A Nice Girl's Guide to Idealism

Potty Camp III

2008-09-05T22:24:00.002-04:00

So we have settled in to this routine where BB does really well with pee pee in the potty, but he asks for a diaper to poop. We are okay with this because it's better than not pooping at all. But my dad and stepmom come today bearing small gifts--poop prizes--wrapped in wrapping paper. Well, that was it. He found out he couldn't have a prize without pooping in the potty, and he was like, "I want to poop in the potty. In the living room." And he proceeded to "poop" in the potty like 8 times and get all the prizes. I say poop with quotes because each time he pooped a tiny amount, and would get up and start singing, "I pooped in the potty! Now I get a prize!" What could we say? He had pooped in the potty. The amount of which may be negligable, but he had pooped. No one dared tell him he couldn't have a prize. But now we are out of them, and there is a tropical storm that will prevent me from going to the dollar store in the morning to replenish the stash. But that might not be a bad thing. It might keep him from pooping in his potty chair, in the living room, every fifteen minutes.

Potty Camp II

2008-08-30T21:30:00.004-04:00

So we had real potty camp last weekend. It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be, except for the pooping. Or rather, lack thereof. I thought we were going to have a serious issue, but we seem to be getting somewhat of a balance. He's pooped in the potty 3 times, pooped in a diaper a couple of times, and pooped in his pants once. So long as he's pooping, I don't really care. Says the lady who wasn't home to have to clean up the poop in the underpants.
I do have to admit, 3 hours into the first day, I said to Andy, "I don't think he's responding real well. Maybe he isn't ready." To which Andy replied, "We've only been doing this for THREE HOURS. This isn't going to be easy." So we didn't quit, and Andy was right. Andy, incidentally, is the only one who has gotten BB to poop in the potty.
He is doing really well with the pee pee. He makes it to the potty most of the time, and his accidents usually happen at home while he is playing. So now here is my new issue with potty training.
You can't plan enough time to get somewhere because you have no idea how many times you will have to stop along the way to use the potty. Today we used the potty at home AND at Food Lion, at the restaurant, at the doctor (3 times), at home again AND at Dunkin Donuts, at the museum a few times, and finally we were home for good. While I know we will save good money on diapers, I think of all the extra time that we will need in exchange.

Throw Up Camp

2008-08-17T15:32:00.003-04:00

This weekend, my husband and I had discussed "potty boot camp" for BB. The plan was to put him in underpants and spend a lot of time playing outside. I was a little concerned for his shoes--he only has a couple of pair, and I was afraid they would be all covered in pee. But, he has to learn how to use the potty sooner or later. I mean, he does use it. But at the same time every day. He always wants to use it when he gets out of his bath so he can have his "potty prize" of 3 m & ms before he goes to bed. I don't think that is true potty training as it is conditioning for a nightly treat.

Anyways, his shoes have lived to see another weekend, as potty boot camp did not occur. Instead, we had Throw Up Camp. He puked mac and cheese all Saturday evening. It was pretty pitiful. 2 year olds do not know to tell you that they need to puke. Instead, they whine. It's about enough warning to get over to them and try to catch the puke in your bare hands. One time, he tried to hold it in, which wasn't very effective. That one was bananas and toast, all over him, me, and the couch. Lovely. The most pitiful part was, every time I would ask him if he was going to throw up, he would look terrified and say "Noooooo!" I think he thought I was telling him to throw up.

Another time, I think he thought he was going to puke, and he started whining. I grabbed a towel I had gotten out for this explicit purpose and ran over to him. He said, "No Mom, cover my mouth!" I just don't think he gets it. I just kept telling him, "when it comes out, Sweetie, you can't stop it. You just have to lean over and let it come out."

Yep. Nothing like little kid throw up.

One more thing about potty training--I know that eventually we will have to conquer this. But I am totally not looking forward to the ongoing process that is potty training. The accidents, the set backs, the laundry....I am actually dreading it. It reminds me of a time when a friend of mine in high school was talking about potty training. Neither one of US had any kids, and what did we know? But she said something like, when I have a kid, I'm not going to bother potty training. Eventually, they'll figure it out. Like in first grade, when they see all their friends going or something. And I was like, I'll bet you'll change your mind when you have kids. After all, what do you know? And now, I'm like, maybe she knew a lot more than me! Potty training seems so daunting, like a giant toilet looming over me, drooling and laughing, and saying things like, "Poopy underpants!! Pee on the floor!! PEE PEE SHOES!!! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

So potty boot camp was a bust. I'm not totally upset by this. Although, I must say that cleaning barf off the carpet was not really my idea of a picnic either.

When can I go to work?

Resurrection

2008-07-18T11:33:00.003-04:00

This morning, when I was getting ready for work, it had appeared that the microwave had passed away during the night. It was plugged in, but completely unresponsive. I was grieving, and preparing to grieve for the 60 or 70 bucks that I was going to have to part with to replace it. I wrote a haiku to help deal with the loss:

Haiku for the Microwave
Oh woe and alas
Grieve for the dead microwave
How will we cook now?

A little while later, I received a joyous phone call from my husband. It seems that the ciruit breaker had just tripped--the microwave was alive and well!

Haiku For the Resurrected Microwave
All hail the husband
who thought to check the circuit.
The microwave lives!

Hello Again

2008-05-13T15:07:00.003-04:00

Will I start blogging here again? Hard to say. I intend to, but you know what the road to hell is paved with. But here is a scary picture to get us started again. Behold Skeedaddle the clown, and who I can only assume is her husband and daughter. Either that or they are her Baptist minister and a puppet. Whoever said clowns aren't scary is just plain wrong.

Where, oh where has my little dog gone?

2005-09-06T19:03:00.000-04:00

I think my dog is gone.

Now I know what you are thinking-- Emily, you don't have a dog. Well, yes I do. Sort of. There was this dog that lives with a Mexican family at this house that I have passed almost every day on my way to and from work since I moved to Raleigh. And he looks like the picture, except his fur is more blonde than red. He lived on the porch on a chain, but he had a doghouse that he slept in when it was cold or rainy, and sometimes slept on top of when it was nice out. And he was fed and watered regularly, and the people who lived there petted him and seemed to take pretty good care of him, and sometimes he would be off the chain-- probably inside. And I would drive by and see him and tell him hello, and he made me smile. But I think he is gone. We don't drive by his house every day, but we go out of our way a couple of days a week to check on him, and the last few times we have driven by, there have been a lot more Mexican people on the porch than normal, and no Dog. And no chain. The dog house is still there, but there is no Dog. I never really paid much attention to the people who lived at the house, although there was one man that must have recognized me, because he waved at me a few times, so I don't know if they are new, and maybe the family with the dog moved, or what. But that is what I am choosing to believe. Andy thought I should go ask the people where the dog went, but I am afraid-- first that they will not speak much English, and although I can muster "Donde esta el perro" in my limited Spanish, I am afraid that I will not be able to keep up with their answer. And then, there is the more frightening aspect, that their answer will include the word "muerte." So, as I deluded myself that Dog somehow, someway belonged to me, I will continue to delude myself that Dog has moved with his familia to a new house and is happy and his tail is wagging. But I miss him.

Anxiously awaiting....

2005-08-25T08:45:00.000-04:00

Is anyone else eagerly awaiting the Phil Spector murder trial? I think this one will be much better than Michael Jackson.......

My Baby Can Never Play Baseball

2005-08-22T16:12:00.000-04:00

I declare to the Lord, I have had a really easy pregnancy except for the fact that at 8 weeks I badly sprained my ankle and had to walk on crutches, at 20 weeks got stung by a yellow jacket, and now at 26 weeks, I have concocted a NASTY case of poison ivy. It's on my face, around my eyes and in and around my ears, on my belly, my boobs, my legs...Everyone tells you when you are pregnant, get as much sleep as you can because you won't be able to sleep once the baby comes. Well let me tell you, I have not gotten much sleep lately. Even with Benedryl, I have only gotten like 1 1/2 hours at one time. I have never had poison ivy before but it sucks. It sucks massive obscene phallic symbols crafted by the devil himself. On Friday, I went in for a regular OB appointment and showed the doctor what was beginning to look less and less like bug bites and more like something a little more serious. He said that if I wasn't better by Tuesday, he would send me to a dermatologist. By this morning, I was being tortured by the stuff. I couldn't wait. The dermatologist felt it necessary to put me on a 2 1/2 week regimen of steroids in order to fight this stuff off. She said it won't hurt the baby-- although we are now worried that he will be a BIG ol'boy-- and that he will be banned from baseball from the day he is born. I have included pics for your viewing pleasure-- I am sure you will find them entertaining. If you are laughing at me-- you better not let me hear you! I am so uncomfortable I could probably kill you and plead insanity!

I call this look "The Phantom of the Opera"

The Red Masque of Death?

lovely patch on the shoulder

all across the prego belly

Ugly

2005-06-09T16:38:00.000-04:00

Just in case you have never seen a cave cricket. They are so gross. They don't always jump like crickets (but they can! They can jump really high!), a lot of times they just creepy crawl around like nasty pointy spiders. So lately, we have been finding baby cave crickets in the house. Not nearly as scary as full grown cave crickets, but the potential of multiple adult cave crickets in the house is enough motivation to overpower any guilt I may have about smushing them. The other day, I was in my bathroom, on the can. Just peeing, mind you, and I was completely finished-- all I needed to do was stand up and flush, but I saw a couple of baby cave crickets and had paused to smush them. Andy happened by the open door, just as a full grown cave cricket jumped from out of nowhere right at me. I came running out of the bathroom at full speed, pants around my knees, yelling all the way. Not screaming like a girl, I was yelling like a soldier running from an explosion. Those things are SCARY!!!! And I was absolutely convinced that Andy had thrown that thing at me. His response at my accusation: "Now why would I throw a cave cricket at you? Especially when you're just going to act like a girl about it?" Can you believe that? I think anyone who came face to face with a cave cricket, caught literally and figuratively with their pants down, would have reacted the same way.

I remember a friend in Columbia a few years back telling me she had cave crickets in her basement, and how ugly and creepy they were. She was so right.

Things I Learned This Weekend

2005-05-16T12:21:00.000-04:00

Things I Learned This Weekend
By Emily

1. You can find pretty good bargains at yards sales.

2. The money you save by buying things at yard sales does not balance out with the money you have to spend when you come back from walking around said yard sales and find that the rear window has been busted out of your car (at ten o'clock in the morning!).

3. Even if the ad says "24 Hour Emergency Service," or "Saturday and Sunday too" does not mean that the company will come and fix your rear window on Saturday. You will still have to wait until Monday.

4. People in S.C. take for granted that glass damage is covered with no deductible on their auto insurance policies.

5. Challah is a type of bread.

6. You can always find something to Tivo.

Illegal my butt!

2005-05-03T12:30:00.000-04:00

I am getting very frustrated with a program that I use at work. It is designed to provide performance reports on accounts.

Just a little background blurb so that you can understand why it is prompting my frustration-- all securities are listed in the program with a 2 initial code defining what type of security it is, and a 2 initial code indicated what index the security is listed on. For example, a mutual fund on the US exchange is listed under the code mfus. There are a lot of different types of securities, and I don't know all the codes, but frequently, the program freaks out and gives what it calls "warnings" about security types or prices that it feels may not be accurate.

All day, every time I have tried to run a report, I get the following warning:

illegal type anus

I just think that's rude, not to mention inaccurate. I truly believe that I have a legal type anus.

2005-04-28T12:19:00.000-04:00

I am pregnant, and I have cravings.

You've all heard the stories-- pickles and ice cream in the middle of the night, mixing strange foods, even clay or dirt. Well, just about all I have wanted since I have been pregnant is fried chicken. Bojangles fried chicken to be exact. A Bojangles cajun fillet biscuit, usually, but also just plain fried chicken entertains my thoughts frequently as well. I have been pretty good and have only had one cajun fillet biscuit since I have been pregnant. I have had a coule of substitutes here and there-- my father-in-law graciously grilled me a chicken breast and cooked up a couple of refrigerator biscuits to put the chicken between one time, and another time a co-worker brought biscuits from Biscuitville, and I devoured a country ham biscuit in the time it takes most people to sneeze.

But today, nothing else will do. Andy and I are going out of town this evening, and he has been promising for two days that we can eat fried chicken for dinner on the road. But my morning snack is not sitting well with me today, and I am desperate. One cannot imagine the need for a particular type of food until one is pregnant. I cannot believe it myself, and I am the one dying (it feels like it, literally dying) for a cajun fillet biscuit. So my husband, who is really a great husband, is going to bring me one. He didn't have any cash on him and he doesn't know his pin number, but he said he can get some cash from somewhere and wouldn't tell me where. But I have a feeling that he is going to pull the money from his treasured "we're going to Germany" fund. And if that is the case, it makes me feel really good to know that he is making a sacrifice for me.

But not as good as I will feel once I have that biscuit in my hand.

And I will still push for fried chicken for dinner.

2005-04-26T20:37:00.000-04:00

(Julia Sugarbaker): I gather from your comments there are a couple of other things you don't know, Marjorie. For example, you probably didn't know that Suzanne was the only contestant in Georgia pageant history to sweep every category except congeniality, and that is not something the women in my family aspire to anyway. Or that when she walked down the runway in her swimsuit, five contestants quit on the spot.

Or that when she emerged from the isolation booth to answer the question, "What would you do to prevent war?" she spoke so eloquently of patriotism, battlefields and diamond tiaras, grown men wept.

And you probably didn't know, Marjorie, that Suzanne was not just any Miss Georgia, she was the Miss Georgia. She didn't twirl just a baton, that baton was on fire. And when she threw that baton into the air, it flew higher, further, faster than any baton has ever flown before, hitting a transformer and showering the darkened arena with sparks! And when it finally did come down, Marjorie, my sister caught that baton, and 12,000 people jumped to their feet for sixteen and one-half minutes of uninterrupted thunderous ovation, as flames illuminated her tear-stained face!

And that, Marjorie --- just so you will know --- and your children will someday know --- is the night the lights went out in Georgia!

National High Five Day Tomorrow!

2005-04-20T17:10:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow, April 21, is National High Five Day! So don't leave me hangin', Give me Five!!!! I think we should all utilize this opportunity to promote comraderie with our fellow man.

Maybe not quite as cool of a holiday as Talk Like a Pirate Day, but hey. These guys have a documentary.

2005-03-31T15:49:00.000-05:00

WTF?!

crazy Schiavo mourner

2005-03-30T19:19:00.000-05:00

Newsworthy in S.C. today—anti-stalking legislation in process, named “Mary Lynn’s Law” after a woman who was killed by a stalker, who was later arrested wearing some of her clothes.

Ah, stalkers. Anna Kournikova had one, Bjork had a pretty interesting one, Janet Jackson, Sheryl Crow, David Letterman, Mel Gibson—the list goes on and on. Of course, we can’t forget about Rebecca Schaeffer, the actress from the TV show My Sister Sam, who, if she had not been killed by a stalker, we probably would have forgotten about her by now. And who can forget the old Rod Stewart video for the song “Infatuation,” portraying a young man taking pictures of a pretty woman without her knowledge? Good old stalkers. Is there anything else that is so terribly frightening and so mundanely cliché at the same time?

I had my own private stalker one time. It didn’t last very long, and it wasn’t very scary—not nearly as scary as the ones you read about in the news, or the ones that Lifetime movies are based on. But I like to think it counts, if only just a little. I was 23 or 24 at the time, and living with a friend in a small duplex across the driveway from some crazy redneck who liked to call the cops on herself all the time. I was still in school, and that is apparently where I caught my stalker’s eye. One day, out of the blue, I received a phone call. The guy asked for me by name, and proceeded with the ol’ “You don’t know me, but…” But what? Basically, this is the rundown: He had seen me on campus, and after I had walked away, he asked whoever I had been talking to what my name was. Then he looked me up in the student directory, which listed my mother’s phone number. I, of course, was not living there, but he got my phone number from my mother. From my mother! Upon questioned about this, my mother explained that he sounded nice, and that he had told her his name. So that makes him not scary. Ted Bundy sounded nice I’m sure. And how do you know the name he gave you was real? Which it was not, I might add. He said his name was Jim. Which it was not. Oh, how I want to print his real name here. I think it just adds to the effect if you could know his real name, say his real name…okay, I’ll throw you a bone. His first name was Harry. His last name one syllable, and was of Chinese origin. Now, take that name that you have constructed and say it in your best TV announcer voice like this: Harry ______, Private Eye. It could have been a great show.

So he calls me and says that I don’t know him, but he saw me on campus and wants me to be his girlfriend. At first, he tells me his name is Jim, but it doesn’t take long for him to give me his real name. I can’t remember if he already knew where I went to high school or not, but he told me he went to the same one. He knew names—listed all kinds of references and explained how I had to believe that he was harmless if he hung out with those dorks. He tells me his childhood nickname to try and show me how innocuous he is. He tells the sorrowful story of how is ex-girlfriend was forced by her parents to break up with him after he decided to drop out of med school in order to become a teacher—oh, how noble, right? At least meet him for lunch he says. At one point, he begs me to just meet him at school over an orange juice. How scary could meeting over orange juice be?

I must admit, I never felt afraid. More like annoyed. He would call me at like 9:00 in the morning on a Saturday. Keep in mind—I was 23 or 24, and could still sleep in until 10 or 11 on a Saturday. He called all the time. What really freaked me out about the whole thing was that I had no idea who he was. I wouldn’t have known who he was if he had smacked me in the face. All I knew was that he was Chinese (But from Michigan, as he was so eager to point out—no accent or anything). So while I never feared for my safety, I did start to get very suspicious of Asian men. Any guy looked Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, I admit—I’m not the best at determining Asian countries of origin—I just kept thinking, that could be Harry. Then one night I dreamed about him—dreamed that he came up to me in some general store type atmosphere, and that he drove a red car. I drove my mom crazy talking about the “crazy Chinee” that was stalking her—she said that was offensive. (I didn’t mean it to be offensive, I thought it was kind of funny, in a let’s-poke-fun-at-ignorant-people-for-no-reason kind of way) But here was the thing. When I asked him why he thought he wanted me to be his girlfriend, he kept saying that he just thought I “looked like” what he thought would be who he wanted as his girlfriend. But when I asked what about me “looked like” his girlfriend, he couldn’t say. And when I asked him what I looked like, he couldn’t say either. When I asked him what my hair looked like (an easy easy question—if you saw me back then, it would be the first thing you would notice—straight, brown, loooooooooong. Down to my waist.)—he couldn’t even say that I had long hair. It made me susupicious, to say the least.

One day, everything came to a head. Somehow, he found out that I smoked cigarettes. “Oh,” he says. “We’ll have to get you the patch.” Well I had had it. Who was this asshole—a stranger to me—who had decided that I was to be his girlfriend, and while I was at it, I was quitting smoking to boot?! Well, that was it. While still reclined in my bed, I started in on him. “I don’t think I am the girl that you have decided in your head that I am. I smoke, I drink, I cuss, I like to hang out in bars where you can throw your cigarettes on the floor. I really don’t think I am who you think I am.”
(beat)
“Well, do you have any friends I could go out with?” he asks me. I just told him they all either had boyfriends or were lesbians. Easy out, I know, but like I was going to just pass this guy off onto another unwilling person. And the statement wasn’t entirely false. I did have friends who had boyfriends, and I had friends who were lesbians. But, he never called again. Sometimes I regret not meeting him over orange juice. Not that I think he had even a remote chance of convincing me to be his girlfriend, but because I never found out who he was. When I read stories like the ones about “Mary Lynn’s Law,” they make me think of that guy. Like I said, I never felt that I was in any danger. But who knows? He may have wanted to put on my underpants and dance a little jig over my corpse. Probably not, but you never know.

On a side note, my mother felt extremely guilty for giving him my phone number. It seems that she also had thrown away something of my sister’s that had sentimental value within a few days of giving out my number, so she really felt like a bad mother, which she is not.

Ol' St. Pats

2005-03-17T17:41:00.000-05:00

I don't wear green on St. Patrick's day. I am neither Catholic nor Irish, so I don't feel the need.

When I was in first grade, my very English father did not wear green on St. Patrick's day, much to my concern. I was convinced that he would get pinched at work, and very diligently wrote him an "excuse"-- a note to show his colleagues that would excuse him from wearing green. It said something to the effect of:

Please don't pinch my daddy because he is not wearing green. But he is English, and they wear orange on St. Patrick's Day.

That's right, orange. He wore orange. I am fully aware of the implications of wearing orange on St. Patrick's day. I know who William of Orange is, what the Glorious Revolution was, and what the Order of Orange is today. And I, too, have worn orange on St. Patrick's day before-- not quite realizing to the full extent just how offensive that can be, but certainly knowing it wasn't innocent. I am not quite that brash at this stage in my life. Not quite.

A roommate that I had briefly while in college-- I can't remember her last name at this point to determine if it was a tell or not-- professed to be "Scotch-Irish." I told my father, to which he replied, "Well, I certainly wouldn't brag about that." And I laughed. Because it was funny.

In today's America, we are caught up in a society that declares the urgency of individual and diverse heritage recognition, all the while preaching political correctness and a philosphy of cultural diffusion--we're all Americans, right? Most people recognize the dichotomy of this situation, and I have even heard of a suggestion to change the "melting pot" metaphor to a "salad bowl." It doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but it does seem to capture the atmosphere of America a little more accurately. There are a number of organizations whose sole purpose is to celebrate the heritage of its members--the Robert Burns society, the Order of Hibernians, the Jewish Heritage Society, the French-Canadian Heritage Society of Michigan-- yet the overwhelming majority of society-at-large succombs to and enforces unwritten mandates requiring the self-policing of language and actions lest they be offensive. Intolerance will not be tolerated. While I in no means advocate offensive or intolerant behavior, it's important to remember that being open-minded means that you have to recognize the legitimacy of opinions that you don't like--someone's right to free speech should not be quashed just because what they say may be regarded as generally ignorant or offensive. Most people recognize that (while quietly pressuring people to watch their mouths).

But I digress. I did not begin writing with the intention of championing the cause of freedom of speech (which is a great cause, mind you). But freedom of expression comes to mind-- which is inherently wrapped up in that first amendment right. It is my father's right as an American Citizen (he passed the test-- I doubt if I could) to wear orange on St. Patrick's day, and fie on those who say he shouldn't.

I said earlier in this post that is growing ever longer that I am not as brash as I used to be-- not quite. Once again, this weekend will find me at the Columbia, SC St. Patrick's day celebration (aka giant keg party), and once again, I will be sporting a Union Jack T-shirt. Not quite as offensive as wearing orange. Not quite.

Emi-ly vs. Sara Lee?

2005-03-02T19:48:00.000-05:00

I love cooking. And not just any kind of cooking-- I like to make food from scratch. Granted, I cheat most of the time with spaghetti and enhance sauce from a jar, but I do know how to make sauce from scratch, and I have done it on more than one occasion. There's a show on Food TV (porn for fat people*) called "Semi Home Cooking with Sandra Lee" that shows its viewers "techniques for combining fresh ingredients with specially selected store-bought items. The result? Mouthwatering meals and desserts, prepared in minutes, that taste like they were made from scratch." Fraud! Phony! I call Shenanigans!
Where is the fun in semi home cooking?
Last night I made lemon bars for a co-worker's birthday. I used the Barefoot Contessa's recipe. It involved butter at room temperature, chilling dough, squeezing and zesting lemons, and using the ever-faithful Kitchen-Aid. I wouldn't have it any other way. And they were GOOD.
While I was making them, with love, I might add, I couldn't help but imagining how much everyone would enjoy them at work the next day. I was beaming, anticipating the compliments, and expecting to earn a new nickname-- something along the lines of Betty Crocker. I imagine that people will come to me for cooking advice and for recipes. And why shouldn't they? Everyone has raved about anything I have brought in.
And on the days when I bring the food, such as today, the compliments do come. And I get embarrassed. And people ask for the recipe, and I say, "Oh it's really easy." So why do I bring the food? When I am making it, I anticipate the recognition with excitement. When it comes, I blush, and wish it would go away. And when it's gone, I wonder where it went.

*Off on a tangent: I don't think that Al Roker should be allowed to host a food show. I mean, maybe if it was about eating healthy foods and healthy portions, but it's not. It's about him going around the country and eating. Two of the most recent episodes had to do with chocolate and "feel good food." I'm sorry, but the man had gastric bypass surgery in order to treat severe obesity. Doesn't that say something? Shouldn't he attempt to be more of a role model in nutrition instead of touting the country's best potato chips? That's just how I feel, Man!

Jamie Have I Loved

2005-02-26T23:31:00.000-05:00

What's in a name? A Jamie by any other name would still be as dreamy....

Jamie Oliver, aka the Naked Chef. The cutest English boy on a motorbike you will ever see. Excellent cook, great sense of humor, all around dreamboat. He has a flat with a great view, multiple cookbooks and successful cooking shows, a restaurant staffed by at-risk kids, and a heart of gold. Oh yeah, and a wife. And two kids.

Jamie take two. Jamie Hyneman, professional mythbuster. From his cast bio on the website: wilderness survival expert, boat captain, diver, linguist, animal wrangler, machinist and chef. What's not to love? Aside from all that other stuff, and being one of the hosts of the great show Mythbusters on Discovery Channel, he's also got his own special effects company.

So let's hear it for the Jamies, because they rock so hard.

I watch too much TV

2005-02-24T10:42:00.000-05:00

-

Quote from CSI last week:

CSI Warrick Brown: Man, there is something so heartbreaking about a woman with raggedy drawers.

I need some new underpants.

-

nothing left but fear and loathing

2005-02-21T16:30:00.000-05:00

I'm certainly not the first to blog about it, but an important icon has passed, and it does bear a second visit. As we all say good-bye to the father of gonzo journalism, I have kept in mind a good friend from college who was a great fan of Hunter S. Thompson. In fact, there was never a greater birthday gift to this friend than the fact that the Fear and Loathing movie was released on his birthday. A bunch of us attended together, to celebrate Thompson, and our friend. I emailed my friend today with some words that I thought would ease the sadness of the day. Here is what I wrote to him-- I think that others may be able to find something in it for themselves.

This was the only way. If he had stayed around a while, what would have happened? The abuse that he inflicted upon his body would certainly have taken its toll, leaving him frail. weak. hollow. So, while I in no way advocate suicide, I respect his decision, modeled by the grandfather of all that is acoholic, dysfunctional, and genius--Papa Hemingway. He had been to the top, and, upon looking down, decided to go there on his own terms. I cannot imagine that his suicide was the last act of a desparate man. And while I am sure that, as we all do, he had a lot to live for, the importance of writing his own ending won out.

To flip the coin- and this is important, and needs to be said- I in no way mean to glorify suicide. While he has led a full life, and a relatively long life, he neglected to see the how selfish suicide really is. I still believe everything I said in the previous paragraph-- any other ending to Hunter S. Thompson would not have been fitting. But the pain that suicide leaves behind never goes away. And while we can take comfort in the control that Hunter S. Thompson exerted over his own fate, those who loved him, whether they knew him or not, will always have an open sore from whence an ally swiftly plucked himself.

List for Today

2005-02-19T14:38:00.000-05:00

Here is a list of my favorite sentences that people have spoken to me. I will list them here out of context, because that makes them sound even better. Even though, in context, they are still great sentences. I will list them in order of being spoken:

1. If the toilet don't flush, kick the tank.

2. He didn't tell his friend he had a dead body in the car.

3. I like it when my laundry rhymes.

I only have three right now. But I reserve the right to update this list.

Ash to ashes, funk to funky

2005-02-18T15:28:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'm here now. Let's see what happens next.