Art thou calling me a pox-ridden wench?

Because I am sick and this made me feel better.



Shut up.

Unclean!

Guess who has whooping cough?

Ew.

Oscar 2008 - Big money, no whammies, STOP!

Nothing clears up a foul mood like the Oscars. Well, if you're me anyway.

I went to Debbie and Brian's Annual Oscar Gala. And let me tell you, no one does Oscar quite like Debbie. Everyone comes dressed up as either a character from one of the movies or dressed for the "red carpet." Debbie has an entire room decked out with an Oscar trivia quiz. The living room is set up to resemble a theater and the names of stars are taped to the back of the chairs, just like the Oscars (I spent the better part of the evening in Cate Blanchet's seat and then switched to Tilda Swinton's seat).

And then, of course, there are the predictions. People. I ROCKED OUT.

They way it works at Debbie's is that you make your predictions and then as the awards are announced you have chances to win prizes for the category. And I completely housed everyone with 16 correct predictions.

Here's what I got right:

Original Screenplay - Juno
Costume Design - Elizabeth: The Golden Age
Film Editing - The Bourne Ultimatum
Art Direction - Sweeney Todd
Animated Feature - Ratatouille
Short Film (Live Action) - Le Mozart Des Pickpockets
Sound Editing - The Bourne Ultimatum
Original Score - Atonement
Make Up - La Vie En Rose
Visual Effects - The Golden Compass
Original Song - "Falling Slowly" from Once
Supporting Actor - Javier Bardem No Country for Old Men
Supporting Actress - Tilda Swinton Michael Clayton
Leading Actor - Daniel Day-Lewis There Will Be Blood
Directing - The Coen Brothers No Country for Old Men
Best Picture - No Country for Old Men

Not bad, no? Gary was so annoyed with me. Since this was my first Oscar Gala at Debbie's, he was used to winning all the time. He kept getting frustrated with me and calling me a "slut nugget" every time I raised my hand to announce that I had correctly picked the category.

But, I was wrong for a lot of them too.

Here's what I missed:

Documentary Feature - Taxi to the Dark Side (I hadn't seen any of the nominees, but predicted No End in Sight because I had read awesome reviews for it.)
Documentary Short - Freeheld (I chose La Corona, a complete guess on my part)
Foreign Language Film - The Counterfeiters (Another random guess on my part, I chose Katyn)
Sound Mixing - The Bourne Ultimatum (There was some science to this one -- I was pretty positive that Ultimatum would take the Sound Editing prize, so I figured the Academy would throw a bone to Transformers with Sound Mixing)
Screenplay Adapted - No Country For Old Men (I went for The Diving Bell and the Butterfly since I'd heard wonderful things about both the movie and the book, and since I'd also heard that No Country For Old Men is almost word for word from the book.)
Cinematography - There Will Be Blood (Again, I went for The Diving Bell and the Butterfly)
Short Flim (Animated) - Peter & the Wolf (I went for Madame Tutli-Putli, which from the short clips I saw, stylistically, it looked amazing.)

And finally, the one I was most happy to lose:



Leading Actress - Marion Cotillard in La Vie En Rose

People. She was fantastic in La Vie En Rose. FANTASTIC. But I put my money on Julie Christie since the Academy is a sentimental lot and statistically Foreign Language films don't win in major categories. I am so glad I was wrong. She totally deserved that Oscar.

Other wins and moments I was pleased with:



Javier Bardem, being basically awesome.



Daniel Day-Lewis being the most eloquent mofo on the planet. Now there's a man who knows how to make an acceptance speech.



YES, YES, YES! I am so glad that Once won in this category. If some schlock from Enchanted had won for Original Song then I would have had to have gone to the Academy and had a THROW DOWN. Once is such a sweet, gentle, thoughtful movie. I loved it. And I'm not going to lie to you. It reduced me to a pile of tears and hormones, it was so wonderful.

And then Glen Hansard's sweet and sincere speech in that lovely Irish brogue. "Tanks, Tanks! Make art!" LOVE HIM. But even better:



My boyfriend Jon Stewart being a classy bitch and bringing back Marketa Irglova so she could have her moment. I hate HATE when the Oscar people cut speeches off, especially when there are multiple people winning. It's not fair that one person gets to have their moment and others are shafted. It's the Oscars. It's supposed to be long and you're supposed to hear people thank their Mom.

Anyway, I won some awesome prizes. I made out like a bandit! For my category wins I got: Michael Clayton on DVD, a copy of the book Atonement, A Bob Dylan biopic/concert on DVD, a set of swirly straws ("I drink your milkshake"), and some Pirates of the Caribbean stickers.

And then, since I got the most correct I also won the grand prize: Two different box sets of past Best Picture winners. How Green Was My Valley, The Apartment, Marty, to name a few.

As of this post, I'm still waiting on my office pool. Last tally I was tied for first. I love this Oscar Pool/prediction thing! I'm doing it every year from now on!

Am I bouvered?

I honestly don't know why I even fucking try.

And unto you I say, WORD, yo

Dicking around on the ThinkGeek site this morning (omg, I want this! And this! And this!) I found this customer comment, which made me giggle:

"Why must 95% of people embrace the abomination that is (*shudder*) Windows? It is more crash-happy than my alcholic uncle driving home from the micro-brewery."

Snark. And True. Trust me. Every time I visit the Doc I have to fix his computer somehow, with his fragging retarded Windows crap gunking his fucking Dell. Ugh. It makes me want to EAT my FACE.

Zoobilee zoo

On Sunday, Luke, Leslie, and Seth took me to the zoo!

You guys, I hadn't been to the Philadelphia Zoo since I was, like, ten. We had mad fun!

Going to the zoo kind of makes me sad sometimes. Like I have this argument with myself that I know zoos are good places and that they take care of the animals. But then I argue, that they should be out in the wild, where they belong and that it's not fair we have them all caged up for our entertainment. But then if they were out in the wild, they would be in all kinds of danger from poachers and hunters and losing their habitats. Because as humans, we kind of suck. So really, being in the zoo keeps them safe. Conundrum!

Anyhoodle, I tried to ignore that and just love the animals. Which I did. I fell in love with them all and wanted to bring home all of the big cats (oh my I seriously wanted a tiger), an elephant, and a giraffe. At the very least.

Onto the pictures! (Note that these didn't come out as well as I had wanted them too. It's hard in the zoo when a lot of them are behind glass or in weirdo lighting)



LOOK AT THAT GORILLA. HEART HIM. He looks so sad and forlorn, in this shot. At one point though there were all these little girls pressed to the glass peering in at him and he gave all of us adults a look like, "Watch this, yo" and then rapped on the glass causing all the girls to squeal and scatter.

You can't tell, but this guy is also HUGE. He was so big and amazing, he took my breath away.



I think this rattlesnake was kind of pissed about me taking his picture.




Kitties!





ZOMG, WANT TO TAKE YOU HOME AND LOVE YOU FOREVER.



Awww. There was this little girl standing next to Leslie who said, "Mommy! My boots are leopard print and so are they! We match!" Heh.



T-I-Single Guh-ER! I could have stayed with these tigers all day. I love tigers. LOVE. And they were way playful:





I see your belly, Ms. Tiger, and I want to rub it.





I like giraffes. They're pretty. The one on the far right is named "Puzzles." Isn't that an awesome name for a giraffe?







Polar Bears! NOM NOM NOM!



These elephants were snuggling with their trunks! I'm sort of sad that the elephants are leaving the zoo, because they were rad. But you got to do what's best for the 'phants, so it's off to Pittsburgh they go. I'm glad I got a chance to see them before they leave.



O HAI.



Sloth love Chunk!

And of course I couldn't let the day go by without taking some photos of my friends:









More can be found here. (Including pictures of the crocodiles and alligators being fed!)

Read Books, They're Good for Your Mind

Or, rather, Donate Books, It's Good For Your Soul.



Every year the Dewey Donation System puts together book drive for a school or library in need. It's one of my favorite charities and I try to make a point in donating, even if it's just one children's book. It's done some amazing things in the past -- donating books libraries decimated by hurricane Katrina and schools demolished by the Tsunami in 2005. Most of the time the libraries being donated to don't even know they've been chosen until the drive is over -- and then they get a lovely surprise.

So why don't you take a moment to put some warm fuzzies in your cold pricklies by donating a book or two?

Thanks! You look pretty.

With much thanks...

...to all of you. All of you that reached out to me in the past 24 hours, those of you that called me, outraged and ready to fight for my honor. Those of you who pulled me aside and gave me advice, those of you who sat with me at dinner and sympathized with me.

Special thanks to Luke, Leslie, Seth, and Phil who called armed with an arsenal of compliments about how rad I am. Luke was especially sweet/funny/ridiculously awesome when he got on the line. "Who am I tracking down and castrating? Because we -- Phil and Seth are here -- love you and think you're beautiful and would like to do naughty things to you in the confessional or whatever it is you Catholic School girls do, but Phil, Seth, and I would never dream of actually saying that we want to do naughty things to you because we have too much respect for you."

I want to reiterate that I'm fine. All of this went down a while back and I've had time to recover, get over it, move on, etc. But the fact that this is now happening again to a fellow coworker brought my WHITE HOT RAGE back to the surface.

I wrote that entry because you need to know that it happens, it happens all the time. It often goes ignored. Because, just like when it happened to me, the girl would rather not go through the humiliation of having to report it. I didn't report it to his manager or to our HR rep -- my manager did, on my behalf. Because the complaint came "second hand," he walked away with a slap on the wrist. It didn't matter that both his manager and the HR rep had witnessed part of his harassment, that they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he said those wretched things to me. Because I didn't report it properly, it didn't hold the gravitas.

It's a flawed system, because even if it happened to me again tomorrow, I wouldn't talk to our HR rep about it -- I just don't feel comfortable with him. But I would talk to his manager about it. Because now I know better. It's fucked up because when you've been through something like this, the last thing you feel like doing is going through your employment paperwork to find out what the proper chain of command is. I spoke to my manager because logically that seemed to make sense to me. And because I felt comfortable talking to her. But even working up the courage to talk to her took me 3 days. Because you feel so embarrassed, gross, and weird. Because you don't want to be "that girl." Because you just want to forget and not have to fuckin' deal anymore.

Anyway. That's why I wrote it. And rest assured, I'm helping my coworker as best I can. I've reported it to a manager and I've told my coworker exactly what happened to me. I've encouraged her to make her own complaint -- even if her complaint is just "He creeps me out and several times he's done X,Y,Z and it makes me feel ooky." I know where she's coming from -- she feels as though the things he's said/done could be interpreted as innocent. Which it very well could be.

But I don't trust him.

And as sure as I am that the sky is blue and the grass is green, I am sure his intentions toward her are not innocent. Because I know his type -- and she fits right into it. Because I know how he interacts with other employees and this is off the mark. Bottom line: he's a terminal scuzzball, with no help of recovery. And that weird uncomfortable feeling she gets, well, it's not wrong.

And I guess that's my point. Girls -- trust your gut. Please. Listen to that little voice inside of you and risk being impolite or bitchy or whatever. Trust your intuition, because really, it's your best defense. You have that little voice for a reason.

And then, even though you feel awful, and ugly, and ashamed: Report it. Report it, report it, report it. Trust me. Report it.

Reclaiming Plaid

*Some names have been changed.

I found the skirt when I wasn't looking for it. I was waiting for a friend to try on a dress and idly flipping through the rack when my eye caught a glimpse of a swatch of plaid. With a jolt in my stomach, I shoved through to the back where two red plaid skirts dangled lazily from their hangers. I snatched them both and dashed back to the dressing room, praying one of them would fit. The first one was too big, hanging sloppily from my hips. But the second, it fit like it was made just for me. The length was perfect; short enough to be tempting, but not so short it became vulgar. The fabric was soft, the pleats swished gently against my thighs. I gave a giggle of joy from my dressing room and spun around, letting the pleats catch air and swirl around me.

I decided to wear it to work the next day. It was perfect for fall. Donning it, the long varnished hallways of St. Mary's, dim from their yellow lamps, swam into my mind. Opening my bedroom door I could feel the heft from the big wooden doors from my elementary school that led to the platform where we waited for our parents at the end of the day. As I walked to my car, leaves making satisfying crunches under my heels, I could smell fresh sharpened pencils. Right before I got into my car, a horn sounded in the King Street traffic. I imagined it was the large gold bell swinging from Mrs. Ambrosia's hand signaling us to line up in the church parking lot at the end of recess.

I was walking through the rows of cubicals when his bald head popped around the fabric wall. "Katie...nice skirt." I was naive enough to think he was being polite and genuine. "Thank you!" I chirped and shuffled back to my desk.

Two weeks later when the skirt found its way back into my wardrobe rotation, an email flashed into my inbox. No subject line, body only three words long: Love that skirt. Hitting reply I quickly typed back a perfunctory Thanks. Quick as can be, a response: I'm a big fan of plaid, is all. I was blind enough to think that was all there was to it.

It wasn't until a week later at the annual company dinner that I saw how vile it all was. Within minutes of walking into the banquet room he was by my side, leaning too close. "I was hoping you would wear that red skirt." Already I could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Um no," I began smiling, trying to pass it off on the booze, the jovial celebration of the evening. "I wore this one instead."

"It's nice," he was leering at my legs. "But that red school-girl skirt is hot. Don't take this the wrong way, but when I see you in that skirt, I always want to trip you."

"Trip me?" I was utterly confused. My brain was already throbbing with a warning, which I ignored in favor of politeness. Thank Mom for my good upbringing.

"Trip you so you fall down and I get a glimpse up your skirt, up those long lovely legs of yours."

My brain was screaming, politeness be damned. "Right," I took a step back. Still trying to make light of it, I clucked my tongue at him. "Now, now...don't say something you might regret." I was giving him an out. I looked around quickly and spotted Lisa. She waved at me. "I gotta go, Lisa's waiting for me."

"Thank you," I breathed when I reached Lisa and the bar. "White wine," I told the bartender, fanning my flushed face.

"What's up?" Lisa asked me, sipping on her vodka gimlet.

"I think he's had a bit too much to drink already," I tried to sound forgiving. Everyone drinks too much at these things. The previous year I had enjoyed too many glasses of pino grigo, and at the end of the evening clumsily spilled the water I was drinking in an effort to sober up all over my lap. "Can you just keep an eye out, yeah?"

"Yeah."

But he kept popping up throughout the dinner. Leering at me. Leaning in too close. Talking to my tits instead of my face. Surrounding coworkers did their best to shield me, but he wouldn't be thwarted. How do you shield someone from a hurricane of drunken sexism? They themselves fell victim to the same behavior they were trying to protect me from. After the dinner, he showed up at the bar, leaning to sloppily whisper in my ear.

"I would love to take you back to my hotel room and stick my giant cock in you."

"Dude?!"

"I would. I'd love to get up that plaid skirt of yours, you nasty bitch."

You've heard about this. You've seen after school specials, Lifetime made-for-TV movies, and read stories in the paper. If it'd happened to me, you think, I'd stand up for myself. I'd slap his filthy mouth soundly, report the son-of-bitch to HR and make sure he never did something like this to another girl.

But you don't. You cave to the bullshit polite behavior. Because you feel embarrassed, gross, and wrong.

"...I...," I searched around for a nice way to extract myself and shoot him down at the same time. "See, now why don't unmarried guys my own age ever hit on me?" I thought I was pointedly telling him that I was not interested, to leave me alone. But he was far too drunk to grasp my remarks.

"Probably because of your weight. You'd be so much more fuckable if you lost 10 pounds."

Game over. Never mind that it's all a bit rich coming from someone who is a sodding drunk off his ass, bald, overweight sleezebag. I hated myself.

I have no idea how I made it home that night, or into the office the next morning. I had to look at his disheveled hungover ass, clad in the rumpled clothing he slept in. I had to stand there as his vile breath hollowly told me he was sorry, that he liked me a lot, and that I didn't deserve to be spoken to in that manner.

Because I wanted to do everything to just fucking forget already, I accepted his apology. I didn't want to be the prude bitch that called him out on his prick sore behavior. I didn't want to deal.

It wasn't until days later that I realized that I wasn't the only one. There were others that night. There were others in years past.

It was my manager who approached me about the matter. She was fuming that this had happened to me, apologetic, ready to fight on my behalf. And she did. She talked to the head of HR, and his manager.

The end result was he got yet another slap on his wrist and barred from drinking at company functions. His behavior that night was not a "fire-able offense" and because I hadn't gone through "official channels" there was only a "second hand complaint." Whatever that all means.

When this happens, you go through days of hating yourself, even though you did nothing wrong, save wearing a skirt that happened to capture his perverted attention. You know everyone in the office knows what happened, and you want to spend days huddled under blankets not worrying about who's looking at you or what they're saying. You begin to question yourself and your judgment -- maybe it wasn't as bad as you thought. He just said some not-nice things. What, can't you take it? Stand up for yourself? You feel weak. Like a baby. Like a whiny girl who runs crying to mommy when the school-yard boys pick on her.

You begin secretly taking diet pills. Because, don't you know, you'd be so much more fuckable if you lost 10 pounds. Maybe that's why you don't have a boyfriend. You wear baggy clothes. You hate that he's had this effect on you. You fake smile and plow on ahead. You manage to get over it. You move on, grow, learn, slowly start to feel better about yourself.

But that skirt. I didn't wear it for a year. It hung in my closet, forlorn and ignored. Every time I considered it, his voice would be in my head, "That red school-girl skirt is hot."

I'm telling you this story for a reason. I still have to face him everyday. Whatever, I'm over it. It's all done with, and 2 years later I'm done being angry and embarrassed. But now I've heard murmurs of other girls feeling "uncomfortable" around him. And because I couldn't ignore that and wish for it to go away, I risked being a tattle-tale and possibly losing someone's trust by telling it to a manager. Because I don't want them to have to go through what I did. Because if it should happen to them, and I had prior knowledge but done nothing to prevent it, I would have never forgiven myself.

It took a long time for me to wear that skirt again, but I am wearing it today.

Fuck you. I'm not your sexist, demeaning, school-girl fantasy. It's about my nostalgia and memories. It's about me feeling good in something I like to wear.

Today I've reclaimed plaid.

Hallmark Holiday

There are a lot of arguments against Valentine's Day: It's a made up day, overly commercialized by Hallmark and jewelry stores, designed to make you feel bad about yourself if you're single and to put pressure on you (and your wallet) if you're attached.

Which is basically true.

But it's also a day when people stop what they're doing and remember to express their love for one another. Which is a sentiment I can really get behind. Even if it's just the love of friendship or family.

So with that in mind, I would like to tell you that I love you guys. You're all lovely.

And for those anti-Valentiners out there, have a bloody Happy Valentine's Day anyway:

Shut up, Winter

I shouldn't complain, because as Renee says, "We're all in the same boat, and that boat is named the SS Getting-Fucked-in-the-Ass-by-February."

BUT.

I have plans for this evening. Plans that include drinking Black Velveteens and wearing a short skirt. Plans that include farewells to old friends as they leave and move to FLORIDA, of all damn places. Plans that include photography that needs to get done tonight lest the Doc spazz out and give himself an aneurysm.

So what I am saying is, KNOCK IT OFF, FREEZING RAIN AND NASTY WEATHER.

Thank you.

Unexpected Puppies!

I just had to post a photo of the beagle that won the Westminster Dog Show. I have a special affection for beagles, as growing up I had one. Every time I see a beagle I have to pause, mentally squee, and try to control myself from becoming a dog-nabber.

So hurrah to Uno (such a great name!) for winning. Way to go, little buddy.

Shake it like a Polaroid picture?

You guys. This seriously distresses me.

I mean, I understand that digital photography is all the rage and the way of the future, or whatever, but there is something so iconic and rad about a Polaroid photo. I know that I've posted many a photograph in this space, all of them digital. And as much as I love Iris and as much as proud as I am of the photos I take with her, none of them have the raw, distinctive beauty of a Polaroid. By comparison, they all seem glossy, too slick, even soulless. I may boast about my pictures and whore out my Flickr page, but it's Polaroids that are tacked to my cube wall and stuck to my fridge.

I have numerous photos from my childhood, all taken at my grandmother's house, all taken by my grandfather on a Polaroid. I remember the excitement and anticipation as I waited for the photograph to develop, gauging the process by the colors as they changed from black, to dark brown, lightening onto sepia, and eventually greens and reds leaking through to complete the process. It seemed like magic. And now, knowing what I know about photo development, it seems even more magical.

And no matter what I try, you just can't recreate that digitally:



See what I mean?

Polaroid, I will miss you, so so much.

Hello, I am cold

Let's get that political stuff off of the top of the page, shall we? None of you seem very interested and besides, my obsessive political needs have been satisfied by a long email thread between me and some 141ers for the past 3 days, so I no longer need to vent about it here. At least until tomorrow and the next caucus.

Sweet Tinkerbell Jesus, it is sofa king cold! When I left my apartment this morning, it was 12° outside, with a -7° wind chill. I do not know how people are expected to function in temperatures like this. My apartment is also very cold, as our heat circulation can sometimes suck (plus our super came in last week and tinkered with our vents, which I don't think helped) and I am unwilling to make the heat higher than 72° (gas heat is expensive, yo). I am not kidding you guys, my alarm went off this morning and I laid in bed in my fluffy socks, flannel PJ pants, long sleeved T-shirt, and hoodie (with the hood up) under 4 blankets and I seriously considered snaking my arm out and grabbing my phone and calling out today, just so I could stay in my warm little cocoon.

And I realize that this is gross, but I totally didn't take a shower this morning because the heat downstairs hadn't kicked in yet (I turn it off at night because there's no one down there except Dill, who has a fur coat and can't complain) and I didn't want to take off my warm PJs and spend the next 15 minutes shivering in a cold bathroom under a paltry spray of lukewarm water.

My car, which apparently hates me, is not fairing well in this cold either. It was like driving thought molasses to get here today.

When I walked in the door, all Tammi could do was laugh at me. I looked like Nanook of the North, what with my coat buttoned to the tippy top, hood up, scarf wound around my neck and chin so only my eyes could be seen, and mittens. And then, after I de-bundled myself, sat shivering for ten minutes with my coffee as I waited for them to turn up the heat in editorial.

I don't get people who like winter and say they find it "cozy." No. There is nothing cozy about runny noses, chapped lips, icy fingers, shivering, an excess of static electricity and annoyingly high PECO bills.

Shut up, Winter.

I am no good at this election stuff

You guys. I can not HANDLE watching returns come in. Especially during a time like Super Tuesday when I can't vote and I'm sort of helpless, putting my faith in the rest of the country.

So the good news is...we're pretty evenly split. OK, that's not as good as I had hoped, but I will take it. I've said it before but, I think electing Hilary would be a mistake. It's like gift wrapping the General Election for the Republicans. They HATE her. So do a lot of independents. I get why Democrats like her, and I get the whole "woman-in-the-White-House" thing, but: this is not her time. I say that as a True Blue Democrat and as a feminist.

Obama brings me hope. Real, honest-to-goodness hope. A kind of hope that I have not felt...well, ever. Not even with Kerry/Edwards, and you KNOW how invested I was in them.

He says things like this:

When I am this party's nominee, my opponent will not be able to say that I voted for the war in Iraq; or that I gave George Bush the benefit of the doubt on Iran; or that I supported Bush-Cheney policies of not talking to leaders that we don't like. And he will not be able to say that I wavered on something as fundamental as whether or not it is ok for America to torture — because it is never ok… I will end the war in Iraq… I will close Guantanamo. I will restore habeas corpus. I will finish the fight against Al Qaeda. And I will lead the world to combat the common threats of the 21st century: nuclear weapons and terrorism; climate change and poverty; genocide and disease. And I will send once more a message to those yearning faces beyond our shores that says, "You matter to us. Your future is our future. And our moment is now.”

...and I believe him.

As Jim pointed out to me this morning, the more people see Obama, the more they seem to like him. The word "surge" has been used a great deal in terms of his growing supporters. So it's down to a few more primaries and caucuses. If that gives him more time to campaign and stump and whatnot, giving him a chance to speak and win people in those states over, then I am all about it. For my part, April has never seemed so far away.

Please, please let me get what I want

It's Super! Tuesday! and if there's a primary or caucus going on in your state, please get out and vote.



YES, WE CAN!

Carne Vale

Somehow I totally skipped out on the fact that today is Shrove Tuesday. Or Fat Tuesday. Or Fausnacht Day. Whatever you want to call it.

Despite being a Catholic Pagan Unitarian Peace Mission Quaker who no longer celebrates most Catholic traditions, I really like the Ash Wednesday. Of course, it's not for the right reasons, but hey, we all have our vernaculars.

I like Ash Wednesday for that moment when ashes are spread across my forehead and I am told, "Remember you are from dust, and unto dust you shall return." Which, like I said, is not the intention. You're supposed to feel repentant, guilty for being a sinner. But I've never really felt that penance like I'm supposed to, that fear of being judged. It's sort of macabre, but it reminds me that time is fleeting and that I should use the time I'm given full. Embrace life and live it to the fullest. The only thing I've ever felt sorry for is not living up to my potential and being wasteful. That's what I get out of it, and that's why I keep going back year after year to get my ashes. It's one of the few Catholic rituals that I feel something for, a sense of connection to, even if it's the wrong connection.

Anyway. Jasmine brought a bunch of fausnachts into the office today and I was overcome with glee. I haven't had fausnachts on Shrove Tuesday since I was in high school. Like, real, honest-to-goodness fausnachts. So after stuffing my face with one, I dashed to my computer and franticly emailed my mom to ask her to freeze some for me from St. Gertrude's. Or whatever they call that church now.

Starting tomorrow, I will be abstaining from all sweet treats for at least 40 days. I will also be making an effort to go to the gym again. Because in part with that "living life to the fullest" and "living up to my potential" means a little self improvement. I may also, depending on how hard core I am feeling tomorrow, give up red meat (which I don't eat that much of anyway) or meat altogether. I haven't decided.

In any event, I've been invited to a Fry Party this evening at Haven and Mike's so that might have to happen, for one more day of hedonistic face stuffing before all the work begins.

Tatoozles: Part the Second

What? I barely prodded her.



See, what happened was, we were eating lunch at the market and Erin says to me, she says, "I feel like doing something wild, like getting a tattoo."

And I says, "Two Words: South Street."

And then she says, "Let's do it."

"Two more words: ROCK ON."



So one short walk later we were on South Street, scoping out Tattoo Parlors and calling Luke for recommendations.







All in all, it was a pretty rad day. Come visit again, Erin!