Not Mine

I'm off to an appointment in a little while so I don't have a lot of time to write (and, yes, I will get back to my European adventures), but I'm kind of on a roll with work, so I'm just gonna leave this here for your august consideration.

I do not work in Bylaw, but it is a department we deal with from time to time. The story I am about to tell you is true (and a matter of public record, by the way). It is a golden example of why I hate people as a species.

As if Stephen Harper and the Conservative Party of Canada (also criminals) aren't reason enough.

Anyway, our Municipal Prosecutor appeared in Court not long ago on a case of Public Drunkenness and Mischief. The accused took the stand, and the M.P. began to question him.

M.P. : Sir, you have been charged with urinating in public.
Dick Bagg: I didn't do it.
M.P. : Sir, Officers Coffee and Doughnut both have sworn testimony that they saw you alone in the alleyway.
Dick Bagg: That's right.
M.P. : They also state that they saw your penis with urine coming from it.
Dick Bagg: Not my penis.

These are the people I deal with, mostly from a safe distance.

Coming soon: The People I Work With.

Canada Day Douchebaggery

Yesterday, my glorious nation celebrated 148 years of Confederacy. It was a gorgeous day, and in the evening, thousands of my fellow Canadians of all colours and creeds from all walks of life gathered in the river valley under a full coppery moon to watch the fireworks. It was an impressive display and from our vantage point high above the crowd on the balcony of the Fragrant Missus's office, everyone seemed to be having a really good time.

But you know that this was only an illusion, because some douchebag will always drop a turd in the punch bowl and ruin it for someone else. To whit...

The Fragrant Missus, Stone Knight and I lingered for awhile, waiting for the crowds and the traffic to disperse. When we judged we could navigate the streets without much delay, we got in the car and headed home. Unfortunately, we only got as far as the corner when douchebaggery struck!

I pulled up to the corner and signaled to turn right. I checked for pedestrians and saw, shambling in our direction, an example of the Common Drunken Asshole (ebrius anus vulgaris), at large in his native habitat. I could clearly see he was going to ask us for money, which is what this species usually wants, but this one was giving off a menacing air. So, although it was a very warm evening, I put up the windows and hunkered down behind the steering wheel as if the city street had suddenly become an African Safari Park. 

Through the closed window, I indicated to ebrius anus v. that he should move along. I was assertive, but not yet hostile. Sexual activity with himself in another location was not yet suggested. However, ebrius anus was not open to dialogue and in a fit of pique, he smashed his fist onto the hood of my car, yelling incoherently. At this point, I ran out of patience; it was the end of a long, hot, busy day and I was tired and sweaty and just wanted to go home and not have my evening hijacked by some fucking cumbubble with nothing better to do than assault me and my vehicle over the issue of loose change.

I raised my voice and used some very assertive language with very specific instructions attached and put the car in gear, intending to go past him towards home. Ebrius anus, however, threw himself on the pavement in front of my tires, yelling, "Call the cops, I've been hit! Call the cops!"

The Fragrant Missus reached over from the passenger seat and began to honk the horn repeatedly. This drew the attention, not only of numerous bystanders (who did fuck all, I might add; thanks, dickbags) but also two cops on bikes. By now I was in a thunderous mood because I thought the cops would want a statement from me, thereby delaying my trip home. But no; they picked ebrius anus up off the road and and waved us on.

A little further on, we saw yet another display of douchebaggery in the form of two young males of the variety Angry Dick Bags (irratus penis sacculos). These surly cocksuckers vented their spleen by throwing a full, unopened can of soda at the garbage can, thus spraying pop friggin' everywhere, and then proceeding to kick the shit out of said garbage can. I suppose, relatively speaking, this was a benign form of disobedience in that the only victim here was the trash receptacle. I mean, it could have been another bystander. But I still rolled my eyes and wished they were wearing shock collars on their testicles to which I had the remote control. 

I am hoping over the next few days to blog again about some habitual, public douchebaggery I have witnessed in people whenever they congregate in any numbers. Which is why I hate crowds and people.

Damn Right I Got the Blues

"Hey, Anne R. Key," you might be saying, "how did you celebrate Pride 2014? Did you go to the parade, or attend one of the many social and educational functions available throughout the city?"

No, dear reader. I did not. I spent Pride getting hit on by men at the Commercial Hotel in the heart of Old Strathcona!

While the Fragrant Missus and several of our closest friends marched in the Gay Pride Parade, I elected to see Mr. Eddie Shaw and the Wolfgang at Blues On Whyte. The nice thing about the blues, compared to more popular or prevalent genres of music, is that it is still possible to get up close and personal with some of the legends responsible for some of the most gorgeous, emotive music ever created. Eddie Shaw is a tenor saxophonist who played with Howlin' Wolf away back in the 1970s, just before Howlin' Wolf died, and who has had a successful career with his own band since. Eddie is in his late eighties or early nineties now, so opportunities to see him are rapidly diminishing.

He was playing with his band, the Wolfgang, last night, but I usually elect to attend the afternoon jams. The Saturday afternoon jams place an emphasis on local musicians, so that one can see the feature performer with some local talent. We get the best of both worlds, so to speak. Also, because the performer is often playing tunes that are typically not a part of their regular set, one can see them do some phenomenal work. And, of course, since the afternoon jams are not recorded, they are ephemeral--they are purely "of the moment", brilliant and never to be repeated, and there's a certain magic in that.

And, it cannot be denied, a large part of the experience is the venue itself. The Commercial has been a fixture in this part of town for years and years. It is run down, dirty and dark. It is owned and operated by the Hell's Angels. It's denizens are older and rougher; man of them are bikers dressed in leathers, though not flying any particular colours--one never actually sees the Angels themselves at the Commercial, at least not during the afternoon jams.

One does, however, see plenty of other things one either shouldn't or wished one hadn't. For example, yesterday afternoon, I went in, chose a table next to the dancefloor, and put my stuff on two chairs to mark my territory. I then went over to the ATM to score a bit more cash in case Mr. Shaw was offering cds for sale after his set (he didn't, alas). These cd sales are strictly a cash proposition. En route to the machine, I happened to observe a couple of guys at the table next to me engaged in another cash proposition involving a marble-sized ball of hashish. When they noticed me noticing, there was a brief moment of all of us looking at each other like deer in the headlights. Then I casually looked at the television above and behind them and pretended to be checking the score of the hockey game while casually moving on.

My nonchalance must have impressed them, because no sooner was I settled in my chair back at the table when one of them approached and engaged me in conversation. Now, I have been to Blues On White several times before, and I know what kind of people hang out there. In lots of ways, I rather admire them; they're older, they have clearly been around the block a few times, and if some of them exhibit varying levels of mental illness or social inadequacy, at least they typically keep to themselves and don't pretend to be something they are not. They sit there in their grungy t-shirts and their leather vests with their bellies hanging down over the waistband of their jeans and drink their beer and appreciate the music. The women just want to dance. And I am acutely aware of being in their environment; it's like being in bear country, and there are certain precautions you have to take. Don't make eye contact, keep to your campsite (table), stay on the well-established trails (back and forth to the washroom) and always travel with a buddy. So far, this has worked admirably and, despite the place and clientele being a little rough-and-tumble, I've never needed to use bear spray.

Unfortunately, I had broken the last rule, travelling with a friend. As previously mentioned, the Fragrant Missus was at Pride, my companion for this excursion was under the weather, and I had failed to connect with my sister-in-law, who had expressed an interest in coming. So there I was, a woman alone at the Commercial. I had, however, taken precautions. I was carrying my cane (due to a flare-up of my rheumatoid arthritis), I was reading a book and let's face it, people--I'm not exactly putting out the right vibe for a pick-up in that environment. I am stout and carry all my weight in front, like Winnie the Pooh. Or Poppin Fresh. I have short, no-fuss hair and sensible shoes. I am not, in any way, shape or form, physically alluring. And I was very obviously sending out "not-interested-in-social-contact" signals--the cane disqualified me from dancing, I was immersed in my book and I look like a lesbian. Because I am one. Go figure.

Evidently, however, these signals are lost on some people (i.e. men), because this guy walked up to me and started a conversation about how he must have been bitten by a bug last night in bed, because he had a vivid mark on his arm and there was blood on his sheets. I suggested, as politely as possible, that he change his sheets--having encountered a regular in his habitat, I was careful not to display any indication that I was interested. DO NOT FEED THE WILDLIFE.

Eventually, after determining that it was probably a spider bite rather than a mosquito (or a bedbug), he wandered back to his table to rejoin the herd.

I wish I could report that this was my last encounter, but the second one was even more bizarre than the first. As I sat there reading, I was approached by a drunk guy in a Hawaiian shirt. Now, to set the scene, he was on the dancefloor and I was at my table, which is elevated over the dancefloor by about a foot. It takes two steps to go from the seating area to the dancefloor. So when he approached the railing that separates the tables from the dancefloor, we were roughly at eye level. Hawaii-Five-Oh put his drink down on my table (thereby invading my space without permission) and looked at my cane. I looked at him and he wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. I was confused--was he seeking an explanation? Did he want me to hit him with it? Shove it up his ass? I wasn't sure. I remember thinking vaguely that I wanted him to fuck off and leave me his shirt.

He said something innocuous to me (I don't recall what it was, honestly). I responded politely but with detachment, and then Hawaii-Five-Oh grabbed the railing with both hands, relaxed his knees and let them fall off to each side of his body so that when I looked at him, I was forced, briefly, to look at his junk.

Now, I don't know what kind of reaction Hawaii-Five-Oh was looking to elicit from me, but I can pretty much guarantee that it wasn't the outburst of laughter and the covering of my eyes that resulted. I might also have said, "Jesus Christ!" in a tone heavily laden with derision. Thus rebuked, Hawaii-Five-Oh collected his drink and walked away.

Later on, during Eddie's set, Spiderman came by my table and hollered in my one good ear, "I'd ask you to dance, but I think I need some kind of shot!"

Charmer! Does that line work on all the girls?

Anyway, despite my interactions with the regulars, I'm happy to report that Mr. Shaw himself gave a terrific, if abbreviated, performance, and I enjoyed my afternoon. I distinctly remember noticing a dent in the bottom of his sax where it had been set down too hard on an unforgiving surface. Nevertheless, even at his advanced age, Mr. Shaw still told us the time of day and gave his all for the brief time he was on-stage. I was utterly delighted by his bass player, who was big fat black man just beyond middle age, who shuffled onto the stage and slouched against his stool with that big black axe against his chest. He played effortlessly, and did not appear to be even remotely interested in his surroundings. He just stared out at his audience through a veil of pot-scented smoke with sad and indifferent eyes, his mind perhaps on getting an oil change for the car, while his fingers, with the most beautiful coral-coloured fingernails, pulling those fat metal strings and softly gripping the frets.

Afterwards, I shook Mr. Shaw's hand and thanked him for coming to our city to perform. He's a tired old man, but he gave us what he had, and at least I can say I shook Eddie Shaw's hand.

And got hit on by two men on Pride Day.

The Ongoing Saga of Professor Scruffy

Clearly, this guy just isn't on the ball. When you write to someone twice and they do not respond, it is clear that they are not going to. So maybe you should stop trying to contact them.

But Professor Scruffy is not acquainted (or is ignoring) these subtle social nuances. I had, early in the day, offered him to give him an old, cheap set of gouges that I no longer use. Last night, he sent me a private Facebook message saying, "did you find those gouges".

I went to the Fragrant Missus with my dilemma, explaining that I really want him to fuck off, but he has thus far failed to detect my blatant "Fuck Off" message. She suggested that I write to Scruffy, telling him that if he wants the gouges, he will have to take the bus all the way over here and retrieve them from my mailbox. This, she explained, will be inconvenient for him, and will ensure that I do not have to interact with him. And might, in its own way, be yet another "Fuck Off" message.

So I wrote to him this morning, explaining that I have started a new job, am busy in the evenings, and that if he wants the gouges, these are the hoops he has to jump through some day next week. Further, I'll sharpen his other gouges THIS ONCE, but he has to leave them in the mailbox and I don't know when I'll get to them.

His response?

"ok"

And this just made me crazy, because last Friday, we couldn't get him to shut the fuck up, especially about his "greatcoat" and his OCD bacon issue and his mother's irascible bowels. But now all he wants to do is badger me. So I wrote, "Also, I am accustomed to people saying please and thank you when I offer to do something for them. Just sayin'."

Kids these days. Honestly. Was this little goof raised by wolves, or is it because technology has made people lazy/impolite? There's no excuse, of course, technology or not. It would make me nuts, but he could say "plz" and "ty" without fear of his thumbs snapping off from fatigue while texting.

I know I probably sound like an old, old fart, but goddamn it, I have standards, standards that Professor Scruffy is not even close to meeting.

The Impenetrable Depths of Professor Scruffy

I declined to answer Professor Scruffy's inquiry regarding a suitable time to give me his gouges for sharpening. The next day, he sent me another private Facebook message that said simply "THEE."

I was confounded. What did this mean? Was it some obscure code, standing perhaps for "To Hell, Effete Elitist"? Somehow, I doubt that he has ever heard the word "effete", so that's probably not it. Yet how was I to reply? With an equally emphatic "THOU"?

Suddenly, I realized I had already wasted too much time and energy on the subject, and deleted his second message, too.

I am currently reading We Need To Talk About Kevin, by Lionel Shriver. This is the novel that inspired the film starring the ephemeral Tilda Swinton, about a boy with mental health issues who kills some of his classmates. I have not seen the film, and I'm still not sure how I feel about the novel, being only nine pages in. The cover tells me that We Need To Talk About Kevin is the winner of the Orange Prize (?) and promises me further delights such as Insights and Interviews. This makes me vaguely worried, as if this novel has been poisoned by the touch of Oprah and her Jodi Piccoult-loving legions.

Anyway, I just finished Guy Vanderhaeghe's The Last Crossing, which was spectacular, and therefore has set a pretty high standard for Mr. Shriver to meet. And so far, not so much. I'll give it until the end of the first chapter before I make up my mind, but the jury is still out.

Life is too short to waste on crappy writing (or television or film or music or anything else, for that matter).

The Bitch Is Back

I am not a nice person.

Oh, don't get me wrong; I recognize that I have a few redeeming qualities. I'm intelligent, enthusiastic, humourous, loyal, and I try, most of the time, to be pleasant.

But it would be an error to mistake my superficial pleasantness for anything that approaches compassion or kindness. Because the other side of the coin is that I am judgemental, dismissive, and impatient with the stupid, rude or self-indulgent. Possibly because I have been exposed to vast quantities of insanity, especially (but not limited to) my working life, I simply do not have the time, energy or willingness to entertain the company of those who cannot (or will not) conduct themselves in a socially acceptable manner.

Society, as far as I am concerned, is entirely too cooperative.

Occasionally, I struggle against my true nature, and think I should be more charitable towards those less fortunate than myself, that I should cultivate patience and compassion for my fellow human. That I should cease to struggle against my true nature is proven over and over again by the asspain disasters that occur when I try to put aside my misanthropic ways in favour of a kinder me.

For example, the last time I decided to be nice to someone, it was an old creep in a medical scooter who asked me for a hug. Typically, such a request  would be met with flaring eyes and nostrils and an involuntary step in the opposite direction. And to be sure, each of my interactions with this guy in the past had been characterized by inexplicable feelings of disdain and "eww". It had nothing to do with the unknown medical condition that confined him to the scooter (athough I confess, amputees make me queasy); I had scarcely exchanged more than a dozen words with "Chester" in my whole life, but each time I saw him, I had fantasies of that scooter bursting into flames and careening up our street in a fiery inferno of Chester destruction.

But I couldn't tell you why. There was just something inexplicable and visceral about Chester that I didn't like. And because I couldn't put my finger on any reasonable excuse for wanting Chester to burst into flames, I decided I needed to work harder at being nice to him. You know, for my own development as a person.

Sadly, when I acquiesced to his request for a hug, he groped my breasts. I called him on it, and he responded with, "What? It's just my hands!"

I briefly considered punching him in the throat, but if he called the police, it was his word against mine vis-a-vis the groping, and I would look like an even bigger twat for punching the cripple.

I share this anecdote as an illustration as to why I--from this day forward--will resist my nobler inclinations to be "nice" or "helpful" to others who have not been admitted into my sanctum sanctorum.

I learned that lesson for the last time yesterday.

The Fragrant Missus is, on the surface, a much nicer and charitable person than I am. Although she is occasionally taken advantage of by douchebags, she is much more forthcoming with acts of kindness. Thus, when one of her young companions expressed a desire to go to Lee Valley to look at tools, she offered to take him there. As a carver of soapstone, I am a big fan of Lee Valley and chose to go along for the ride, thinking I could score some tagua nuts in order to try my hand at carving netsuke.

I knew in advance that this fellow was young, between 19 and 21 years of age, and some level of social ineptitude was a given, since she knows him from the steampunk community. I have met several members of this group, and am left with an impression of dysfunctional and eccentric individuals who, if they devoted as much energy, time and money into getting and keeping jobs as they do to their hobby, would be successful adults indeed. 

But Professor Scruffy exceeded all of my expectations.From the moment he walked into my house with his straggly black hair, a patchy adolescent beard and a trenchcoat too big and long for him, he exhibited a flair for social awkwardness that bordered on the pathological.  

As he waited for us to get ready to go, he asked us pointblank, "What is your relationship?"

The Fragrant Missus told him we are married. He wanted to know for how long (as if it is any of his business). I told him we married in 2006. He counted on his fingers to determine that was eight years ago. Then he mused aloud--because none of Professor Scruffy's dialogue is internal--on the "dynamic" of our relationship.

I could tell this was going to be a long day.

Once in the car, he asked us if we self-identify as pagans, a question I found both personal and impertinent. 

Of course, Professor Scruffy doesn't work, but he does occupy his time by carving magical wands out of various wooden doweling for the pagan community. He hopes to sell these at an upcoming "Witch's Fair". He doesn't have any tools, per se, he's been using an exacto blade and files on bloodwood. He told me he has a set of gouges given to him by another steampunker, but they are too dull to make an impression in the wood.

And I felt a little sorry for him (the contempt hadn't set it just yet), so I offered to sharpen his gouges. Remember this for later.

We stopped at A&W for breakfast, at which point, Professor Scruffy proceeded to inform the Fragrant Missus and me that, when he eats bacon, he always takes a small piece of it and sets it aside to eat later. It's only with bacon. He doesn't do it with any other meat or food, not pork chops or ham or chicken or anything else. It's only bacon and he's been trying to think of the last time he did this with any other food and he can't remember it, so it has to be bacon only.

At this point, I looked at the Fragrant Missus and said, "You owe me big time."

During our time in the car, Professor Scruffy wanted to talk about his wands (insert eye-rolling here), and how he should market them. I told him he has a wealth of material to work with, since he is selling to the pagan market. Without coming right out and telling him that they are highly susceptible to specific kinds of manipulation, I told him to advertise that he first cleansed the wood with smudges and clear quartz under a full moon, and that he carves exclusively in a circle of power while burning dragon's blood incense. I told him further to tell his clients that the images for his wands come to him in meditative dreams, and...well, you get the idea. He took it all in, but I don't know how much of it will stick, since I get the impression that his brain is coated in teflon.

I got rid of him as soon as I could, dropping him off at one of the train stations downtown, but by then we had heard all about his mother's irritable bowel syndrome and his grandmother's Alzheimer's and how many times he steps on the hem of his "greatcoat" (it's not a greatcoat, it's a trenchcoat), or gets it caught in doors, etc, and then he wanted to thank us for taking him to Lee Valley, but he couldn't remember my name.

Yet when we got home, there was a private message for me on Facebook from Professor Scruffy, asking when would be a good time to have the gouges sharpened. There was no preamble, no "It was nice meeting you" , or "Thank you for your thoughts on marketing", or "I appreciate the guidance you gave me regarding how to use my tools." No. Just, "when would be a good day to bring the tools to be sharpened." Just like that--no capital letters, no punctuation, no thank you. Just that.

And of course, now I'm sorry that I gave in to my impulse to be nice to this socially crippled pre-adult who characterized the Fragrant Missus as "the nice one," and me as "the opposite", despite only having known me for four or five hours. And it's not that I disagree with his assessment--I spent the preface of this blog entry emphasizing that I perceive myself to be something of a selfish cunt. I just think that Professor Scruffy needs to keep his mouth shut, or, alternatively, realize that when he tells people to their face that they are "not nice", those not-nice people will reinforce his belief by refusing to sharpen his fucking tools for him. 

So it is entirely possible that with this new resolve to be less kind to those I deem unworthy or too bothersome, I have joined the ranks of douchebags, which abound. But I'm afraid that I have neither the motivation or desire to spend any more time in Professor Scruffy's company. In fact, I will go out of my way to avoid having to do so. I recognize that he has some mental health/social issues, and that possibly what he needs is guidance and education, rather than to be shunned. 

But I've decided also that it's not my job to teach people how to behave. If I wanted children, I'd have had 'em. I don't believe in taking on people as "projects"; I find that attitude to be arrogant and patronizing. When confronted by bad behaviour or douchebaggery, I may, given the right set of circumstances, offer feedback. But I will not seek out these opportunities or waste my time and energy on People Like That. We all walk different paths, and too often my path has intersected with those who have crumbled under the burden of too many challenges, or who have not the wherewithal to reflect or make changes. Their path is their path and my path is my path, and I will not--cannot--walk alongside Them. That is someone else's job.

And if that makes me a douchebag, so be it.

Chester the Molester

Okay, so last Friday, I was heading out of the house to pick up the Little Hunnydoo from work. As I was going towards the car, I saw a colourful local character coming towards me on his scooter.

Now, I have always hated this guy. I don't know why, but the sight of this crazy old fart on his tricked out scooter with his little dog in his lap--and the little dog wears a ridiculous hat--just drives me nuts. For one, I have to admit--and this does not make me look good, I realize--I hate those friggin' scooters. I am happy not to be in one and I generally have sympathy for those who are, but I hate 'em. (I used to work at a place full of intellectually impaired adults, and one of them lacked bladder control. I can assure you that you have probably never smelled anything as rancid as hot, rotting urine mixed with scooter battery acid in your life, unless you are prone to sticking your head into dead things.)

And it's not JUST that he drives in on the street rather than on the sidewalk which is a fucking asspain for those of us in cars THAT BELONG ON THE ROAD. No, I can't tell you why I've always hated the sight of this stupid old asshole, but I did recognize that

a) I am a bitter twat with a sizeable streak of misanthropy, and
b) some of my feelings of mistrust and disdain are unreasonable.

Therefore, when I saw the old fucker driving towards me without his tricked out little dog, I thought I would push my own boundaries, step outside my nasty, embittered, homocidal self.

So I said, "Hey, where's your little dog?"

He pulled up and said, "Oh, my scooter broke down, so I'm using this one and there's no place for him to sit. So he's at home crying."

"Oh, that's too bad," I said, and then we shot the shit for a few minutes about the weather and aren't we glad winter is finally over, blahblahblah.

A car was approaching as our conversation reached a natural conclusion, and the old fucker said, "I'll just wait for this car to go by and head off." (He lives on my block on the other side of the street, which just fucking figures).

So as we waited for the car to pass, he said, "Give me a hug."

And (yes, I can virtually see all of your eyebrows raising up into your hairlines), because I was trying to be a better, more compassionate person, because I was trying to step outside my misanthropic ways, I thought, "Aww, poor old crippled guy. He's probably lonely and without his dumb little dog to boot."

So I hugged him (oh, stop it!), and as I was pulling away, his hands groped my breasts. I couldn't fucking believe it. I straightened up and looked at him.

"They're just my hands," he said.

"They're just my breasts!" I said back, which was all I could manage due to my overwhelming shock.

What I SHOULD have said was, "Yeah, and you touch another woman with those hands like that, and I'll reverse your kneecaps so that you walk like a fucking ostrich, you old pig."

And that's what I get for trying to better myself: groped.

Friends Don't Let Friends Drink and Blog

I've gotta hurry up and post this blog before J. comes down here and demands to use the computer. She has to feed her all-consuming addiction for games on Facebook. She's an avid Farmville junkie and is also a rapidly-rising Mafia king (queen?) pin. She talks a lot lately about whacking some cop and finding stashes of get-away vehicles and how she needs just a few more machine pistols. I'm hoping it's a game, anyway. If the door gets kicked in at midnight and I find myself pulled out of bed and slammed up against the wall with a SWAT weapon in my spine, I'll know better, I guess.

Anyway, I had every intention of coming home tonight from work and doing some work on the book (as per my New Year's Resolution), but I made the mistake of having a (sizeable) martini, and now I'm too loaded to do anything worthwhile. I can't write for shit (this post is proof of that), I can't paint, and reading is pointless, too, since my attention span is fucked. I'm deep into Margaret Atwood's new novel The Year of the Flood, and, as much as I'd like to keep going on it, I just know that if I try right now, I would forget the beginning of the sentence by the time I read the end of the sentence, and I would spend the next few hours until bedtime, reading and re-reading the same friggin' sentence.

(Some of you would say, "That's like reading Atwood without the benefit of a martini", to which I say, "Don't be hatin'!" I heart Marge. I'd like to get to know her well enough to call her Peggy.)

Luckily, before I got too blitzed, I managed to get caught up on my favourite blogs. I have really pared back in my blogs as of the New Year. I used to have a number of them that I would go to, but now I just have a select few. They are in the sidebar, if you're interested, and I urge you to give them a look, as they are terrifically funny in a way I wish that I was funny.

I used to read Dooce, but I have to be honest: that kid, Leta? Gave me the friggin' creeps. And while Heather is far more engaging and funny and insightful than your typical mommy blog, in the end, it just couldn't hold my attention any longer.

I also read ScaryDuck for a long time. Brilliantly clever man, especially his salacious posts as diarist Samuel Pepys. I stopped reading him recently because (okay, this is really honest now), I didn't feel really welcome when I made a comment. I'm sure it was just me projecting all my junior high anxieties onto this poor man's blog, but I always felt like the unpopular kid trying to fit in with the popular kids when I posted there. Also? Scary is a devoted Arsenal man, and my brother-in-law is all about the Hotspurs, and if he ever found out I was consorting with the enemy, he would divorce my pregnant sister, forcing her to hang around the nearest chipper van, trading blowjobs for free meals. Or something.

Have I mentioned that my sister is up the stump and expecting her first child? Maybe I did. Then again, I get confused between what I've posted on Facebook and what I've included in my blog. Goddamn, Facebook has made things complicated, hasn't it? And that's ironic, because theoretically, Facebook should be easier, beause there's none of the anonymity or subterfuge we habitually use in blogs in order to enjoy the (deceptive) luxury of almost total honesty. But on Facebook, you're all out there with your real name and your potential for constant status updates and pictures and omigawd, it's just really too transparent sometimes. It makes me long to crawl back under my blog-rock and hide.

Have you ever noticed that your thighs get really heavy when you're drunk? And your feet are really, really far away.

Anyway, I gotta go. J. is here now, and she wants to check online for cheap flights to Britain. And I gotta go drain my clam.

The Nail Bag

I think I can say with confidence that our New Year's party was a smashing success. There was music, drink, a shit ton of food, laughter and conversation.

At one point, we even took an informal poll of our guests to see who they would rather nail: Aunt Jemima or Bea Arthur? Surprisingly, most people (regardless of gender and/or sexual preference) went with Aunt Jemima. I found this disturbing on a number of levels, not the least of which was that several of those polled described Aunt Jemima in terms of the bottle of syrup. Also, she was fictional, so what does that say about my friends that they would rather have sexual relations with a bottle of fake maple syrup than a real person?

Mind you, their preference for Aunt Jemima might be influenced by the fact that Bea Arthur's been dead for a couple of months now. Neverthless, she still gets my vote, because I figure we could always sing show tunes together, maybe achieve our simultaneous climax with "Hello, Dolly!" or something. And I could always roll off of her at the end, sighing, "That old compromisin', enterprisin', anything but tranquilizing, right-on-Maude!"

On the other hand, as one friend pointed out, Aunt Jemima would probably make you breakfast in the morning.