Butt of Course

Bush to have colonoscopy at Camp David

Millions plead with doctors to locate and remove:

1. Bush's brain
2. John McCain's nose

Open Letter to Michael Vick

You don't just deserve suspension from the NFL. You don't just deserve jail time in the decades and fees in the 7 digits. You deserve a baseball bat to the side of the head. Repeatedly.

I'm not ordinarily an advocate of violence, but your behavior puts you right at the top of my People Who Desperately Need Six Kinds of Shit Kicked Out of Them, momentarily displacing Dick Cheney, which is a feat.

I sincerely hope that your professional life is over and that one day I see snaking pickles out of my toilet. I've got a bathtub and a toaster with your name on them.

For No Particular Reason

Was reading on Bladio Blogio a list of things which make her feel better on a slow-moving Monday. As I'm having a drag-your-feet Wednesday, I thought I might post up a picture that makes me laugh.

This is Beebs. Her name is actually Blackberry, but I doubt she's ever heard anyone call her that. She's always been Beebee or The Beebs. I call her my cheerleader cat -- cute, but a little ditsy and not the sharpest claw on the paw. If she had gone to high school, she would likely have been voted Most Likely to Be Startled by Sunrise. But she knows the value of a sunlit belly, and that's no small thing. (and neither is her belly, but she is on a diet)

Too Much Sex

in the City.

I told myself that I would never watch that show. Much as I like SJP, Sex is all about shopping and being fabulous, and I'm just not that kind of girl. The most expensive pair of shoes in my closet is by far my rock climbing shoes, and when shopping, I'm far more likely to resemble cartoon Cathy than glamorous Carrie, minus the shrieking. I'm more of a whimperer.

But I'm on NetFlix now (where all the cool kids hang out), and as my very dear friend E. is a big fan, I thought I'd give the show a shot. And in time, I did get hooked. I don't know these women or anyone like them, so it was a bit like watching gorgeous, exotic, tropical fish in a swanky, Manhattanesque aquarium: I stared from the outside, fascinated and a little seasick.

I suppose it's inevitable that just about any woman watching is going to wonder where she fits into the line-up. Am I most like wild and crazy Samantha? romantic and prudish Charlotte? silly and self-destructive Carrie? Sadly, I think I most resemble driven, cynical Miranda, only without her optimism and zest for life.

Ultimately, I am none of these women, nor would I want to spend much time with them in real life. If I had an extra $500, I'm about as likely to spend it on a donation to the Republican National Committee as I am to spend it on a pair of Manolo Blahniks (seriously, WTF? I don't get the idea of miniature boas for my feet -- my toes just aren't campy and fabulous enough to get away with it). $500 is most of the way to plane tickets for two to San Fran. or a dive computer.

So as I'm watching the umpty-umpth episode and trying NOT to see anyone's tits (was that just a ruse to get boyfriends to watch quietly with their girlfriends, 'cause I can't think of a good reason to make a predominantly female audience stare down yet another pair of tits every episode), I couldn't help but wonder:

Are they ever going to bring Arrested Development back?

Oh. My. God.

So, this was family reunion weekend. My father's family does this massive hug-eat-chat-eat-play games-eat-chat-eat-repeat thing once every three years or so. Now some of you may be flinching already, but I actually have a really fun family, and I look forward to these reunion things. My dad has six brothers and sisters, so I have lots of cousins and second cousins and etceteras that are very fun to hang out with, provided we steer clear of discussions involving politics and religion. If you've read my blog, you may realize that these are topics I find interesting and engaging, so steering clear is tricky. However, feeling obliged to bitchslap my otherwise-much-loved uncle across the potato salad is an impulse I could do without. So we play round after round of Oh Heck and throw horseshoes and go for walks and overeat with our kith and kin (well, maybe not our kith – we don’t like them) and generally have a merry ol' time. There are, unfortunately, a few bugs in this system.

And I mean bugs. We were staying at a very nifty YMCA camp in Montana, sleeping in bunks either in the main lodge (where I was) or in cabins. Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I felt a weird scrabbling sort of something going on in the left ear-ish area. I had the very unpleasant feeling that something had just taken up lodgings in my ear. There were thrummings and drummings and possibly the cast of RiverDance in rehearsal, but I put it down to swimmers' ear (despite my not having been near water except to shower) and tried to go back to sleep.

The next morning, there were still periods of vibration against my left ear drum. I kept shaking my head, feeling that watery feeling, but nothing was coming out. My dad tried to shove an entire Kleenex in there, but nothing grabbed hold. We looked with a flashlight, but couldn't see anything, so again I took refuge in denial and went about my business, periodically shaking my head like a demented spaniel. Happily, one of my aunts has been through a similar experience with a miller moth (well, not happily for her, but hang on, I'll get to the happily part), and even better, she has a son who is a physician's assistant. AND he carries his gear with him wherever he goes (smart, for a guy with two young sons and a cousin who potentially forgot to remove the 'for rent' sign when she moved into her own head).

My aunt wasn't about to let me go on denying the possibility of critters squatting uninvited in my head, so she asked her son to take a look. He got out one of those proper ear-looking-in machines, poked around for about a half a nanosecond, then said, "Yeah, there's something in there. We should get that out." Ugh. We filled a glass with warm tap water, and he used a syringe to flush out my ear. It took three squirts to dislodge my lodger (a spider affectionately known as "Craig" because naming him kept me from freaking out), who came out soaked but very much alive. The several cousins who were observing this whole event took off running (and so did Craig), but Doctor Cousin calmly sent Craig to his Eternal Reward via a very heavy boot. Another quick look-see determined that Craig had been in there alone. And that Craig wasn't actually a Craigette looking for a warm place to hatch a brood. I got the all-clear and a very clean ear. (And that's the "happily" part.) That night I slept -- sort of -- with my head swathed in more layers of gauze than Tutankhamen.

Moral: Kay the Anti-Camper may have a point.