Huh, whut?

Thanks to Michael Oreal for photo of the original stud muffin.

Phone conversation with good friend (M) who happens to have a fairly thick Egyptian accent:

M: So, what are you reading now?
RA: Tales of the City
M: Ah! I'm a stud muffin.
RA: (long pause) What?
M: I'm a stud muffin.
RA: Er. . . . congratulations?
M: What?
(confusion)
RA: Congratulations. Very pleased for you.
M: What?
(light dawns)
RA: Ohhhhhhhhh! You said 'Armistead Maupin!'
M: Of course. What did you think I said?
RA: I thought you said you were a stud muffin.
M: Why would I say that?
RA: I don't know. Hence the confusion.

Peeing in the Park

Thanks, Guzer, for the photo. (media3.guzer.com)

My toilet broke. I don't want to talk about why, except to say that I thought I was saving my garbage disposal from overload, and now my toilet is broken. Let's just say that Vlasic has a lot of explaining to do.

Two days of peeing in the public restrooms at a nearby park later, the plumbers have arrived, and I'm trying to ignore comments like, "Yeah, Miss, looks like we're going to have to snake ya."

It's going to cost me $285.05 to "stop freakin'." That's a good thing, 'cause I actually was. Freakin'. Minus the "g," with the apostrophe, full-on FREAKIN'. I do not like icky things, and toilets fall into that category with a resounding thump. (PS. So do the toilets at the park, but there you go.) All my pretentions of being a self-sufficient, independent, go-it-alone type gal melt and so do I. Several desperate phone calls to actual self-sufficient people later (and a few tears to mommy), I finally realize that there is one very independent, self-sufficient thing I can do: I can call a plumber.

Update: Just heard a very happy flushing sound, but it appears that the snake has his wee head caught. Hmmmm.

Update update: snake's free. Plumber isn't, but worth every penny. Thanks, boys, and not a butt crack in sight!


--Rags

Some of My Best Friends are Women

I can't believe that in the 21st Century, we still have to convince some people that women are autonomous beings with the right to determine what happens to their own bodies. OK, once more for the in-bred, in simple terms:

If you truly believed in saving babies, you'd be vegetarian (eliminating meat consumption would mean sufficient food supplies for all). You'd donate your money to provide vaccinations for 3rd world children, you'd fight against malaria, HIV, abuse and neglect, global warming, war, famine and despotism. You'd adopt children -- even the "flawed" children that you've fought so hard to "save." Do you do these things? All of these? Or do you wave misspelled signs at Planned Parenthood clinics, do you harass women confronting a decision that is never easy, do you shoot doctors, bomb medical facilities, cheer for a "president" and a pope who do everything they can to ensure that women can't exert any measure of control over avoiding unwanted pregnancies in the first place?

Anti-Choice is Anti-Women. There is no other debate to be had here. You don't love babies. If you did, you wouldn't force them to be born into lives of misery and want. If you did, you wouldn't force them to be born, then attempt to cut off money and aid to their parents. You wouldn't force them to be born, then leave them, helpless, to their own devices.

"I got you here, kid. I saved you. Now you're on your own." Yeah, you're a big fucking hero.

Remember this: Government by the religious extremists is the philosophy of the Taliban.

Remember this: Forcing women to submit to your control over their bodies is rape. So what does that make you?

Climb back into your Bibles and back into the 15th Century. Your kind is not needed here.

Meaningless

The enormously disHonorable Alberto Gonzales. Latest fatuous dickhead fall-guy for the clown some still insist on calling "President."

The most meaningless words in the English language have got to be, "I take full responsibility." Alberto Gonzales said them today, Bush-ites -- sorry, that should read "Bu-shites" -- have been saying them over and over and over for the past six years. "Mistakes were made," they say. "I take full responsibility."

Big fucking deal. If there are no repercussions, no punishment or penalty, if absolutely nothing changes, these words are as meaningless as any other lie put forward for political efficacy.

The Bush administration has made perfectly clear that honesty is not a priority. So how about these words:

"Impeachment. Trial. Prison."

You want to "take responsibility," then do it. But let's make sure it actually means something for a change.

What day is it?

The Mr. Incredible band-aid makes almost anything better.




Oh right. It's Friday the 13th. Any day that you wake up to discover a note reading "625-5011 Seattle Police, Non-Emergency" hastily scribbled on a sheet of paper and taped to your door is likely not going to be a good day. I called the cops (my immediate thought is that I'm in trouble for something; from whence did I come by this guilt-ridden conscience?), they put me on hold, transferred me around, did the dial-tone jig, traced my name and address, blah dee blah, nothing. So I'm thinking whew, dodged that bullet, when I suddenly wonder if there could be something amiss with my car.

I head down to the "secure" parking garage, only to find that MacArthur's driver's side, back-seat wing mirror has been bashed in. Nothing's missing -- likely my alarm (or lack of interesting-slash-valuable property) has sent them packing. Back inside to call the police again. The police, as ever in genuine emergencies, snap into action. They bravely take down my name and number and heroically offer to call me back sometime today. Breathless at the selflessness of these, Seattle's finest, I retreat to the couch to wait them out. In due time they call me back, take a bunch more information, and then -- you won't believe it . . . wait for it . . . . they ASSIGN ME AN INCIDENT NUMBER! I know! It's incredible, isn't it? They don't pay these people enough!

All kidding aside, the police officer I talked to was extremely nice and sweetly apologetic that writing all this down was as much as they could do. I didn't actually expect to have Horatio and the Miami CSI crawling all over my car, finding hair (plenty of that in my car), torn off Press-On nails, tooth fragments, cigarette butts with epithelials clinging to the filter, all the usual detritus that criminals can't seem to hold on to when actually committing crimes (honestly, on TV those guys are like PigPen, with stuff just dripping off of them all over the crime scene), but I thought, you know, come lift a print (besides mine), poke around, you never know. I thought maybe Horatio could say something pithy like, "They realized this garage is not so secure. Well now, neither are they," and put on his sun glasses and dramatically walk away to that high-pitched yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaah from the Who song. Hey, a girl can dream.

Instead, I spent 20 minutes picking glass out of my Jetta. Did you know that bumblebees don't biodegrade? I swear that thing was knocking around in there two summers ago, and he looked just as fat and jolly (and dead) as ever when I plucked him from under some debris in the back seat. Weird.

Well, at least they didn't steal my impressive empty-Diet-Pepsi-can collection. Those are going to be worth serious bucks someday.

--R

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. died yesterday, age 84. Although he probably wouldn't agree, it was much too soon. I got to see Vonnegut speak once at the UW. It was wonderful, but once is not nearly enough.

One of my favorite bits is from Deadeye Dick in which the title character is lured out of hibernation and into an opera. The heroine of the opera, trapped in a glass case from which the oxygen is slowly being sucked, opens her mouth to begin her death-aria. At this point, Dick stands up and shouts, "You'd last a lot longer if you don't try to sing." I love that.

My other favorite Vonnegut moment is the story he told about the world's greatest practical joke. A couple of guys bought a park bench exactly like the benches in Central Park in NYC. They walked around the park, periodically being stopped by cops who thought they were stealing the bench. Each time, they produced their receipt and graciously accepted the apologies. After they'd seen and been stopped by every cop in the park, they stole all the benches. They made a big pile of them somewhere in the park, carrying them to a sort of elephant graveyard for benches right under the nose of the law. This story is likely totally apocryphal, but it's so plausible as to be almost believeable, and I love it anyway.

He also told about the world's dirtiest limerick. It's awful. I'll tell you the story, but you have to promise not to tell my mother. Or yours.

I like to think that Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams are in some sort of Writers' Heaven right now, drunk, presumably trying to cheer up Spalding Gray and talk Hunter S. Thompson down off the ceiling.

Poo tee weet.

A-Job Hunting We Will Go!

I feel like I've been job hunting with Dick Cheney -- there I am, rummaging around in the bushes, trying to scare out a decent career with future prospects that doesn't involve speaking. . . . really . . . . slowly, and suddenly I've got a faceful of buckshot.

Job hunting sucks. I particularly like one place that I've applied to three times, where, when I go back to check my "status," there's this list of NO MATCH NO MATCH NO MATCH. Always a pleasure. Why don't they just say, "Status: BIG FAT LOSER WE POSTED YOUR RESUME IN THE LUNCHROOM SO EVERYONE COULD HAVE A GOOD GIGGLE." Hey, if I wanted this kind of impersonal rejection, I'd try to publish my book again.

Actually, it's been interesting. I haven't done any for-serious job hunting in quite a while, and I'm finding the process intriguing if teeth-grindingly, stomach-churningly, blood-pressure-raisingly frustrating. I even practiced interview questions with BF Toasty who's a hell of a lot better at answering the questions than I am. I considered doing some sort of Cyrano-type thing, stashing Toasty under the conference table for all interviews and letting him answer the questions while I lip-sync and smile, but then I remembered that the guy who had Cyrano talk for him got married, got shot and got dead, and frankly I just couldn't handle the potential parallels.

So: in short, 30+ resumes sent out like soldiers in a war, never to be seen again. Three interviews, one solid job offer that would be a great job if only I liked government-issue free cheese. *sigh*

Still, it was fun watching my Mom try to make sense of the statement, "This morning I posted on Monster."

--Rags