happy easter monday. sort of.

(1)(a) Fashioning a crown of thorns out of a paper clip? Is my best use of office supplies ever.

(1)(b) Using a giant stapler to (cruci)affix marshmallow bunnies to cardboard? Is surprisingly entertaining. (I made this four years ago. The bunnies haven't decayed at all. Shudder.)

(2) The little label in the bottom left reads "serving size 4 bunnies." Oh, how I wish the Peeps people had seen fit to make a much more religiously provocative 3 bunnies a serving. Perhaps if we all write them letters....

(3) Sorry about the bad blogging. Things have quieted down at work, so I hope to do better.

mount st. famewhore

Ever since Mount St. Helens started rumbling in earnest again last year, one fact has particularly delighted our local television news reporters: the most impressive steam & ash shows seem to occur only during daylight hours on clear, sunny days. Apparently, the mountain craves attention. It is the reality show contestant of the Cascade range.

Last night, the mountain's timing was impeccable. Around 5:25 p.m., there was a small earthquake followed by an eruption that reached over 30,000 feet into the sky. The setting sun provided some wonderfully dramatic lighting for an already impressive scene. It was kind of cool. (I say that only knowing that no death &/or destruction ensued.)

Ah, the Pacific Northwest! Come for the rain, stay for the volcanoes.

my winning oscar equation

Simply A + B = C

Where A is my "prize" for predicting the most Oscar winners in 2002:

(Yes, friends, it's a cookie jar. In fact, it's a cookie jar that was broken in transit and glued together during the award ceremony, making it even more Classy.)


And B is the "trophy" awarded to me for predicting the most Oscar winners in 2004:

(This was originally intended to serve as our very own Oscar Stanley Cup of sorts. The Hostess planned to affix our names and dates of victory to the brim--until she "won" it last night and realized that she'd be saddled with displaying it this year. Now, I think it's being retired. Pity.)

And C is the fact that I succeeded in predicting the fewest Oscar winners in 2005, a feat for which I was awarded an obnoxious--but delightfully small--singing mouse, which can be neatly hidden in a drawer until I can unload it on a deserving recipient.

Though, I probably will miss watching dust collect on The Hat all year....

one of those days

Do you think the Warren Commission would consider reconvening to check out this splatter pattern?

First, the store doesn't have any of the best yogurt in the whole, wide world. Then, while I'm sitting at my desk enjoying the relatively tasty second-choice brand mixed with my coworker's nummy homemade granola, the yogurt cup gently slips out of my hand and plops on the carpet.

Plops. No rolling. No bouncing. Just a mild little plop. If the yogurt cup had been a Romanian gymnast performing a dismount off the balance beam, it would have stuck the landing.

And yet, look at that splatter! The yogurt actually traveled a couple of more feet out of frame, hitting about knee-high on the cubicle wall. Magic bullet? Maybe not.

sadly, we're nowhere near there yet

So what if I haven't had a day off work since the beginning of February? I was the Belle of the Unpaid Overtime Ball last weekend at the office, wearing my wicked spiffy t-shirt:

[Shameless commerce interlude -- Would you, too, like to wear the Coolest. T-shirts. Ever? Then, pay a visit to the wondrous glarkware. In addition to the faboo designs, glarkware is located in Canada. Some might call it outsourcing your casual wear, but I call it sending your hard-earned cash to the Land of the Free (to Marry).]

And we really are nowhere near there yet. For the first time in the 50-year history of our office, our workload is so freaking ridiculous that The Powers That Be have agreed to extend our Major Deadline. And it's still going to be a painful challenge getting all of the work finished in time. Translation: my office is going to be full of exhausted and cranky people until at least the middle of March. Phooey.

The good news is that the deadline extension allows me to attend The Oscar Party/Competition my friends host every year. A little Hollywood fashion trash-talking could be just the cure for my overtime blues. Yay!

overtime and the single girl

As I've already mentioned in passing, this is The Month of Wicked Bad Deadlines where I work. All of my coworkers and I have been spending extraordinary hours hunched over our desks. I've wasted pretty much the entire last three weeks of my life doing little other than speed-editing dull, complicated legal documents. (And I'm tired, so if this post is riddled with typos and grammatical errors? You can: (1) Ignore them; or (2) Bite me. Oh, and all this work is making me a mite cranky.)

I'm already out to all y'all as a big old dyke (yes, that's what the D stands for), but now I think it's time for me to step out of a much more personally painful and awkward closet: I am a state worker. A public servant. A cog in the mighty wheel that is supposedly democracy.

Do you still love me? I understand that you'll probably have lots of questions and painful feelings about this seemingly strange and terribly wrong "lifestyle choice" I've made. But I think, in time, you'll come to accept it. If you need help, contact Parents and Friends of Public Employees. Before you know it, you'll be attending Pride rallies and chanting "We're here! We're funded by your hard-earned tax dollars! Get used to it!" right along with all the other PFoPE members.

At any rate, that stereotype of the slack-jawed, lazy-ass state worker? Is a big fat lie. In our office, at least. I'm lucky enough to work with a group of fairly ridiculously thoughtful, talented and intelligent people. (Well, other than their career choice, they're smart.) And the only thing that keeps us sane during these long, stressful days? Kvetching to each other about how hard we're working.

Ordinarily, I'm not at all the sort who participates in competitive discomfort. (You know the type: Person A says "Boy, am I tired." Person B responds "You're tired?! I haven't slept in a week!") But recently I've been mentally one-upping my married/coupled coworkers. They at least have some small hope of going home and finding that a load of laundry has been done, or that dinner has been cooked, or that the recycling has been lugged out to the curb. After a very long day at work, they get to interact--at least briefly--with a person who isn't a coworker.

When one dear, sweet man in my office was gently complaining to me about how bad he felt neglecting his wife and kids while he worked all these crazy hours, I actually found myself thinking, Yeah, well, at least you've had sex this year.

Clearly, I need a day off.

Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam

Why you should never engage a true science fiction geek in casual conversation: A cautionary tale in three acts.

Act One (a couple of months ago)
I was working alone late one evening and bumped into the night janitor in our office. I complimented him on the vintage Star Wars t-shirt he was wearing. We went our separate ways.

Act Two (a couple of weeks ago)
I was alone, working late again and ran into our night janitor. He said, "I've been meaning to ask if you've seen the new Battlestar Galactica, because I just can't get behind the idea of Starbuck being a woman." I explained that I've never even seen the old Battlestar Galactica and that, although I'm admittedly a hopeless Star Wars goon, I'm not really a sci-fi buff. He responded by explaining at some length why the current Star Trek series isn't as good as the others.

Act Three (last night)
I was working late, along with all of my coworkers. I could hear the janitor making his way down the row of cubicles, emptying garbage cans and offering brief greetings to everyone. Then he got to my cubicle and, upon seeing me, bellowed (Seriously, it was earsplittingly loud. That strange noise you heard last night? Was him.) "HEY, IT'S MY SCI-FI BUDDY!"

Epilogue
Now all of my coworkers think I speak Klingon. Sigh.

slap on the wrist (or perhaps elsewhere)

I wasn't going to post about this, but it's been bothering me for a while now. So, here it is: We've had a serious breach of blogging etiquette here at D&K.

K changed something in one of my posts without telling me.

If there were an Office of Blogland Security, I would totally rat K out to the Internet G-men and send her to her Geneva Convention-less doom. But there isn't an Office of B.S. (ahem), so I'm ratting K out to you. Punish her accordingly.

Here's what transpired:

1. In a post, K referred to her ex/possibly future boyfriend as "Meaty Man."
2. In a phone conversation, I made fun of K for that.
3. K attempted to make fun of me for referring, in a post, to my ex/not possibly future girlfriend as "3of3."
4. I explained to K that "3of3" did not merit teasing in comparison, because "it's not as if I referred to 3of3 as '[admittedly wildly amusing meat-related nickname that will not appear here just in case 3of3 ever stumbles across this page].'"
5. K laughed. Lots. Too much.
6. I laughed, too. Because, well, it was pretty damned funny.
7. I forgot all about it.
8. K did not forget all about it, snuck into my post, and changed "3of3" to "[admittedly wildly amusing meat-related nickname]."
9. Aaaaand, I didn't find out about K's evil transgression for days. Days!

Betrayed by K. Sweet Mother of Pearle, who's a girl to trust nowadays?

Repeat after me, K: I will not edit my blogging buddy's posts because it is wicked, mean, and wrong. I will not edit my blogging buddy's posts because it is wicked, mean, and wrong....

(Ordinarily, I'm not one for corporal punishment. But in this case, do feel free to join in the public flogging by spanking K in the comments section.)

just ignore the fact that it's a volcano

I meant to post this right after K's "it's a beautiful day" post, but I have the attention span of a gnat, so I forgot. At any rate, here is some evidence of how achingly, amazingly lovely it can be here in the Pacific Northwest. I snapped this photo last summer near the end of a road trip that took me through southern Utah, New Mexico, Arizona and up the California coast. I saw breathtaking scenery just about every day on my travels, but I was happy coming home to our moody mountains.

If I do say so myself, it makes a wonderfully soothing image as computer monitor wallpaper. If you'd like the gigantic version (nearly 850K) that will fill up a 1280x1024 screen, send me an e-mail.

note to self: buy renters insurance

Something you do not want to hear your new landlord (a first-time homeowner) say:

Some people are afraid to do their own electrical work. They're all, "Ooooooooh! Electricity!" I figure, just turn everything off before you start. The worst that could happen is that when you turn it back on, it doesn't work. [short pause, upon noticing my eyebrow raise as an involuntary reflex] Or, um, I guess the house could burn down. But that's so unlikely. I'd rather pay someone to refinish the floors. They're fir. It's a very delicate wood.

Aiyeeeeee!
To-do (immediately) list:
1) Work on poker face.
2) Relocate irreplaceables.
3) Practice stopping, dropping, and rolling.

don't you love farce?

(Who knew the opportunity would arise for me to use another line from "Send in the Clowns" as the title for a post?) Today I had to go grocery shopping. Had to. Had to force myself to. I knew the store would be a madhouse, but we're coming up on a month of massive deadlines at my office and I'll scarcely have time for adequate personal hygiene much less making frivolous trips to the store for food. So, I trudged to the very, very crowded grocery. The misanthropic little voice in my head regularly refers to the pushy people in a crowd as "a bunch of clowns." Well, today? The clowns were literal. Clowns. In the grocery store.

I knew something strange was afoot when a painfully chipper voice on the loudspeaker chirped instructions for a "game" that we could "play" while shopping. "Look for the Special, Numbered Squares on the floor in the aisles and stand on one! If we call the Number of the Special Square you're standing on, you'll win A Prize!!" There was a Special Square in my aisle. Number 19. I ignored it and just kept shopping. So did everyone else, apparently. Shortly after the chipper voice announced that Special Square 16 was the lucky winner, a slightly less chipper voice announced that they'd be moving along to Special Square 17 to try to deliver The Prize--a piece of chocolate cake. (And here I should probably note that had K been in the store and learned of that particular prize, she would have left a trail of bruised, maimed and possibly dead people as she clawed her way to the proper Special Square.) Maybe no one was at 17, either, because the "game" came to an abrupt end. Mercifully.

Then, unmercifully, the grating refrains of C&C Music Factory echoed through the aisles. Everybody dance now!!! Another chipper voice started calling out dance instructions. And I started shopping faster. Oh, but not fast enough. Before Freedom Williams was even finished [ahem] rapping, the chipper voice was saying things like "Just step in line if you'd like a balloon animal!" That's when my shopping cart and I rounded the corner and came face to face with a little gaggle of clowns. (Gaggle?! School? Herd? Pack? Colony? Flock? Pod? Rafter? Dray? Swarm? Whatever.)

I held my breath and somehow managed to do a remarkably quick about-face without flipping the cart on its side. My shopping list forgotten, I trotted toward the checkstands and away from the rainbow afro wigs, red suspenders, polka-dot pants and giant shoes. Amplified witty clown banter continued the entire time I was at the checkstand. "Would you like a balloon sword? Ok! What color? Red? Great choice!" This was punctuated by frequent pops of exploding balloons, which I interpreted as the balloons committing suicide to avoid being touched by a clown.

Just as I began to consider a similar escape, the very old man in line ahead of me pointed at a tabloid, turned to me, and said "I've never seen 'Paris at Night.' You know, that Paris Hilton sex video? I've never seen it. I'd like to some day. Maybe. Have you seen it?" I said, "No, but I just saw a bunch of clowns in the grocery store." "Me, too. I hate clowns," he replied. "But I'd like to see that Paris Hilton video. Maybe."

Aaaaand, I think that pretty much guarantees some seriously f'ed-up dreams tonight....

F-yeah!

First, do pardon the crappy camera phone picture quality. Second, please note that some wag in my office decided to indicate that the coffee in the pump-o-matic was brewed fresh on Friday by fashioning a Blair Witch-ish "F" out of snapped wooden coffee stirrers.

And I? Spent the entire day resisting the urge to add a coffee-stirrer "-U."

i'd love to work for the weekly world news

Recently spotted tabloid headlines:

1 - "ANTICHRIST WILL RUN FOR PRESIDENT"

(Um ... will?)

and

2 - "Dr. Phil in Child Beating Scandal"

(Oh, if only it had been "Child in Dr. Phil Beating Scandal." That's a story I'd like to read.)

bully cudgel

The New York Times today includes an article titled "Backers of Gay Marriage Ban Use Social Security as Cudgel." Here's a link to it, but that will expire in a week, no doubt. Apparently, the Arlington Group (whose membership includes the unsavory likes of Dr. James C. Dobson, Jerry Falwell, and Paul Weyrich) sent a "confidential letter to Karl Rove" dated January 18. A couple of lowlights from the letter, as quoted in the Times:

• "We couldn't help but notice the contrast between how the president is approaching the difficult issue of Social Security privatization where the public is deeply divided and the marriage issue where public opinion is overwhelmingly on his side," the letter said. "Is he prepared to spend significant political capital on privatization but reluctant to devote the same energy to preserving traditional marriage? If so it would create outrage with countless voters who stood with him just a few weeks ago, including an unprecedented number of African-Americans, Latinos and Catholics who broke with tradition and supported the president solely because of this issue."


• "When the administration adopts a defeatist attitude on an issue that is at the top of our agenda, it becomes impossible for us to unite our movement on an issue such as Social Security privatization where there are already deep misgivings."


• "[President Bush] even declined to answer a simple question about whether he would use his bully pulpit to overcome this Senate foot-dragging."

Um. Wow. Where to begin? I mean, "African-Americans, Latinos and Catholics"?! Hoo-hoo! I hate when they satirize themselves, it takes all the fun out of it. Oh, wait. They freaking always satirize themselves. Sigh.

Remember the good old days back in the Clinton era when the press uncovered that secret letter from Bernie Sanders, Katrina vanden Heuvel, and George Soros to George Stephanopoulos demanding that "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" be fixed in exhange for supporting NAFTA? Yeah. Me neither.

if at first you don't succeed...

...introduce your ignorant, hateful, unnecessary legislation again.

Rumor has it that the Republican Senator from Colorado, Wayne Allard, is going to reintroduce the laughably named Marriage Protection Amendment in the Senate today. (And, really, check out his web page. The Religious Liberties Restoration Act? It's one thing to feel that you need to have a martyr complex in order to be a Good Christian. It's another thing to legislate it. Feh.)

With all the really important issues that our fearless leaders should be focusing on, isn't it a tad outrageous that a handful of right-wingnut wankers would choose to resurrect the MPA?

No doubt we've all complained about how the painfully vocal ultra-conservative minority in this country gets so much attention (and action) from their squawkings. Well, this year, let's all resolve to squawk back from the left. Send a letter to your Senators and follow that up with a call to their offices. Even if you know your Senator is on our side, voice your opinion.

yellowsploitation

E-mail exchange with a coworker this morning:

Coworker, SUBJECT: Um...

LOS ANGELES, California (Reuters) -- Conservative Christian groups accuse the makers of a video starring SpongeBob SquarePants, Barney and a host of other cartoon characters of promoting homosexuality to children.

The wacky square yellow SpongeBob is one of the stars of a music video due to be sent to 61,000 U.S. schools in March. The makers -- the nonprofit We Are Family Foundation -- say the video is designed to encourage tolerance and diversity.

But at least two Christian activist groups say the innocent cartoon characters are being exploited to promote the acceptance of homosexuality.[Emphasis added.]

I'm really trying to understand how you might *exploit* a cartoon character, but then again, I’m not a Christian activist, so maybe I just don't get it.

D, RE: Um...
I think the lesson here is just that many evangelical Christians know as much about grammar as they do theology.

D kills ants dead

Once upon a time not too terribly long ago, I was one of those people who tried to avoid killing insects. I practiced careful catch and release. A tall drinking glass and a piece of cardboard were the only tools I needed to happily rid my home of almost any type of creepy-crawly menace. And then, one January, the ants came. They came slowly at first, and I felt bad about killing them. Before I'd go in for the squish, I'd actually say out loud, in a soft voice, to the ant, "Sorry, friend, but I just can't have you in my kitchen. Please do forgive." I always tried for surgical precision, flattening them quickly with one press of my thumb.

But the ants kept coming. I just didn't understand. My kitchen didn't have anything to offer them. I mean, you've seen my fridge. More and more of them marched onto my counter, my sink, my stove. I kept dispatching them efficiently, apologizing to each one. But the ants kept coming in greater numbers. Then one day, I stopped apologizing to them. And the next day, the ants invaded my bathroom. My bathroom. What? Is up with that? I'm tidy. Often unreasonably so. There wasn't even the slightest glob of toothpaste in the sink for them. But they came. They came just the same. And I got mad at the ants.

I remember my first angry kill. My thumb hovered over the ant as it changed course, trying to escape. I spat at it loudly, meanly, "That's right! Scream! Warn the others! Tell them to turn back or they, too, will suffer under the thumb of the large angry human female! Warn! The!! Others!!!" And I squashed it slowly, with an unkind pivoting press of my thumb. Then, I unleashed the poison. Fifteen drops on a piece of cardboard. The ants circled it. I stood by, rubbing my hands together like a cartoon villain, telling them "Drink! Yesssssss, driiiiiiink! Oh, what's that? Is it the sweet nectar of ... DEATH?!"

It was all very Lord of the Flies, party of one. I didn't smear the dead ant carcasses on my cheeks or anything, but clearly I was on the verge of shattering the conch. My equivalent of the Naval officer arriving on the island came in the form of my most recent ex-girlfriend (heretofore referenced as 3of3). And Windex. 3of3 asked me if I'd ever seen what happens when you spray an ant with Windex. I hadn't. Now I have. And? It really just ain't right. Instant death. Instant. It's brutally effective, but it just ain't right. I don't call it Windex anymore. It's Blue Death. And I'm never cleaning windows with it again. Shudder.

black thursday

I don't know about you, but I wasted a fair chunk of my day either loudly ranting about or quietly grinding my teeth over the coronation that took place in D.C. today. So, this evening I decided to do something to make myself feel better.

Remember how good it felt to send some cash to help the tsunami victims? Well, here's a chance to recapture that lovin' givin' feeling. Consider these quotes from an article in the January 11 Toronto Globe and Mail:

• "Since the tsunamis struck on Dec. 26, 136,000 people have died of AIDS, 6,500 people a day in Africa alone."


• "While 50,000 children are believed to have been orphaned by the tsunamis, UNICEF says 11 million children have been orphaned by AIDS in Africa."


• "The tsunami-relief pledges may soon equal the total amount, $5.8 billion, that the United Nations received for all humanitarian relief around the world last year."


• "'This has proved the money exists -- it's there,' [Mercy Otim, Kenyan activist in the Pan-African Treatment Access Movement] observed yesterday. 'They can get hands on it quickly when they want to.'"

Oh, and don't forget about the 50,000-plus people killed and 1,000,000-plus people (mostly women and children) displaced in Darfur.

Suddenly the global AIDS crisis and the unrest in Sudan seem to be tragedies of tsunami-like proportion, eh?

So, even though it was right after the holidays and you were broke, you still managed to scrape up the dough for tsunami relief. Well, scrape up a little more. It'll make you feel nice and morally superior to the DubyaClubbers who are spending their money on a "three-day inaugural feeding frenzy."

Doctors Without Borders, UNICEF, and Mercy Corps are just three of the organizations that will put your money to very good use in Africa and elsewhere.

just a few quick links and a note

• Does your heart pitter-pat with a patriotic sound when you see a ginormoid SUV sporting one of those yellow or stars&stripes ribbons? Yeah. Now you can beat them while you join them. Hee!


• Oh my. "The Salvador option." Almost makes you nostalgic for the good old days when our government at least had enough shame to be covert about this sort of crap, doesn't it?


• Already made a generous donation to the tsunami relief efforts? Excellent. Now take a few moments to examine these before & after satellite photos and give more cash. The destruction really is almost incomprehensible.


• Apparently, last night, the People's Choice Awards for best film and best dramatic film went to Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Passion of the Christ, respectively. Um. Hm. The People? Are weird.

steelers fan by birth, packers fan by choice

For reasons I won't bore you with, I'm unreasonably cranky today. But I promised to tell you why I [heart] the Packers, and I haven't posted since last week. So here we are.

Has this ever happened to you? You're sitting in front of the television on your couch or futon or barstool, enjoying a playoff game for your favorite professional team sport. Then, the director of the network telecast makes the unforgivable move of cutting to camera B, marring your viewing pleasure with the sudden on-screen appearance of the team owner. You know, the guy who looks like a 1920s movie caricature of a bloated, evil, greedy factory owner. He's the only guy in the stadium wearing one of those blue dress shirts with a white collar and French cuffs. And he just looks so ... rich. And privileged. And Republican. And oogie. (Redundant? Sorry.)

Seeing The Owner jostles you out of your willing suspension of disbelief (The players are loyal to the team, the city, and the fans! The obscene salaries and ticket prices haven't ruined the sport! It's ok that some of the mascots and rally cries are grossly offensive to Native Americans!) and reminds you that you're not just watching some fun, dumb sport, that instead you're watching exactly what is wrong with this country. You start thinking that our particular brand of you-can't-be-too-rich-or-too-selfish capitalism is ruining the planet and that when The Revolution starts.... Well, maybe that last part only happens to me. But you get the idea.

So, have you ever noticed that the television networks never cut to the oogie cuff-linked guy in a luxury box in Lambeau Field? That's because the Green Bay Packers have 111,507 owners. The team is a publicly owned, non-profit corporation. The owners = the stockholders = the fans. It's as close to Communism as you'll get in the NFL. That also explains how tiny Green Bay, Wisconsin, a city of 100,000, has been able to remain the home of the Packers while other teams have jumped from city to city looking for the highest bidder, the sweetest deal, the newest stadium. Good for you, Green Bay!

Another reason I [heart] the Packers? Apparently it's a training camp tradition for little kids to take their bikes to Lambeau Field in hopes of getting a player to ride it. Instead of walking to the practice field, some of the players will hop on a young fan's bike, with the kid riding double or happily trotting alongside. How cute it that? I have to admit that I'd probably still have my yellow banana-seated 1976 girly bike if Lynn Swan or Franco Harris had once pedaled it to practice.

Unfortunately, the Packers lost to the Vikings today (no, that's not why I'm cranky), so I'll just have to wait until next season to contemplate becoming a true Packer Backer by purchasing stock and wearing one of those ridiculous cheese wedges on my head during games.

aw, crap. i like football.

In theory, I hate football. In practice, I watched almost four hours of football today. And enjoyed it.

The theory.
It's a ridiculous sport. From the shape of the "ball" to the cut of the uniforms, football just looks silly. And those "chains"? I have to roll my eyes a bit each time they trot out with those poofy orange sticks to measure for a first down. Because the location of the football generally depends on the "spot" from the official, couldn't "fourth and inches" usually just as aptly be labeled "ah, hell, they probably made it"? And don't even get me started on the copious patting of asses....

It's a violent sport. If the main objective of the game is to move the ball down the field, the second objective is to pound the tar out of whoever has the ball. Or whoever is between you and the ball. Or whoever is trying to get around you to get to the ball. Most of the players actually seem to roar like beasts when they complete a tackle. Maybe that sort of chest-thumping just reminds me way too much of the senseless aggressiveness that seems to plague so much of our country, from drivers succumbing to road rage to politicians invading foreign nations.

It's a boys' sport. This certainly isn't limited to football, but the only hope a woman has to be "involved" in the game is as a scantily-clad cheertart or as a trophy wife. That's probably my glitch with just about all professional team sports. And though it's gradually changing with women's basketball and soccer, it's never going to change with football. Little boys can grow up dreaming of football fame and fortune (or at least college scholarships). Little girls? Not so much.

The practice.
My dad loved football. So many of my fond memories of my dad involve Sundays and football. I remember watching games together when I was in elementary school. He'd have a pony bottle of beer, and he'd always let me have a sip when I asked, even though I'd always just screw up my face and say that it tasted gross. And when I got older and less interested in the games, I still got a kick out of listening to my dad grumping at the referees, coaches, and players. Oh, how he loved the Steelers. My dad's brother passed away this Thanksgiving. In a sympathy card to my auntie, I wrote that I hoped to take a little comfort in the thought that somewhere, my uncle and my dad were together again, yelling at the tv, enjoying the Steelers game. And even though I really don't believe in the possibility of such an afterlife, it's a nice thought, isn't it?

I grew up in Pittsburgh. The Steelers won four Super Bowls when I was a kid. I remember making black and gold construction paper decorations for our living room when they got into the playoffs in 1979. That team? Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, "Mean" Joe Greene, Lynn Swann, John Stallworth, Rocky Bleier, Mike Webster, Jack Lambert, Jack Ham, Mel Blount, Dwight White, coach Chuck Noll, owner Art Rooney ... I can still rattle off their names as easily as I can the names of my bazillion cousins (Irish Catholics, so many kids). I even still have the sheet music for the "Steeler Polka" that my fourth-grade band teacher gave us. Maybe I'll dust off my trumpet for the playoffs this year!

Football is so gay. Football has to be so excessively, stoopidly macho and homophobic, because it's so, so gay. And that? Cracks me up. Where else will you see so many big, beefy man-hands swatting so many snugly uniformed, tight little man-butts? Where are the quarterback's hands right before the center snaps the ball? Do they really have to grab onto each other and roll around on the turf for so long after the ball's been whistled dead? Mm-hmm. Some day, during the fourth quarter of a really tense game, after like 50 minutes of thrashing hard play, some defensive lineman and some offensive lineman are going to look across the line of scrimmage at each other and get so caught up in the adrenaline and the moment that they throw off their helmets and totally make out. I'm telling you, it's just a matter of time. And I hope I'm watching when it happens. (And I don't even like boys.) Whee!

The realization.
Watching and enjoying football is a way to happily remember my dad. It's one small, comfortable way to stay connected to him and his memory. So, today, on the anniversary of my father's death, I think I've finally learned to just accept the fact that my heart wants to love football as much as my brain wants to hate it. Aw heck, if the Steelers get into the Super Bowl, I might break down and buy a Terrible Towel to wave during the game. Maybe I'll even make black and gold decorations for my apartment.

Next Sunday? I'll tell you why I spent part of the day glued to the tv rooting for the Packers.

worry-sitter

Having had the better part of the last week to lounge around and use an excessive number of tissues (I'm rapidly tearing through box #3), today I started thinking about how I could have made better use of that time. I mean, it's just a rotten cold. What a waste. If you're going to be house-bound and cranky and generally worthless, you should at least have the flu. So it occurred to me that I should have been able to find a way to make things worse. And that's when I came up with it.

Wouldn't it be great if we could volunteer to take on other people's worries temporarily? Really, completely take them on so the other person is totally relieved of a specific burden or two for a short period of time? Kind of like baby-sitting, only without the awesome responsibility of keeping the offspring alive/wholesomely entertained for an entire evening.

For example, my friend Marzipan Pig has a brain tumor and her Pappa-san has cancer, too. Now, that's a lot of blech for one little piggy. While snuffling and coughing and napping on my futon, I could have taken on all of MP's worries so she could've had a fancy-free holiday week. (Well, just the cancer-related worries, not every little worry. Wouldn't want MP getting so carefree she'd forget that you shouldn't touch a hot stove or that you shouldn't lick the spoon when you're making a batch of soap, eh?)

And you wouldn't have to wait for a bad cold or the flu to sign up for worry-sitting duty. Doing laundry? Cleaning the house? Visiting relatives? You're not going to be having fun anyway, so why not take some worries with you?

Well, I've come up with the idea, K. Now all you have to do is find a safe and effective method for transference of worries. You work at a university, get the Academy working on that.

so long, 2004

K called me earlier this evening from the land of B-list celebrities, where her entire family has gathered together to ring in the New Year and celebrate an anniversary and two birthdays (but not Jesus'). K reported that they were just about to take their seats in the theater for "Meet the Fockers," which her family kept referring to as "Meet the Flockers." And if it actually were a film about people stuffing furniture, I'd be exponentially more likely to go see it myself. My tummy feels a little funny (and not in the good way) just thinking about the previews I've seen for it. Shudder. Though, perhaps suffering through such a movie would be a perfect way to say good riddance to a year that included that very Black Tuesday at the beginning of November, among other more personal, literal, and natural disasters. Oh well, at least Pink Martini finally released their second CD.

Today I polished off another box of 144 2-ply ultra soft and strong tissues, so my New Year's Eve will be rocking ... with productive coughing. Which is particularly a shame because, for the first time in recent memory, I had multiple invitations to New Year's Eve activities. Phooey. Well, I still plan to raise my little plastic measuring cup of cough syrup at midnight, in hopes of a happier, healthier (especially for you and yours, MP), more peaceful, more productive, more thoughtful (and possibly more Canadian) New Year.

Cheers!

ok, back to the ridiculous

Or the ridiculously gross, as the case may be.

I suspect that no one really wants to hear about my bad cold, but I feel like I'm under water and my voice sounds like Paul Robeson (though I still can't sing "Old Man River") and I've just gotta kvetch a little. So, today I've been wondering: exactly how much mucus can the human body produce? You'll be relieved to know that I have neither quantified nor qualified the goo I've been expelling from my head, but I can report that I went through an entire box of 144 2-ply "ultra soft (so why is my nose sore and red?) and strong" tissues in two and a half days. Considering that I was raised to make the absolute most out of each tissue, and that I was conscious for maybe about 12 hours during that time? Well, that adds up to a whole lotta nose blowing and productive coughing, my friends.

And this line of thought has gotten me fondly remembering the trip K and I made to la pharmacie in France several summers ago. We were driving through Provence, and I had a wicked cough. I wasn't too confident speaking my very not fluent French, so, I carefully studied the "At the Chemist" section of my phrase book while K and B and I had lunch one afternoon. I memorized how to squeak out "Hello. I need something for a cough. Do you have something for a cough? Some cough syrup, perhaps? Or cough drops?" I was so busy rehearsing my side of the dialogue that I went in quite ill-prepared for the pharmacist to do anything other than mutely hand me a bottle of Miracle Cure. So when the woman behind the counter started asking me questions about my symptoms? Eek! Even K's more extensive French vocabulary wasn't helpful enough. But, let me tell you, watching a pharmacist try to pantomime "phlegm" was, in retrospect, fantastically entertaining. At the time, of course, it was just mortifying.

And speaking of mortifying, while typing that last paragraph, I sneezed. But I didn't manage to cup my hand over my mouth with enough care. Instead of hitting the palm of my hand, I sneezed through the little tunnel of curled fingers. And now? There's a wad of phlegm. Somewhere. In my apartment. I'll be damned if I can find it. Ew. How fast is a sneeze? One hundred miles per hour? Phlegm traveling that fast could have slipped in between books on a shelf, for crying out tears.

Just something for you to think about the next time you come to town for a visit, K....

let the donater beware

I'm sure that Northwest Medical Teams International is an amazing group of people who have always done important work around the world and will do wondrous and good deeds for the tsunami victims. I know that an amazing 96 percent of NWMTI donations go directly to help people in need. But, I just can’t give them my money.

According to the "Who We Are" section of their website, they "endeavor to help desperate people of all faiths while upholding Christian values.... The mission of Northwest Medical Teams International is to demonstrate the love of Christ to people affected by disaster, conflict and poverty." And under a "How We Are Unique" heading, they list: "We are Christian[.] We are committed to demonstrating the love of Christ to the people we serve. We are non-denominational and welcome volunteers of various faith levels. We uphold Christian values in our work."

"Various faith levels"?! WTF is a level of faith? Is there some scale I'm not aware of? Does it run along the x-axis from zero (Presbyterian?) to Born Again, or does it dip into the negative numbers to accommodate atheists, agnostics, and those of a more pagan persuasion? And, by their very nature, don’t all relief organizations uphold the sort of values that Northwest Medical Teams chooses to label as particularly "Christian"? Sheesh.

As I've already mentioned in passing, Mother D is of the über religious persuasion, and even she took a pass on giving them a donation because of their Über Christian tone. We both sent our virtual cash to the Mercy Corps website. They sport an impressive 92 percent direct-to-programs rate, there’s no mention of any higher power on their "About" page, and they state simply that "Mercy Corps alleviates suffering, poverty, and oppression by helping people build secure, productive, and just communities." Hooray, Mercy Corps!