Slayer (but not about the Buffster), you've got to love it.

Am crazy bag lady thanks to dayquil habit.

Or at least frantically dug into trash in public.

Yesterday, in one of my recent drug-induced highs, I cleaned out my house--threw away all junk papers, magazines, etc. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but if you knew the level of packrat that I live in (black belt), it's about a four feet of trash bin. Felt cleansed, felt revived, then came the oh-shit moment. You see, one good thing about being a packrat and keeping everything is that you have an adaptive system of organization--the pile method--but once the piles have been rearranged (or tossed), you can't find a damn thing. As I found out tonight.

Had a flashback of holding in my hand my recent (and expensive) car registration with attached license plate stickers, without that nice other memory of where I had put it. After searching through every little bit of paper in the house, twice over, for the last hour, realized I must have thrown it out in my manic state. Dodging the watchful eyes of my too-long-retired neighbors, I pulled up my trashcan away from the curb, tried to gracefully lower myself in (the bag I needed was of course at the bottom), quickly hoisted myself and bag out, ran into the house, opened wretched hefty, and voila.

Next up--selling the neighbors' grandkids for crack.

Dreaming of San Diego, the life of a beach bum philosopher, and the ability to breathe again. I hate being sick. It imposes lumpishness, which is only fun when it's your choice.

Listened to Tori's new album on repeat today at work, in an attempt to distract myself from this waste of my life (verifying data. woohoo!!). The result--I'm calm, but not so much impressed. Tori's getting long-winded and kinda boring. And I'm getting really sick of the word "parasol"...never knew there was such an annoying word. There are a few really good songs (Sweet the Sting, Original Sinsuality, and Hootchie Woman) but generally, there's too much of a floaty soft rock vibe, not in a fun trancey Radiohead way, and not enough variety to sound to break it up. I blame lack of editing and laziness. If you cut the album by about 4 songs--especially the ones that sound just like songs on Scarlet's Walk--it'd be 100% better.

Spent most of last week wondering why I was abnormally unsatisfied with my life. Spent all of today, embracing germs and watching inane movies. Am now pretty happy.

I realized that dissatisfaction with life works in two ways: you aren't doing what you really want to do or you compare yourself with others that are seemingly happy. Typical buddhist issue: unnecessary desires increases unhappiness. My unhappiness doesn't so much stem from lack of liking what I do (although who wouldn't want more time to do everything) but from the bombardment of what I should be doing. I was seriously miserable this last week because my sister and brother were in town, one being recently engaged and the other cruising towards a new job and satisfaction with an adopted family of brilliant and cute people. Added onto the requirement that I needed to allocate almost all my time with the thoroughly unhappy and newly dependent parents with the sibs in town=unhappy me.

But now that I had time to be sick as a dog and have a good excuse to be by myself for a day, I've reassessed. I'm happy, fuck them. :)

Better today, as I've accepted that I've just not that type of woman that uses and abuses men so much that they adore her. If I can't find a nice guy who adores me when I am fun, supportive, cute and loving, they can live a life of misery forever chasing after "the bitch."

But physically worse...all headpounding and backaching. M noted that I'm becoming quite OCD about the lysol, but when surrounded by the plague, lysol is nothing. Sickness is almost destiny. Especially when you run out of lysol and all you have left is lots of purell. Hence the sickness. Not sick enough to be an invalid although still want to lounge and sleep for days. Argh, blech.

Will think beyond physical pains and dream of the next poker game when I will squash the arrogance out of players who like to tell me about my tells.

How to stay afloat today?

Feeling especially horrible about self today. Argh. Lack of sleep, money, happy relationships, and purpose in life, etc. Same old same old. Anywho, perspective all screwy because I have to entertain blissfully happy little sister visiting this week when all I want to do is curl up in a dark movie theater and barrage myself with seductive images of a different life. Ah, fighting demons and lung cancer...that's sounds good right now.

The Kyoto treaty is now in effect, in hopes of reducing greenhouse emissions by many industrialized nations.

But not the US.

Other than the fact that Dubya has renounced any such thing as global warming, this is not shocking because the US has ratified (as in not just signed, but put into US law) maybe a handful of multilateral treaties. With lots of exemption clauses, etc etc. But how else could we be signed onto NATO and the UN and be able to enter a military operation against another nation without UN approval? Wait, is it considered an exemption if you just flat out lie? Anywho. Here is a list of some treaties that the US has either not ratified or backed out of...mostly due to opposition of conservatives who'd rather not give rights to women, children nor limit our ability to kill everything on the planet.

Still here. Just bogged down with lots of crap, as usual. I really need to learn to simplify. And actually finish stuff on time. Here's the update:

-Bad girfriend moments. Couldn't get reservations for dinner at exclusive restaurant because stupid restaurants are exclusive. Realized there are no Baskin Robbins in the area when looking for requested ice cream cake for the boy's birthday. Wondered of poor taste and tempted to get Carvel. Instead went to Sugar Plum and cake went (mostly) uneaten. blech. Probably not due to cake but to stomach flu (more later). Boyfriend instead got CD.

-Gave up on writing paper only slightly late. Absolutely hate WWII.

-M left the house for the den of wood, taking leaky dog and dryer habit with her. V. sad. Cats are v. happy.

-Valentine's day was spent feeling nauseated and wondering if I was pregnant (probably not, just stomach flu...thanks M.) Roused myself for boyfriend time, wonderful dinner, and chocolate--the best kind--filled with peanut butter!

But enough about my damn self.

The most entertaining article I've seen on the Grammys! Much much better than I could have ever put it, and so nicely disparaging of all deserving folk (sorry Ben). You should read the whole thing but here are some of the best lines:

Band No. 4 is the mysterious Maroon 5 with that song I hear all the time at the gym. Catchy! The lead singer looks like Keanu Reeves and the keyboardist looks like a PIRG canvasser. They won't be around next year.

There's a reason these two haven't sung together in public before. It's because Marc Anthony is humiliatingly better than Jennifer Lopez. At least with Ben Affleck, it was an even match of talentlessness; the equivalent to J.Lo performing with Marc Anthony would be Affleck hitching his wagon to Frances McDormand.

Green Day has released a concept album with a unique concept: "All the songs are good."

Next year it could easily be Christina Aguilera paying tribute to Billie Holliday, Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey singing the songs of Kenny and Dolly, and J.Lo doing a forbidden, fully synthesized dance with her new husband, Colin Farrell.

Who's playing in the Superbowl?

Ah, have absolutely no comment on the Superbowl as I really didn't even know who was playing until the day of, and it really didn't improve my life to know. Watched part of the 1st half, remembered why I don't watch football regularly. Football is too soft what with all the padding and stopping. Professional rugby is 100% more entertaining and dangerous--possibly justifying why they are paid millions. Anywho, enough about something I could care less about.

Woke up anxious that didn't accomplish a thing this weekend except maintaining of sanity, spending time with the boy, mindless video game watching, continuing Gilmore Girls plot development, and lots of potato-chip eating. Forget WWII paper, "thinking outside of the box" for report on foreign currency losses, home improvement, and that oh so frivolous cleaning. Nothing like punching holes and organizing to soothe the soul and avoid work. Very happy now, a la bouncing monk.

Herman: the Hunted.
Also known as: well, hello my name is Herman, and I like to chew structural beams.



You're thinking, awwww, so cute! Yeah right. Like with raccoons, cuteness doesn't mask the devious intent to destroy!

Herman, my temporary squirrely visitor, kept me up last night, gnawing away at something (probably very important and roof-supporting) right above my head. I should have known he had dropped by since the cats have been intently staring at the ceiling in my bedroom for the last couple of weeks. But the gnawing--the insane endless scratching--was never noticeable until now.

Woke up thinking that I was in some kind of late night sci-fi moment, eyes bugged out in fright, and looking all around like I would find an alien monster hanging from my ceiling, dripping acid saliva, and making insistent chewing sounds. When I realized that no, it was not extraterrestrial, just painfully annoying and definitely destructive, I knew what it was. But I couldn't convince myself to look into the attic until morning as I couldn't stomach getting up out of a warm bed just to have a rabid squirrel gnaw my face off. Or possibly having my jaw ripped off by some scratching angry Japanese ghost (the probability was low, but hey, it's 2 am).

Anywho, checked in the morning, saw a fist-sized hole and lots of insulation pouring out of it and knew it wasn't a cranky ghost or a bat (I would have kept the bat). I dubbed the bugger Herman. Called company specializing in rodent remover (interesting job), hillbilly answered, and felt assured that he knew how to catch this here skwer-rel.

Hope not to come home to absolute collapse of house. Damn squirrels.

Today was a good and productive day. If you know me, you'd understand:

Obsessively watched episodes of Gilmore Girls season 1 from bed.

Got up at 10 to pick up my long unused wallet from where I had left it on Tuesday

Drove around a lot

Sang lots of Dixie Chicks and Bon Jovi

Found lots of rich lavender-scented hand cream at L'Occitane (outlet!! I love Williamsburg!)

Finally bought a much wanted big...sharp...Henkels...knife

Gazed at the sparkly iced over trees

Bought 4 new CDs (Jimmy Eat World, Sublime, U2, and Gwen Stefani)

Updated and uploaded days worth of music onto iPod (and not even halfway through my CDs)

Purchased gaudy, shiny, ethnic cabinet with many tiny drawers which actually used to organize bathroom

Obtained and will soon enjoy squishy mattress pad to enhance already mama-bearish bed

Figured out a song on the piano

Played a little SIMs and did not set my SIMs husband on fire (woo-hoo!)

Saw angsty-Achilles Brad Pitt butt

Ate dinner of buttery popcorn and diet coke

Boogied to "September" by Earth Wind and Fire

And, did not do any work at all. Life is good.

Here's what I think of your "expanding freedom"!!

Ah, inauguration day. The speechwriters for the imminent Bush-Lite have done a good job this time. Too bad it doesn't seem to work well in reality.

For a half century, America defended our own freedom by standing watch on distant borders. After the shipwreck of communism came years of relative quiet, years of repose, years of sabbatical – and then there came a day of fire.

Did he forget about that little Gulf War that his dad (and America) was involved in?

From the day of our Founding, we have proclaimed that every man and woman on this earth has rights, and dignity, and matchless value, because they bear the image of the Maker of Heaven and earth. Across the generations we have proclaimed the imperative of self-government, because no one is fit to be a master, and no one deserves to be a slave.

From our founding, only rich white males had rights and everyone else's value was chump change. The second line just appalls me if Republicans really think they are upholding this ideal.

Freedom, by its nature, must be chosen, and defended by citizens, and sustained by the rule of law and the protection of minorities. And when the soul of a nation finally speaks, the institutions that arise may reflect customs and traditions very different from our own. America will not impose our own style of government on the unwilling. Our goal instead is to help others find their own voice, attain their own freedom, and make their own way.

This doesn't work well in application. Germany chose to follow the Nazis. China and Korea chose to follow their dictators. Didn't seem to work out. And, the soul of the nation, their own voice...who chooses that soul, that voice? A majority of the people in the nation, the oppressed, the minority government, or the extremists? Basically, if we get rid of all those against us, it seems we've chosen for them.

All who live in tyranny and hopelessness can know: the United States will not ignore your oppression, or excuse your oppressors. When you stand for your liberty, we will stand with you.

Who's helping in Africa? Oh, yeah I forgot they're not oppressed (aka economically helpful to us).

The leaders of governments with long habits of control need to know: To serve your people you must learn to trust them.

Trust? Our government seems to have a long history of control also--limitations on gay marriage, birth control, abortion, etc. You can't let people be morally wrong!

I ask our youngest citizens to believe the evidence of your eyes. You have seen duty and allegiance in the determined faces of our soldiers. You have seen that life is fragile, and evil is real, and courage triumphs. Make the choice to serve in a cause larger than your wants, larger than yourself – and in your days you will add not just to the wealth of our country, but to its character.

Ah-ha! A solution to our overworked and underpaid military, get in teenagers to fill in your ranks. They're stupid and willing, and totally expendable! But wait, what about the real problem? That killing others is evil--yet, you too can be a soldier!

When our Founders declared a new order of the ages; when soldiers died in wave upon wave for a union based on liberty; when citizens marched in peaceful outrage under the banner “Freedom Now” – they were acting on an ancient hope that is meant to be fulfilled. History has an ebb and flow of justice, but history also has a visible direction, set by liberty and the Author of Liberty.

Funny how the President has to quote from French history to validate our wars.

Enough about that, it's too easy to tear apart. What really concerned me was the actual and possiblevalue of the crazy celebrations in "our time of crisis and sacrifice":

$40 million: Cost of Bush inaugural ball festivities, not counting
security costs.

$20,000: Cost of yellow roses purchased for inaugural festivities by
D.C.'s Ritz Carlton.

200: Number of Humvees outfitted with top-of-the-line armor for troops
in Iraq that could have been purchased with the amount of money blown on
the inauguration.

$10,000: Price of an inaugural package at the Fairmont Hotel, which
includes a Beluga caviar and Dom Perignon reception, a chauffeured Rolls
Royce and two actors posing as "faux" Secret Service agents, complete
with black sunglasses and cufflink walkie-talkies.

22 million: Number of children in regions devastated by the tsunami who
could have received vaccinations and preventive health care with the
amount of money spent on the inauguration.

1,160,000: Number of girls who could be sent to school for a year in
Afghanistan with the amount of money lavished on the inauguration.

$15,000: The down payment to rent a fur coat paid by one gala attendee
who didn't want the hassle of schlepping her own through the airport.

2,500: Number of U.S. troops used to stand guard as President Bush
takes his oath of office.

26,000: Number of Kevlar vests for U.S. soldiers in Iraq and
Afghanistan that could be purchased for $40 million.

Wallet.
House keys.
ID.
Money.
Food.
Clothing.

You'd think these things were important--important enough not to walk away from them, drive hours away, walk up to your front door, and then think, Oh shit. Yet, time after time, I leave such objects behind when I'm visiting someone or on the road. Someday, I'll just walk out, without any shoes or coat, without a purse, get into some random car driving to Las Vegas, arrive at the Bellagio, and think, Oh shit, where's my cell phone? And my...oh SHIT. Where the hell am I?

So, tonight, I went over to Heathen's for some scrapbooking madness (I know, shut up. At least it's not Tupperware.) I bring food, belated Christmas presents. I leave with food and Christmas presents. BUT no purse, checkbook, credit cards, ID, no filled out order form with the amount I owe, no address of the person I owe the money to, and no viable brain cells whatsoever. Exactly when does Alzheimer's kick in?

Sometimes I think this is the downfall of my romantic life--the inability to be psychotic. Do men really need the psycho girlfriend for it to be love?

Usually, the new year brings me feelings of happiness and a renewed hope for the upcoming year. So far this year I've been really overwhelmed and depressed. I was blaming it on personal issues--work, family, etc. But no, now that I've thought about it, it's not me, it's the fucking world. I've realized that all the information that I've been bombarded with adds up to "My God we're setting ourselves up to die."

For example, I've been putting together a briefing for my director at work that sums up all the expenditures on the what the military calls the Global War on Terrorism (ha!)--mostly Operation Noble Eagle (keep the crazies out of our country), Operation Enduring Freedom (keep those Afghani crazies down), and Operation Iraqi Freedom (hey, those oil fields are mine!), with some money hidden away for our next attacks on another country that starts with an "I" and ends in an "n"(but you didn't hear that from me). Anywho, here's the breakdown:

- Just last year, we've spent a total of $71 billion (that's with nine zeros) on the Global War on Terrorism

- $3 billion on homeland security, $10 billion on Afghanistan,
and $57 billion on Iraq
- this $71 billion is in addition to the $462 billion spent on "peacetime functions"
- the grand total for last year--> $533,000,000,000 spent on our defense, about half our overall federal budget and the highest military spending across foreign countries by about $468 billion. But I guess if everyone is out to get you, you have to spend more.

- Also, our federal deficit is now over $4 trillion (that's twelve zeros), which is a major shift from 2000 when we had a surplus of $1 trillion. There goes that Republican theory that a war leads to an economic boom. Something I never understood anyways.

- half of the $4 trillion deficit is from tax cuts, a third from our
struggling economy, and a fourth from federal spending increases

What does all this mean? We're shit out of luck if we want to remain economically viable, hell, the Euro is double the value of the US dollar. Not to mention that we're already diplomatic pariahs. Fucking Dub and his fucking followers.

Here's a more comprehensive article on why Bush is the Tony "fuck the future" Manero of this century. It all makes me want to cry.

I promised it, so here it is:

Lost and Found in Bavaria

“Hello, this is Lufthansa Lost & Found at Munich International Airport…we’ve found your sister. We understand the inconvenience that the delay has caused you, but we will promptly deliver her to your house. If you do not receive your sister in the next couple of days, please feel free to call our service desk. Happy Holidays and thank you for using Lufthansa.”

GAO has taught me many things to about how to make travel less painful—limit your baggage, carry no metal on your person, buffer in lots of time between connecting flights, have your tickets/ID/passport always at hand, and above all, be flexible, patient and pleasant. In my recent holiday travels to visit my sister stationed in Germany, these lessons came in handy, but they couldn’t prevent me from arriving 20 hours late after 9 hours in the air and endless hours wandering the airports.

This horrific trip began on an icy Monday morning. The Norfolk field office had closed due to the weather conditions. I should have known better, yet I was still hopeful that my flights would be only slightly delayed. I arrived at the airport the suggested 3 hours early for international travel—my small amount of baggage was checked, and I had seats for all connecting flights from Norfolk to Boston, to London, then finally to Frankfurt, Germany, with hours in between these connections. I was prepared to sit and wait.

Seven hours later, many announcements on flight delays to Boston, and walking laps between various gates, I was reassigned on a different airline to fly into JFK airport in New York so that I could catch my connecting flight to London. That is, if I was lucky and ran from my arriving gate to an unknown departing gate in the span of 10 minutes.

The flight from Norfolk to New York was deceptively pleasant so I was well prepared for the mad dash and hopeful that I could catch my flight given the other delays from JFK. I walked into the terminal and entered a zoo. People and luggage everywhere parked on any space of the floor. I picked out a narrow, winding trail and promptly ran through as fast as I could without knocking people aside. The passageway opened up into an area as large as Central Station, roaring with people pushing, yelling, and jumping over counters. I had walked into a riot. I dodged flying luggage, fists, and NYPD officers and ran to my gate as best I could. Luckily the plane was still in the gate and I was airborne for London soon after. But wait, there’s more!

The flight to London was probably the worst plane ride I have ever been on. It was so turbulent that the flight attendants remained strapped in throughout the 6 hour flight. That meant, no food or drink service, which in the end didn’t matter as everyone was sick to their stomachs.

After the marathon of retching, we safely arrived in foggy London, only 4 hours late. However, that still meant we had missed any connecting flights and the lines to find new flights were not moving. I found out that all flights to Germany were delayed, overbooked, or cancelled, and being a trained analyst, I quizzed them of various other routes to get to my destination—Luxembourg, Hamburg, Brussels, Paris, anything. The best they could give me was standby to Munich on a different airline, if I waited another 6 hours. My pleasant outlook was starting to fade, but I accepted my fate and waited. I also avoided thinking about my very late arrival to a city 8 hours away from my original destination, with no hotel or train reservations, and thought I could handle it when I got there.

My flight to Munich was uneventful, except for getting a glass of Coke spilled into my lap right at the beginning of the flight. Sticky and tired, I arrived in Munich near midnight and immediately went to baggage claim. I watched that track circle round and round until it stopped and then my predicament really dawned on me. No bags, no train tickets, hours late, soda covered, and not able to speak any German. Crushed, I went to report my lost luggage to Lufthansa, expecting very little help at this point. Instead, the angel of mercy behind the counter assessed my situation in one look, sat me down, booked me overnight train tickets to Frankfurt, and gave me a lollipop.

In the end, my trip was wonderful; I loved visiting Germany, but if I could prevent it, never again will this happen to me. New lessons learned: Stay home, don’t travel on the holidays. If you must travel, carry-on bag only, ship everything else, direct flight, bring ear plugs, and wear soda-repelling pants.

BTW, in a depressed state due to many intertwined events: end of cheerful holidays, end of restful holiday break and beginning of anxiety, horrific travel conditions, inability to reach zen state over travel conditions, imminent engagement of younger sister, being given advice by younger sister on finding "the real one," gloomy weather, strong urge to cut overly long hair, death and destruction throughout the known world, etc. How do I cope? Why silly oogling of unrealistically handsome celebrities of course! I haven't had this reaction since Antonio first arrived. And the most recent one is not gay (not that Antonio is). Well, I don't think he is....I hope he isn't...they didn't mention a wife or girlfriend...dang.

Anywho, I proudly present, my newest gasp, oooh guy--Gerard Butler.



*gasp* oooooh! Definitely the first Phantom that wins the "Love the way he fits his pants" Award.

Alive and well from travel hell. Will give details after I think of a funny way of telling the story without it becoming a Napoleon Dynamite haze of "Idiot!" moments. (Maybe I will! GOSH!!)

But in the meantime, please try to give a little:

I promise I will read all about the Franco-Prussian wars, by the end of tonight, I swear. Really. But in the meantime, since writers' block seems to be my MO for the month (and it's already the end of the night, with no chance of victory) here's this--my own personal duh...





what decade does your personality live in?


quiz brought to you by lady interference, ltd

Love the holidays, but for the expectations, merchandising, and debt. And lack of enough days in the month. Soon will be free of worries, papers, party planning, work and family responsibilities and guilt, and instead roaming the streets of Munich, lost, cold, and completely not-German speaking American. Ahh, sounds nice and relaxing.

Crashing from measly 2-hour nap last night. But strangely articulate, logical, and impressive at 5:30am this morning while writing up performance rating for underling so that although he walks on water, his halo is not too shiny and unreasonable. Am the greatest boss ever. Or delirious and manic.

Was supposed to bake pies and breads for tomorrow, instead am just going to keel over. Guilt can't even penetrate blurry shield of fatigue. Maybe another 2-hour nap will refresh enough for dinner tonight with friends long unseen. Yes, fuck work...will go home at 3pm.

Other people buy shoes, obsess about sex, gamble, drink, smoke crack cocaine....

I covet coats. Have to face serious affliction.

Decided to shop around for a coat as soon will be walking around quaint snow-drifted towns in Germany, and am lacking the right coat for that occasion. Went on a whirlwind tour of designer coats on various internet sites. Sighed and dreamed over fuzzy virgin wool/angora comfort, cuddly cashmere/fox fur joy, and long shearling sueded chocolate colored alpaca lined reversable hooded warm perfection. Oh alpaca. Seriously considered spending a thousand dollars for one coat. Am dangerously sick, but no rehab facilities available for such an addiction.

On a lighter note, my pumpkin slaughter was delayed, but successful. I believe that my little pumpkin truly feels like a useful member of vegetable society now that it's become pumpkin bread, savory baked pumpkin, and roasted pumpkin seeds (and will soon be pumpkin soup and pumpkin pie). Is it wrong to assume that a vegetable has fulfilled its life by feeding me and many others? Where's PETV when you need them?

The great thing about being a cynic and a fatalist is that recent election results don't bring me down, they just don't bring me up. But it does disappoint me that I was right to believe that the majority of Americans are ignorant and/or selfish. Our national slogan should be "It's all about me." Go America and its moral values.

My main problems with Americans and our politics:
-A majority of us are ideologically against the concept of government. Thank you founding fathers.
-Our ideals are based in economics--we care most about what will give us the most monetary returns.
-We are reactionary--easily swayed by buzz words, catch phrases, and photo montages.
-We are polarized--2 parties, opposing views, right or wrong. Anyone who recognizes gray areas is indecisive, lacks convictions, ignorant, and cannot lead our country or represent the people.
-The electoral college. People do not vote because they don't think their vote will count in their state. What is exactly wrong with the popular vote? Again, thank you founding fathers for helping out the ignorant masses.
-People who don't vote because they feel "uninformed" or can't tell the difference between the candidate's views. That's called laziness.

So, for all you who are seriously thinking about moving to Canada, check
this out. See, socialists are always thinking about others.

So sad for state of nation. Mourn continued work with defense issues under the dazed ape handpuppet of the devil. Will consider move to more intelligent state. Glad that Kerry conceded, hated gloating of co-workers. May their paychecks be cut for further defense spending. That'll show 'em.

Looking at historical election results, I was surprised by this:



I was really thinking of moving, then I see this. The year I was born, everything was so backwards--Vermont and the Western states voted Republican, while Texas, and the South voted Democratic. (Dixiecrats) Amazingly (and yet not), Virginia stayed the same ever since 1962. Shall I blame it on the eighties, the children of consumption and wealth or blame it on the parents of the eighties babies, the hippies that destroyed the image of being a liberal?

The results of the Halloween that wasn't. Disappointed in unslaughtered pumpkin. Could not express scary inner self via ghoulish makeup and pink hair. Partaked in unlimited consumption of limited edition inside out Reese cups and dark chocolate Mounds bars. Overall, I'm sleepy, icky, and well-sugared.

And now...Election day. I voted. And not only because Britney Spears told me to, but because constituents like her exist. I also witnessed 2 major car accidents today: One car flying into a ditch backwards and one SUV flipping over. The signs must be telling me something. Regardless of the signs and the extent of ignorance in the country, I will be happy about the little things, like the commemorative map of the US I got today, complete with little donkey and elephant stickers.

My very bad Election Day haiku:

I vote to prove that
Democrats really exist
in the bible belt

found myself the perfect pumpkin to slaughter. yay.

Relived hatred from high school last night. Sad because it was so long ago, and I don't even remember exactly why I hate the girl, only that she was very evil, mean, and conniving. Should forgive because she "lived outside of society" and is sad. However, why should I accept someone who had been evil, mean, and conniving to me? How would I know that she wouldn't be evil again or is currently evil now. Trust is obviously an issue with me, especially when once that trust was broken. But I have a strange urge to go to that Barnes and Noble and check this girl out. Considering I've probably run into her before, just I didn't know it.

Yes, will go, will be civil, and will count how many times she mentions that another ex-friend of mine is married.

Will not gloat. (ha ha!)

The things they don't write on the back of a pack of Tylenol Cold:

1) Antihistamine stays in your body for longer than the 4-6 hour dosage.
2) The side effects of antihistamine (sleepiness, lack of attention span) will remain with you forever.
3) Little known side effects include constant twitching of the top of your scalp and obsessive adjusting of your socks.
4) Argh! Why do my socks keep falling down? Is it the length, elasticity, color or inherent cow-ness of my cow socks? Madness, I tell you, madness!

Another exciting factoid: Researchers have recently found stem cells in fat. Yes, those yummy round tummies actually have more use than storing longterm energy, insulating against the elements, and inspiring hatred by liposuctioning fat-hating society. The stem cells can be manipulated to act just like other cells, without all that distasteful fetus cultivation and bone marrow removal. Stem cells can be created from your own fat, so that it matches perfectly and rejection is low. Exciting, isn't it?

It's really scary when the devil himself is scared of his puppet. Well, puppets are inherently scary:

"Pat Robertson, an ardent Bush supporter, said he had that conversation with the president in Nashville, Tennessee, before the March 2003 invasion. He described Bush in the meeting as "the most self-assured man I've ever met in my life."

I think Pat was trying to say oblivious.

"And I warned him about this war. I had deep misgivings about this war, deep misgivings. And I was trying to say, 'Mr. President, you had better prepare the American people for casualties.'" Robertson said the president then told him, "Oh, no, we're not going to have any casualties." Robertson, the televangelist who sought the Republican presidential nomination in 1988, said he wishes Bush would admit to mistakes made.

See, freaking scary.

"I mean, the Lord told me it was going to be A, a disaster, and B, messy," Robertson said. "I warned him about casualties."

The Lord didn't have to tell you this. It is a war. It will be a disaster and messy. Whenever a war was not a disaster or messy, it was resparked in another form--a messier, bloodier form.

More than 1,100 U.S. troops have died in Iraq and another 8,000 troops have been wounded in the ongoing campaign, with the casualty toll significantly increasing in the last six months as the insurgency there has deepened.

Told you so, Pat.

Asked why Bush has refused to admit to mistakes on Iraq, Robertson said, "I don't know this politics game. You know, you can never say you were wrong because the opposition grabs onto it: 'See, he admitted he screwed up.'" "Even if he stumbles and messes up -- and he's had his share of stumbles and gaffes -- I just think God's blessing is on him." Even as Robertson criticized Bush for downplaying the potential dangers of the Iraq war, he heaped praise on Bush, saying he believes the president will win the election and that "the blessing of heaven is on Bush."

Oh jesus. God help us all.

As I've already made up my mind about the election, and cannot convince stupid people that what they believe in is stupid, I bring you insights from inside the enemy camp:

1) Enlisted personnel follow Dub because they're patriotic, love the country, and want to defend the nation. Typically. Some just want to blow stuff up.

2) Officers follow Dub because they are following orders. Typically. Some like blowing stuff up and moving troops around in war game simulations.

3) Civil servants follow Dub because they don't want to lose their jobs. Typically. As with all good samaritans, some like to think they are providing for the troops, after all, they sent them there.

All are very misled--enlisted folks are the ones mostly putting their lives on the line and have to be fooled by the most grandious lie. Officers believe in war, but hardly ever want to be in it because they are culpable for what happens to their people and it affects career advancement. Civil servants (from both executive and legislative agencies) are the ones that last throughout all political and wartime flux, and to do that cannot (and are often not allowed to) hold a political opinion that affects their job. So they follow the party line.

Very frustrating. So look at this hilarious site instead. Beware, there is semi-nudity, they kind you don't want to see.

Funny thing how I have better balance on rollerblades drunk than sober. Now my kitchen has black scuff marks. Maybe like walking around with an umbrella, the kneepads make all the difference.

I'm not that drunk really.

I'm aware enough to realize that I turned down a night of white trash superfun just because white trash had actually invited herself along. Drunken rollerblading, Sims, and cat snuggles make a much better night than trying to hold myself back from jamming a bowling ball down this girl's overly used throat.

Spent last night trying to sympathize with hard-luck cases in Oprah magazine, juxtaposed against wonderful expensive stuff I felt the need to buy (why is a cotton T-shirt for $100 a bargain?). Think Oprah is trying to be a good person, but wonder about her inherent need to brag about herself. Also trying not to be too satisfied with wonderful dinner at almost forsaken Italian restaurant. Guilt ridden, but really not. Too full and happy. Must donate canned goods and money to homeless Floridians. Must be more like Oprah.

Faced with minor dilemma--want to go to Howl-o-scream, want to play poker, need to write paper on subject matter of which I've read nothing. Gambling...socializing outdoors...wanting good grades...

Poker it is.

Unhealthy thought of the day:

You know, if I were to run into a tree, I'd be really hurt and possibly unconscious and then people would not want a piece of me for at least a little while and I could sleep.

I'm not sick and I'm not going to run into a tree, but it's really sad when hospitalization is an exciting way of getting some rest.

The stuff that happens to me:

A wasp decided to live in my hair and eat my face. Ended up spraying it with Pledge and killing it with a hammer.

It's not unus-ual to be loved by anyone
Bop badabop
It's not unusual to have fun with anywuh-uun
Da-duh da-daaaah...

I just wanted to share the pain...thanks to mellie's blog, this is what has been running over and over and over in my head. Thanks, thanks a lot. I also blame my mother for her poor taste in 70's pop music scarring me in utero. At least it's not...

the Copa
Copacabana (cabana!)
The hottest spot north of Havana (here)
Aaaat the Copa
Copacabaanaaaaah
Music and passion were always the fashion
at the Copaaaah...

Damn.

Went rollerblading yesterday and realized a few things:

1) I haven't fallen down in a long time
2) Falling down really hurts
3) Not getting knee pads was a bad idea
4) Coordination and balance in other activities means nothing on rollerblades
5) Hecklers suck
6) Crying in public sucks
7) I have a wonderful boyfriend who didn't heckle me, tried to keep me balanced, was concerned when I fell (many many times), and really cared when I cried

In a bind....should I stay home this weekend or visit friends I hardly ever see in DC? If I stay I get to sleep, de-stress, catch up on class reading, and do nothing, but renege on a promise to visit and be selfish and anti-social. If I go, I'll get out, be social, have fun, but wrestle with DC traffic on a Friday afternoon after a long long week of hell and lose my weekend travelling. Again.

Why doesn't anyone ever visit me?

Many co-workers asked if I was alright. Maybe walking around the office for three hours with sunglasses on top of my head is a cry for help.

New attitude and am better now. Scheduled a massage and decided to drop tasks willy-nilly and am amazed at lack of repercussions. Must do this more often. Now I'm trying to get blogger to publish (publish, goddamnit, stop spinning!!) while listening to "the man" talk about how I earn too much, and how by cutting my inflation adjustment and locality rates, we can make this agency a better place to do great work. Ha right. Another reason to care less about work.

Need to regroup and hold back fist of death.

I'm not PMSing, did not wake up angry, and actually displayed a ton of patience...but really.

I ordered a desk, two and a half weeks ago. Was promised delivery in a week, did not show.

Called delivery company, they promised delivery within a few days, but could not schedule a time. Asked them to call me or leave it on the porch. Left a sign on the door. Did not show.

Later, I was out of town for three days. Got a sign on the door that they attempted delivery earlier that morning, so called delivery company again, they said they would try again the next day. Again, told them to call me or leave on the back porch. Left a sign on the door. Nada.

Called on Friday, and they promised delivery on Tuesday. Same note. Nada.

Called today and was told that delivery was attempted three times (what?!) and by company policy, the order was returned--to Baltimore. Was told that if I wanted the desk, I would have to reorder as my order was cancelled and my account credited.

Called Office Depot, and after multiple holds and assurances that I didn't want to call Office Max, talked to original sales lady. And after calling the warehouse in Baltimore that cancelled my order but DID NOT credit my account, she reordered the desk from Norfolk and promised it would be delivered tomorrow. But there was no way to guarantee a time for delivery, so I should leave a note on my door. hmmph.

During this whole debacle, I used my pleasant tone and thanked them repeatedly. Held back temper successfully, although I think yelling would have done good for my blood pressure. Really wanted to use scary voice and remark condescendingly that:

1) yes, when I call 1-888-GO-DEPOT, I hope I wasn't intending to call Office Max
2) your drivers obviously cannot read signs, operate their company cell phones,
and/or never got out of the truck
3) what space/time continuum do you all live in? I'm obviously caught in
some sort of accelerated worm hole

But that gets you nowhere with stupid people.

Finally! The end of a bad week. Too little sleep, too much work, and too much worrying about how I'm not sleeping and working more. And to top it off, too much walking around in suit, high heels and pantyhose in humid DC swampiness. Very chafed and over-bathed.

So now, I look forward to visiting friends amidst threats of destruction and chaos of yet another hurricane. For once, I'm glad I'm not in the Bahamas.

Am highly upset with new commercial:

A man riding a horse comes to a river and the horse balks. The man gets off the horse and picks it up and proceeds to cross the river.*voiceover* That's tough.

Cut to sizzling meat on a grill. *voiceover* That's tender.

Ugh, makes me think that the man went and grilled his horse. Must become vegetarian.

Now tell me...if someone said this to you, would you be flattered or creeped out?

"I have a great deal of respect for the Asian culture and find Asian girls very attractive."

I guess the guy didn't mean anything icky or demeaning by this, but why should placing me into a category (exemplified by waify subservient pixies) make me want to date this guy? Because I'm so not that stereotype. Nope, sir, no big bouncy boobs and blue hair either, while I giggle behind my cute little hand.

Well, I must look at his point of view, if I went around saying, "I have a great deal of respect for the comic book readers' culture and find skinny white guys with mad computer skills very hot," they'd come drooling, equipped with the newest Ultimate X-Men graphic novel. Meowr.

Munkeigh, you should stop obsessing about this personality recipe as my assessment is insanely wrong:

How to make a g love

Ingredients: 3 parts mercy 1 part brilliance 5 parts instinct

Method: Combine in a tall glass half filled with crushed ice. Add a little curiosity if desired!

Username:

Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com

Three parts mercy? HAhaha, right. If you've ever wronged me, you'd run off in a blaze when I set your ass on fire. But I won't argue with the "brilliance." Even though that one was thrown in there to probably make me feel better. Or the "instinct" although it implies that I sniff around men to check for their virility (which I do, but not so blatantly).

Getting bigger breasts might make you dumb. Or is it the other way around?

Breast implant wearers (holders? receivers? what do you call these people?) are short-circuiting their brains. As if they aren't already proving that pre-existing condition.

The new buzz is that they and their children have up to 3 times the amount of platinum in their bodies. No, honey, I'm not talking about the stuff in your ring:

"Distinct from platinum released by catalytic converters in cars, platinum in implants is treated with nitric and hydrochloric acids and becomes very reactive...The heavy metal readily binds in the human body, especially to nerve endings, short-circuiting communication with the brain."

Hmmm, and then passing it onto their children through breastfeeding. Sounds genetic to me. Actually, studies have shown it causes "nervous tics, faulty perception, and impaired hearing and eyesight." Not very pretty--you stumble around, can't see or hear properly, and twitch involuntarily--but you sure have a nice rack.

So, why get breast implants, unless you're a stripper and it improves your tips? The normal response: Because it makes me feel good that I look good. It's sad that society's ideal of beauty drives women to feel bad unless they surgically augment themselves, even though they endanger their lives and their children's lives. Come on people...we don't need to fill out our shirts to be beautiful.

Trying to hold back liberal outbursts for just one night. Thursday night, which starts my year of absorbing mass amounts of military theory, is not the night I'm not talking about. Tonight, that is, is when I've been trying to hold back the

"what the?...oh hell no...war is inevitable my ass...commander and his army represent reasonability and bravery?...war is a common and legitimate means to have others do our will?"

(Well, damn, I knew I should have beat up more people as a child or at least directed others to. I'd make a right smart president of this he-ar countray.)

But back to the reasons for holding back the internal rant...partially because I should be reading, not pontificating in my head, but mostly because I don't want to become one of those crazy people who enjoy conversations with their pets more than humans. OK, that's not too hard to understand, given that people are "unstable, primitive, and violent." Yes, this is what our national policy is based on. Centuries old theory. Hoo-yah!

because I need to waste time effectively...meow.

Horror of horrors.

It's been hit or miss with this "next blog" button. My "next blog" turned out to be an almost religious listing of what "nikki *hearts, smiles*" ate that day. breakfast: 1 cup of lucky charms (picked out purple hearts), 1 cup of skim milk, 1 banana, snack: 5 gummi bears. lunch: none. snack: 17 fazoli breadsticks (over 4 hours, so it's OK). dinner: 2 tablespoons of tuna, 4 slices of smoked turkey, 3 slices of ham, 2 pieces stone ground wheat bread, 1 teaspoon of mayonaise, 2 dashes of salt, part of my brain....

You'd think with the vast amount of people on the earth that there would be more originality and variety in this blogful world. Alas no. Hit your "next blog" button and see which category of blog comes up. Will it be:

1) the political rant blog
2) the i LUV my kid/dog/cat/boyfriend/stuffed animals blog
3) the anime and/or porn blog
4) the only your mom would read this/daily activities blog (see above example)
5) the literary/movie critic blog
6) the celebrity blog
7) the social comment blog (mine probably falls into this, with a little political and only your mom)
8) the read my poetry/literary masterpiece blog
9) the depressed I wanna die blog

Maybe more categories exist. But those blogs in questions are usually in portuguese, so I wouldn't know.

Was recently irritated by something, so had to acknowledge the issue.

Pet peeves. Mostly based in truth, but rise to levels of annoyance illogically. Munkeigh pointed out that my list of pet peeves is quite long. Never really noticed, as I'm usually in a state of irritation about something or other, normally for valid reasons, but pet peeves probably keep me irritated just as the valid source diminishes. So, I'll start compiling my list (in no particular order, because it really depends on the level of heinousness the person displays):

Bad bangs. You know, the short inch-long ruler straight strip that usually accompanies black-dyed hair, greasy/pasty skin, piercings, tattoos, dark rimmed glasses, dark red or black lipstick, military jacket with german flag patch, insipid depressed/bored look on face, bad poetry, and bad ass pants (see below). Why. Just why. They are universally unflattering and they top off the goth poser look. Very put together. They make me want to brandish scissors threateningly and cut them to the scalp.

Bad ass pants. I've ranted about these before. I don’t need to reiterate. However, recent instances of bad ass pants remind me of that joke about broken asses.

Feet up on the dashboard. Possibly dangling out of car windows (see dangling body parts out of car windows below) and most likely wiggling around as if to taunt me. Dirty, sweaty, stinky feet. In full sight, eye level, and right in front of the air conditioning vents. Do you think the public likes to inspect your feet? Do you think we love how your feet are freshening the air circulating right underneath those sticky soles? Yum, tasty.

Dangling body parts out of car windows. It isn’t so much that it annoys me, but everytime I see it happening, I have a vision that some bus or mack truck will come along and take that body part off. Really messily.

Adoration of cute Asian stuff. Not the people (although it’s gross and irritating as I am an Asian). I mean merchandising. Hello Kitty. Care Bears. Sanrio. Sure, I liked this stuff. When I was 7. Why do older teens and adults still buy this stuff, carry it around, plaster websites with it, and overall still think it’s cool that Japanese marketing has successfully brainwashed the world? At least they're not goth posers.

Long intros to questions or statements. I understand that we, as the audience, need context. That is not an excuse for the "I was wondering if I could pose you a couple of questions if you happened to know about a few thoughts I’ve had over the last few days that you reminded me just now on these things that a bunch of us have been working on and noticed that they’ve been a problem for some time..." or the "having went to Yale/ law school/ did my graduate degree in this area, I feel I have some knowledge that I can impart as an expert in this field that may be helpful…." Ass-kissy, braggy, irritating, and time consuming.

Stickiness. I am an avid hand washer. What with people’s general hygiene problems, spreading of disease, and my raccoonness, I just can’t understand the sticky. On tables, on floors, on walls, on seats, on door handles, on utensils, and on keyboards. Ick. Just makes me think of urinal cakes. Yes, that dirty. The only instance of sticky that doesn’t bother me is sticky children, because children are inherent sticky, and who could hate children? Unless they are in theaters screaming or have unusually large alien heads. But those are different issues and not pet peeves.

Drivers who give you The Hand after cutting you off. Not the finger, the “my bad” hand. Yeah, your bad. You acknowledge that you did something wrong, possibly illegal or accident-inducing. Does your attempt at fishing for forgiveness make it all better? Like a slap in the face, it does.

The list goes on, but my bouncing monk has reminded me that if I waste my time pondering what irritates me, I forget the good things in life. Like bouncing monks.

Packrattiness is a genetic disease, I tell you. I "cleaned out" my study yesterday in anticipation of finally getting a nice, non-25-year-old-scratchedup-piece-of-shit desk. (Ooo, flat expanse of leather covered desk with proper file drawers for all my office junk. Happiness.) Anywho, I had full intentions of separating and chucking out the loads of books and papers arranged in piles around my already double stacked bookcases to make room and organize. What really happened was I reminisced about when I got the books and why I need to keep them and ended up setting aside 10 books and keeping all 100+ others. Stuffed them in boxes and stacked them into a closet. Office looks empty, but only hid junk more effectively in order to get more junk into small spaces.

Which leads me to the genetic disease theory of packrattiness--mus muris sarciniasis or just plain packus rattus rattum. My parents just cleaned out two rooms in their house, holding at least 20 years of stuff that they've effectively hidden behind more stuff. To rearrange and pack more stuff in. But they've evolved one step further...they passed down to me about 6 boxes of stuff (mostly books, argh!!) to perpetuate the disease onto their children (whom already exhibit strong symptoms) and continue our strain of packrat now that we've stopped moving around.

My solution: more bookcases.

Yee-ha. I love this stuff*:

1. Homosexuality is not natural, much like eyeglasses, polyester, and birth control.

2. Heterosexual marriages are valid becasue they produce children. Infertile couples and old people can't legally get married because the world needs more children.

3. Obviously, gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

4. Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage is allowed, since Britney Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage was meaningful.

5. Heterosexual marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are property, blacks can't marry whites, and divorce is illegal.

6. Gay marriage should be decided by people, not the courts, because the majority-elected legislatures, not courts, have historically protected the rights of the minorities.

7. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire counrty. That's why we have only one religion in America.

8. Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

9. Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

10. Children can never suceed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why single parents are forbidden to raise children.

11. Gay marriage will change the foundation of society. Heterosexual marriage has been around for a long time, and we could never adapt to new social norms because we haven't adapted to things like cars or longer lifespans.

12. Civil unions, providing most of the same benefits as marriage with a different name are better, because a "separate but equal" institution is always constitutional. Separate schools for African-Americans worked just as well as separate marriages for gays and lesbians will.

*I forgot where I got this. Dang me.

Argh. Cannot stop.

At least I'm not vacuuming/cutting myself OCD. Will stop. And go check locks.

I've fallen into an OCD spiral....cannot stop rating movies over and over and over. Have told myself at least 10 times in the last 45 minutes that this page of movies will be the last. Yet I watch myself hit the continue button and proceed to the next page of 2-3-4-5 stars. Must end brain cell death cycle, or blink once in a while.

I hate when this happens.

I dreamt that I dreamt something epic and meaningful, woke up and told those involved about the dream and it's prophetic message, fell back asleep in my dream and dreamt something else, horrific and utterly stupid, then really woke up to discover that I forgot the whole thing, but that it existed. Dammit. Who needs hallucinogenic drugs when I'm like this normally. Now I have to fall back asleep, reinsert myself in the same circumstances/dream memory to remember what had happened in my dream, then force myself awake to remember it in the morning. And find it was really meaningless and then ponder the reason for dreams. Could be divination...the supernatural trying to talk to me...epiphanies about the meaning of my life...aliens...or late night pizza, mixed in with the Olympics.

As my favorite monk has always told me:

Anti-social tendencies = getting things done

I spent the weekend mostly indoors--but for the quick jaunt to Red Mullet to grab cornbread goodness and watch Munkeigh enjoy flourless cake (that is, until it undid her) and trip to store to buy temporary, yet sturdy bookcase for holding massive 84 book curriculum for Strategy and Policy seminar class. Woo-hoo, military history in a classroom full of officers, fun, fun, fun. Well, as they always say, keep the enemy close and at least I'll have lots of empirical and theoretical support for why Bush is screwing up. Yay.

Besides that, I slept, cleaned, unpacked, organized, and the house looks exactly the same. Only more vacuumed. What can I say, I have issues with throwing things away. Went grocery shopping for something to eat, as have made vow to cook more, eat less junk, and save money to pay for post-extravagant lifestyle. Doesn't sound like much, but with the hurricanes and that annoying wind, flooding, and constant downpour, it's a bunch.

Deep thought of the day: do we really truly know our friends? Borrowed tapes of "I love the 90's" and found half of tape filled with Nascar Winston Cup race. Mistake...or hidden yearnings of red-neck glory? Hmmm.

Coming from a raccoon who's dated more than my share of rabbits, this is kinda funny....

As anyone who knows me knows, I like to read, but only in bunches....I have to have a group of books from which I choose what I feel like reading that moment. My pile is going low, so I've been scanning the bookstores, etc, but now I'm overwhelmed with wading through the crap. I trust my friends' judgement, so give me some suggestions already.

Urgh, feel commentor's remorse. Have posted super pretentious lawyerly philosophical diatribe. Sorry eL. Don't blog when you're drunk. And....why so angry about women?

OK, blog much....it's Wednesday, I'm unmotivated. My mental dialogue is firing away:

Hmmm, Vermont farmers' worries on the last Phish concert...What about? Will the end of Phish mean the end of Ben and Jerry's? My God!!

(I click on the headline)
Oh...nope, only about a farmer's concern for her pigs. Ewww. A concert right next to a pig farm. Disgusting.

(As I scan the article further)
And traffic. Yeah, that would suck

(To mental soundtrack of Red Hot Chili Pepper's Dosed)
Ah, Vermontian mountain highway...

(Mental epiphany)
Smart concert planner, actually. Only at a Phish concert would no one notice the lovely smell of a nearby pig farm. Patchouli.

This is a story about Happy Butt. Happy Birthday!!!!

A little girl is entering class for the first time when a friendly little boy approaches her. “My name’s Andre,” he says, “What’s yours?”
“Happy Butt,” the little girl replies.
“I’m going to tell the teacher on you for lying!” the boy shouts, as he giggles quietly to himself.
He goes to the teacher, Ms. Scimmia (munkeigh in Italian) and says that the little girl has lied to him about her name. “What is your name?” asks the teacher.
“Happy Butt,” says the little girl.
“No, no,” the teacher says. “What is your real name?”
“Happy Butt,” the little girl insists.
“Shame on you for lying,” says the Ms. Scimmia. “You go straight to the principal’s office right this minute!”
“Why are you here?” the principal, Mr. Fuzzy asks.
“They think I’m lying when I tell them my name is Happy Butt,” the little girl says.
“Your name can’t be Happy Butt,” the principal says. “I’m going to call your mother and straighten this out. You mustn’t lie to us about your name.”
Mr. Fuzzy calls the mother and says, “We have your little girl here and she keeps telling us her name is ‘Happy Butt’.”
“Oh,” says the mother, “that must be Gladdys.”
“Little girl,” the principal says, “your mother says your name is Gladdys.”
The little girl asks, “Happy Butt, Glad Ass, what’s the difference?”

Oh the purpose of the blog. For some, the blog is a great endeavor. The chance to express one's great literary masterpiece of humor, wit, knowledge, and skill with a poignant, ironic flavor. The blog to me is a venue for examining the happiness, fun, drama, and pain of everyday life. "Examining" in the sense that I write up a quick diatribe about something that happened to me today or a pattern of happenings, and toss in a few inside jokes. For some, my blog is a waste of time/creative energy. But I have my creative moments, followed by other less creative, yet more important things that I need to think about or do, so the blog is a great outlet for venting without letting my soul be completely sucked away by real work. The only problem is, I also do not believe that blogs should be a daily journal of every thought, feeling, or occurance of the day. (BOOOORRRRING. Oops, almost lost pretentious tone. Sorry, ahem, tres ennuyeux.) It's a fine line between not having anything to blog about and too much information.

So, onto the real blog:

Regardless of my body's constant and distracting reminder that I haven't reproduced (for you men out there, I'm complaining that cramps really suck), I feel good today. Have saved the earth, etc. It seems that the garbage company never alerted me or anyone in my street that they picked up recycling. My inner Sierra Club girl wept as I haphazardly tossed glass, newpaper, aluminum cans, and plastic bottles in the trash, week after week. Until today. My laziness finally overridden by the analytical training and overall righteous feeling resulting from argument with co-worker over their stupidity (aka Bush conservatism*), I realized that I cannot accept the state of the world just as I see it. So what if my neighbors do not do something, that doesn't mean that they can't. I should strive to improve and motivate others in my wake. Bugger my Republican lazy ass neighbors! I shall change the status quo, I shall recycle!

*Political statement done on own private blog and the independence standard of my workplace does not apply. Tthfft to you, Mr. Walker.

Which is better?  Being unhappily surprised or developing a tick from hearing alerts that I created to avoid unhappy surprises? 

My pack-rattiness, paranoia, and social avoidance issues are beginning to hurt my back.  Damn cell phone ringers and photo caller ID.  The sound or sight of these alerts make me physically ill, but when They call, I can avoid the unfiltered surprise.  Argh.

I believe I've been sucked into a parallel universe where what I never thought was possible is oh so true:

1)  No cable.  No Buffy.  No I love the 90s.
2)  I need to sleep for at least 7 hours a day.
3)  Work consists of ordering people around, meetings, talking on the phone, and drinking coffee.  I am a middle manager.
4)  I workout.  Regularly.  I even swim (says the girl of lead).
5)  I find Aqua Teen Hunger Force amusing, not just at 1am.
6)  I cook.  The Chick-fil-a drive-thru people don't recognize me.
7)  I find addictions to reconfiguring and painting Warhammer figurines endearing.
8)  Calls at midnight are not drunk dialings, but bored "what movie are you watching" moments.
9)  Target no longer has a hold on me.
10) Getting drunk and laughing at my friends' stupid antics is no longer fun.
11) I want to throw things away.

Oye, old age is catching up to me.  Anyone have a shovel?

Anger abounds.  Full of fun (pain) and sun (shining hot pain) and mind-numbing frustration (self-explanatory), I give you my weekend:
 
I float....gasping, in an endless pool of slimy, suffocatingly salty water.  A 50 pound weight on my chest and only two old disease-ridden parrots for company.  One parrot, I will call him Cabron, is alternately stuffing fried fatty foods into my mouth or ripping open my belly and settling amongst my gushing innards.  The other bird, Pendeja, is pecking obsessively at my head, punching a hole in my skull and eating my brains, pausing only to squawk the absurd or the obvious,
 
"The Lowes on the right there, that's where Lowes is."
"There are only two people, white and black, you're white."
"He left his motorcycle in your driveway....he's married."
"There are oranges in Florida."
"Your father likes sluts and he's an old man.  That bitch."
"Horses....they eat the grass."
 
I drove 28 hours, to Florida and back, loading and unloading heavy furniture, in the span of 3 days.  All because I got guilt-tripped by the spawn of the devil.  Wait, that would make me the spawn of the spawn of the devil.  Hmm, accurate, given the rage.
 
At least I got a nice set of table and chairs, not in the least bit faux-chrome or velour.   Things are looking up.

"Wha-choo mean you don't like my Prada flip flops? Damn girl, you picky bitch."

It's moments like these that remind me that I'm not fully aware of the filtering my brain does. This mental kodak moment came back to me today, as I had a interesting discussion with my female co-workers. Our topic: relationship deal breakers.

My list:
1) Strong attachments to either his mother or an ex-girlfriend.
2) Unwillingness to introduce you to his family or friends.
3) Cheats on me.
4) Looking through my stuff, including email, phone messages, and bedroom drawers.
5) A Cher collection.
6) Illegal drug usage and/or dealing.
7) Extreme secretiveness.
8) Smells bad.
9) Lives in squalor.
10) Obsessed with porn.
11) Hates cats.
12) Worships George W. Bush.
13) Obsessed with body image and/or working out.
14) Can't take a joke.
15) Is more OCD than me.
16) Has a molest-tache or other strange facial hair that he cannot live without.
17) Need for "bling."
18) Slobbery kisses.
19) Treats women like crap.
20) Has or wishes to have GOLD TEETH.

So, time to survey the audience: what are your relationship deal breakers?

Ah, the life of little drama is less weird than I would ever had thought. Only it leaves me blogless and well-rested. Need to rediscover borderline personality to create interesting rants.

Have broken free from the people suckage mindset by diving into complete silliness. Replaced Mr. Cure with possibly gay man (who loves Blondie and Buffy...hmmm) and lets me revel in my geekiness. Am happy that I can be silly again, and will not feel bad that am ignoring possible pattern.

However, this week has made me proud that I have never resorted to 1) becoming a harpy for male attention, 2) dating a redneck motorcycle salesman who calls me up at 3am drunk and yelling, or 3) fucking a motherfucking midget. My judgment is still on target.

Have had a strange feeling for the last few days that something wicked this way comes. Or I could just be over-sugared.

Ah, June 10th....day of infamy.

Both parents' birthdays. (Forever on, I will run screaming away from any Geminis.)
Their "anniversary." (Yeah, right. I'm staying clear from that one.)
My law school graduation. (Useful, no. Memorable, no. Boring ass smile for the cameras, yes.)
Death of best friend's mom. (Sadness. Best mom I've ever had.)

Emotional turmoil abounds. Fear or face? Avoid or ignore? Drown in Buffy Season 6? Hmm, sounds like a plan.

As much as I loathe the things I do, I make a mighty tasty beer:


GUINNESS: You like to be known as a past-tense
heavy drinker and are full of stories of antics
from your 'youth.' You consider yourself more
mature than those 'other' beer drinkers, and
your taste reflects that.


The Greatest Beer Quiz, ever!
brought to you by Quizilla

What can I say, I'm thick, heady, and old irish men like me. I should just accept it and stop trying to be a Framboise.

Now for a little musical interlude:

You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself

And we'll all float on OK...

Theme for the night: closure to psychological case study.

As I subconsciously judged since the second time I met him--the thought which morphed into the nagging red flag in the back of my mind everytime I was with the "dude"--he's still obsessed with the past. At first, I was drawn as if to a damn bug light to this crazy Jon Favreau behavior. I wanted to understand the nature of the depressed relationship-less man. I wanted to see the flip side of what women typically suffer through. I wanted to be his Dr. Melfi and was promptly emotionally sucked in and stressed out. He was my friend and my pitbull, offering to beat up guys who treated me badly. As usual, my masochistic ways made me like the guy, even care for him. Hence the stress of seeing him make so many interestingly fucked-up decisions. Luckily, the past seems to work into his future. Good for him. I knew this would happen but I'll miss him anyway.

My dad came back home today. He's going to stay. Obviously, it will be very difficult for a while. Emotional wreckage ahead.

I can't stop crying because I'm happy he's back, but really angry that he left in the first place. This leaving and coming back just feeds my abandonment issues. Damn men.

Very appreciative of all the offers to beat the crap out of him though. My friends are the best. Thanks.

Decided to simplify my life... no more drama. No more desperate and dependent yearnings for sad fucks sitting around like Jon Favreau in Swingers. I'm no tall gorgeous blond to turn the eye and make them forget about their burningly disastrous past. But I'm not a cheap beer can to suck dry and toss aside.

Not that I'm god's gift, I'm pretty fucked myself. In attempts to be a nice person, I've been personally involved into a psychological mess of a friendship and subordinated my interests for male attention. I hate myself for it, but couldn't stop. It's as if I felt good to let someone use me emotionally. This last week, I constantly visualized stabbing myself in the chest, and going on with my day as if I didn't have a knife sticking out of me, and twisting the knife around once in a while to remind me how much I hurt myself.

But enough of this gory masochistic mess. Storytime.

Story #1: A sweet man, my co-worker Gene, my father's age, was out yesterday at lunch with his other buddies, other coworkers of his for over 30 years. We get close at my job; we travel a lot and have only each other's company for long periods of time. Anyway, the guy is cracking everyone up and laughing as usual when his eyes roll back into his head and he passes out. He died yesterday, with his friends. He was a helicopter gunner in Vietnam and had his face restructured after he got shot through the bridge of his nose. He was past retirement age and was going to retire this year, waiting for his wife to become eligible. Since a bunch of us were up in DC this week, and we all feel a bit removed and helpless, so we all drank like fish saw each other at our most human and drove home early today. We're going to miss his smiles and "chronic melancholia".

Story #2: One of my best friends, A, got a call at 1 am that his father is in the hospital. He's an older man, but he raised A and his sister by himself after his wife died of ovarian cancer when A was 4 years old. He's a scared old man, who can't speak english, begging for his son to see him. I haven't heard from them, but I hope he's not as bad as they say.

Story #3: Another one of my friends, H, just found out that her big sis from college is in a nursing home in a diabetic coma. She just turned 30.

I'm ashamed that my life is a self-created drama. Do we have to obsess about our lives to feel important, to feel somehow meaningful?

I will try with the man. After all, if it isn't hard, it's not worth doing...in bed (my favorite fortune ever ;p).

Oh, you think? Take note SUV drivers, and the economy thanks you for the support, suckers.

What's worse than reading on the news that for the sake of war, we killed about 40 civilians yesterday, some attending a wedding?

Reading this crap: "What Pearl Harbor did to American patriotism, May 17 should do to the Christian level of awareness." Oh those wily psychopaths....comparing gay marriage to a military kamikaze battle that left thousands of people dead. Bless my soul...with that line of thinking, I might start attributing any tall blond women to Nazi Germany.

What's truly scary is that a lot of people get swayed by this bullshit logical fallacy replete with buzz words (oh, my gaw, those gays are unpatriotic, why this might as well be the christian holocaust). Next they'll be saying that we should kill non-Christians for the glory of God. Oh wait...

one more obsession gone (*sniff*)

quipping vampires to be replaced by mobsters who say fuck a lot (watched all of season 2 in front of my squirming mom, very entertaining). I just can't seem to get away from the gold chains....

In search of inventive ways to avoid nearing deadline for draft of boring ass stuff that only Congress would care about, like where that $65 million went anyways. $65 million....peanuts.

So, instead of cranking out this highly important document, I search the internet for places to play volleyball, dream of eating greek food, and wonder what it would be like living as a fiery and birkenstocked socialist in Vermont. Ah. Much more entertaining than guzzling diet coke and listening to the Navy's initiatives on reassessing the force structure of littoral ship capabilities and our military's move toward more joint operations according to jiffycom...or was it the jizzy...no it was jiffypop. Yes, jiffypop.

As I am too appalled by the events happening elsewhere in the world that I am beyond significant comment (except that we are digging ourselves into an incredibly deep grave), I bring you...

My beef for the day:

Cap sleeves and super low-slung jeans (or as I call them "ass crack pants", not to be confused with "shiny ass pants").

Like gaucho pants, victorian collars, neon oversized sweatshirts, and strapless bandeau polyester minidresses, what is popular in women's fashion often has nothing to do with what looks good on a woman.

In the eighties, when I was in elementary school, I distinctly remember wearing bright pink capri pants, yellow T-shirt, and a rainbow belt, with jelly shoes and multi-colored hair elastics (for that pony-tail on the side). I knew that I looked awful, but like other girls my age, I was conditioned early by Seventeen magazine and wanted to be cute. Instead, I was Rainbow Brite.

In the nineties, I wore a flannel, baby doll dresses, and lots of black. I was comfortable, but still looked awful. Even though I looked like a mix between Eddie Vedder and a sad homeless girl, at least I wasn't wearing parachute pants.

Now, in the time of flattering the figure with bias-cut skirts, sundresses and wrap shirts, comes the cap sleeve T-shirt and the low slung jeans. Often paired together, this popular outfit makes teens, young women, and trying-too-hard-to-be-young matrons remold their perfectly fine figures into visions of lumpy squeezed out flesh. You've all seen it, and I have yet to find someone who actually thinks it's sexy. When caught in close proximity to this horror, I'm caught between equal urges to back away from this science experiment, and to run up to the unfortunate girl, poke the oozing folds and laugh at the jiggles. (Yes, I am a bad and judgemental person--fuck you, you suck.)

Now, only a minor part of the blame goes to the female customer--they buy too-small shirts and who-needs-hips jeans in the delusion that they are still the same size as in high school or they need tight support because they lack bones. However, MOST of the blame goes toward retail companies that sell "fashion" to women. Although a woman wants to buy a shirt with some sort of sleeve and pants that both covers her nice round ass and her very feminine belly, our choices offered by these establishments are very skimpy.

For example, I was out shopping in search of generic T-shirts that had a close fit and some jeans, and all I found cap sleeved half shirts and ass crack pants. Cap sleeves have got to be the most unflattering cut--sleeves about 1-1/2 inches long with a border of ribbing or contrasting color, emphasizing the broadest part of any woman's arm, so that bicep and tricep appear to be fat. Pair that with pants cut so low that the zippers are a mere 2-inches and the "waistband" wraps over the widest part of the hips. To keep them on, one must either wear a belt or get a smaller size--whichever one does, pants still will fall down and pushes ass, crack and all, upward. Sad sight, isn't it? To add insult to injury, the only shirt in the whole store that did not have cap sleeves had "Donuts...it's best for dinner" printed on the front.

Obviously, I bought flip flops.

Next up - star trek. *shudder*

As if there needs to be more proof I am a geek....Was very excited last night over Angel episode, since 1) I could understand Italian, 2) gotta love the Angel and Spike banter, 3) after visiting the WB set, I knew that "psuedo european town," and 3) completely recognized, and wanted, Andrew's Strong Bad T-shirt.

Or maybe it was all that cinco de mayo-ing (yeah, that's my excuse). Grande margarita!!

**For you trekkies out there, I apologize for the seemingly derisive tone. I watched star trek. I can distinguish the seasons of the 1st series by theme song variations. I had a crush on Captain Picard (hello...distinguished, accented, and commanding!) However, I don't go to cons, I don't read the novels, don't like that series with the Ferengi, and can't watch Scott Bakula in anything else but Quantum Leap. It's just that slippery slope towards complete and utter anti-social behavior that scares me, so I draw a fine line.

Suck suck suck, says the wee parasite.

Psychology is just so fun. I admit that I have a very unhealthy interest in the subject, and like the sado-masochist that I have designated myself to be, get a perverse glow from taking apart other people's problems and at the same time self-diagnose all my little quirks into major psychosis. Got great grades in it too, by memorizing every symptom, disease, treatment, and side-effects by thinking of "normal" people that I know. :)

But to spin off something that I mentioned in eL's geltab rant, I'm still very skeptical of psychiatry, psychology, and other mental/emotional studies. It's a very mushy and circumstantial science, and I believe most of it is motivated by money and luck. For example, I've researched extensively the different diseases and disorders and how they are diagnosed by symptom and severity, but could still see how these psychological problems are partly a cop-out. Sure, a person could be depressed. Bi-polar. Psychotic. Schzoid personality. Obsessive-compulsive. Anti-social. ADD. But when does it really become a disease that is physical, and corrected through medication, or just an emotional problem that a person with effort should be able to control? I know, I know....medication does help. There are tons of people who really improve with drugs and therapy. But how much of this cure is the disease and vice versa? As Bob pointed out, sometimes the reaction or withdrawal from the drug in fact causes other disorders. And when you add in the drug corporations pushing the medication, you wonder if drugs are given to improve symptoms or fatten wallets.

And what about those on the fringes, I wonder? The ones whose symptoms are just not severe enough to warrant diagnosis with an answer to life's problems? What makes them in no way physically disabled and just impulse control challenged? What makes psychologist know what is truly insane and what is just lazy? Severity to me is all relative, and I still don't see how a person who is 1-week depressed is told to "brighten up and get moving" when a 2-week depressed person is given a pill. Maybe I'm harsh and judgemental, but I see no difference between a psychotic killer and a criminally liable murderer.

In lieu of more parental unit suckage, I bring you:

1) more Myers-Briggs fun--I just can't seem to break free from that ENTP

and 2) the Black and Blue Album.

P.S. Not that one. As if.