Witte's World

Karl Rove really is creepy.

2009-11-16T13:03:00.000-08:00

Last week Karl Rove tweeted a frowny face at me.

There are ten words I never thought I would write. It was not entirely undeserved as I had earlier tweeted that his use of emoticons was creepy and perhaps he did not need any further help in that department.

click here for actual tweet

His response? The frowny face emoticon.

click here for actual tweet

OK, so that is pretty funny. But it is also pretty creepy. Tens of thousands of people follow this guy on Twitter. 92,722 the last time I checked, but President Obama just formally greeted the Emperor of Japan so he may have just picked up another thousand or two. He is the Josh Lyman of the Republican Party so why does he give a rat’s fart if I take issue with his syntax?

I have several theories on this:
A) He wants to show he is just a “regular guy” that can joke with funny “folks” like me.
B) He really did take it personally because he is a neurotic freak that constantly checks and scrutinizes every tweet that mentions his name (which I can only imagine to be a considerable number)
C) His response was the simplest way to alert his people to my presence so they can do his dirty work for him – which they kinda’ did.

click here for actual tweet

click here for actual tweet

Schadenfreude makes me wants to believe it is “B”, but most likely it’s “A”, or an option that I have not even considered. And, of course, whether or not responses such as these were anticipated by Mr. Rove, we’ll never know, but it all certainly proves one point: The internet is fun!

click here for actual tweet

But, c’mon, seriously? A grown man of certain note, highly respected in some circles, should not be using cute little winkies and smiley faces. I don’t care who he votes for. And the fact that their use is in the casual world of Twitter is no goddamn excuse either.

So on to my other point, which I also believe this small exchange proves: Twitter is not irrelevant. After all, the Former White House Deputy Chief of Staff and Senior Advisor to the President has just learned firsthand (not through the filter of some news outlet but directly from the source) that I think he’s a creepy jackass.

And isn’t that a beautiful thing?

Dear California: WTF? Love, Iowa

2009-05-27T10:16:00.000-07:00

There have been times in my life when I have been called naïve. My ego always takes a hit when these remarks surface. Maybe it’s because of my own prejudice that infers certain foolishness at the notion of naiveté. And let’s be frank, we all know I can be a cynical bitch when I want to be especially since with age I’ve become far more comfortable than I should when speaking my mind. Besides, how naïve can a girl be when her favorite word is “fuck”?

So as I watch the events surrounding Prop 8 in California, I have to force myself to stop and wonder, “Is my shock and outrage a further product of my own unacknowledged naiveté”? How can it be, when it seems so obvious to me, that California, of all states, continues to support legislation that restricts the rights of its citizens?

In our society, isn’t government, as an agent of the people, supposed to work as protector of our rights? Yet, here, with Prop 8, government is being used to restrict the rights of certain individuals, based on the prejudices of other individuals. Those who attempt to brush off the weight of yesterday’s decision by reducing the debate to the “nomenclature” of marriage, strike me as being far more naïve than I. If this debate were simply a discussion of semantics, would there be protests in the streets?

The CA Supreme Court has ruled that a gay couple can have all of the rights and privileges equal to that of “constitutionally based incidents of marriage” but not actually have rights to the word itself. Instead, they have reserved “the official designation of the term ‘marriage’ for the union of opposite-sex couples as a matter of state constitutional law.” So, I guess their next call should be to Webster’s and the folks over at the OED? Also, isn’t the use of a word an unalienable right protected under the 1^st Amendment? Has the State of California just violated the US Constitution by denying an entire group of citizens to the use of a single word?

Going back to my original concern, regarding my naiveté, I suppose it’s true. I can’t possibly imagine that there are so many people out there that unwilling to accept how wrong they are. But maybe I am woefully arrogant, not naïve. I just can’t get past the fact that, at least on this subject, I’m right, and everyone else is wrong. Gay people are not a threat to the institution of marriage or family or anything other than bad taste. Harvey Milk won his battles by the simple premise that when you know gay people it is that much harder to discriminate against them. So then how is it possible that people of California continue to discriminate against their neighbors? How is it possible that people of Iowa, with a far smaller gay community to be sure, don’t discriminate?

I could go on forever about the religious arguments and implications this decision holds but for me, this should not be about religion or my faith. This is about my fellow citizens, people who come in all different shapes, colors and creeds, and how we have instructed our government to see us. The legislative, judicial and executive branches are agents of the people. And though we at times think that these branches act independently from our will, they do not. Currently, the State of California sees the gay community as a group not qualified for the word “marriage” and the love implicit in its meaning. I think otherwise and hope the good people of California, as well as the rest of the good ‘ole USA, will learn this lesson sooner rather than later.

Here’s a thought: Maybe the recent Prop 8 issue will be taken to the US Supreme Court where it will be struck down in a ground-breaking decision that effectively legalizes gay marriage on a Federal level. Or I am being too naïve?

Cheap Bastards Beware

2008-04-06T18:47:00.000-07:00

Since last I blogged, a lot has gone on in the life of Mary K. Witte. For purposes of this blog entry however, it is sufficient only to say that, sadly, Chesapeake Chicken and Rockin’ Ribs closed up shop last fall. And so, having found myself in the position to either pack up and move back to NYC or stick it out here on the Eastern Shore for a little while longer, I’ve chosen the latter. Not wanting to add to the swelling ranks of our country’s unemployed nor really looking forward to going back to the stress and drudgery of a desk job, I began to work last October as a waitress.

So far it has been a fairly reasonable experience. Physically it’s exhausting, of course, but it comes with little responsibility and I can take time off whenever I want. It has however given me a unique insight into the mind of the average restaurant consumer and I have to say I am at times shocked by the appalling lack of regard some people have for those fine folks who serve them generally tasty eats day in & day out.

In short, tip your waitress and tip her well you cheap bastards.

First of all, a primer on what we get paid by our employers and how the government makes sure we get none of it.

Contrary to popular belief, waiters, waitresses & bartenders are NOT paid minimum wage. They are paid less than minimum wage. The government allows employers a 50% payroll credit for tipped employees. So, for instance, in the State of Maryland where the minimum wage is $6.15, my hourly wage is $3.08 (p.s. thanks for that extra ½ cent per hour, it is super helpful when the car payment is due). Now, every day before I clock out, I figure out all of my credit card & cash tips, pay out a percentage of these tips to ancillary support staff (bussers, bartenders, etc…) and then I convert it all to cash and walk with whatever is left over.

I grant you, it is not a bad feeling to walk out of work everyday with some cold hard cash in my pocket. However, before I leave I am required to declare my tips to my employer so he can calculate my payroll tax. The general rule of the thumb is, at the very least, to declare your credit card tips since these days most tips are paid via credit card.

My employer will then base my payroll tax deduction on my total hourly wages plus my declared tips. Basically, this boils down to my entire paycheck going to payroll taxes since the only cash the employer actually has to work with is the $3.08/hour. Come payday, the only thing I get is a stub with no check – just a YTD total on what I’ve paid to the government so far. So if my total payroll tax is more than my $3.08/hour I’m in to Uncle Sam for the difference. But wait, there’s more: The government uses a lovely little formula based upon the employer’s sales to calculate what they think I should have earned in tips. If what I’ve declared doesn’t fall within a certain margin of error then I’ll owe even more money come April 15^th – whether I’ve actually earned that money or not.

Nice, right?

Basically, what I am trying to say is that tipping your server/waiter/waitress/bartender is so firmly entrenched in our economic psyche that the government has essentially given employers the right not to pay certain employees a living wage. Therefore, they have to rely on the arbitrary tips of the consumer to earn their keep. Is this morally correct? Is it OK to put the wage burden directly onto the shoulders of the consumer in one industry and not OK to do it another? (Imagine a world where you had to tip the gal behind register for selling you a Gap slim fit tee...yikes) Frankly, I don't really fucking care. It is what it is. Get the fuck over it.

So, if you’re one of those people that do not believe in the “concept of tipping” then stay the fuck home. When you go to a restaurant you are expected to pay the restaurant for its food & liquor (a.k.a. “the bill”) and the server for her service (a.k.a. “the tip”). Live it, learn it, love it. It’s just the way it is. As a server, tipping is not something that I “encourage” or “suggest”. It is something that I require. As in, I need it. It’s how I pay my bills.

Now that I’ve convinced you that tipping is something that you must do, I hope you are now wondering, am I tipping enough? For a good portion of you out there, I’m happy to say that the answer is a resounding YES!!! Sadly, there are still some out there that are woefully ill-informed as to how to TIP YOUR SERVER for good service.

Good service can be loosely defined as pleasant demeanor, accurate order taking, competent table maintenance (i.e. drink refills, dish removal) and a basic eagerness to provide an enjoyable dining experience (i.e. if food is not satisfactory will cheerfully offer to remedy the situation in a timely manner).

Bad service is the exact opposite. Sarcasm, lack of communication, general disregard for the well-being of her customers. These are the classic signs of a bad server.

Now for the tipping part: If you receive good service, tip well. If not, then don’t. It is that simple. Here are some rules to go by when faced with the dilemma of tipping for good service, just in case you’re still not sure.

Rule # 1: 15% should be seen as the minimum for good service and really 20% is the nice thing to do (and it’s just good karma).

Rule #2: An additional 5% should be added for each and any of the following scenarios

Camping out: You’ve asked for the check, your server has run your card and dropped the receipts and you and your pals have decided to hang out to discuss world peace while nursing the free coffee and soda refills. Add 5% for every 30 minutes you’ve camped out at my table. During that time I could be a) turning my table over to a new set of paying customers, b) clocking out and moving on to my next job if it’s the end of the shift or c) clocking out and going home to bed if it’s the end of the day.

Children: Kids! Everyone loves them, god knows I do. But, it’s a simple fact of life that they are…well…messy. And let’s face it, sometimes they are not all that well-behaved. Who can blame them? They are just kids after all. But parents are adults and in theory know better. So, when the floor around your table is covered with french fries and your server has just delivered her 3^rd sippy cup of warm milk for your toddler and 5^th root beer for that oh-so-precious third grader…keep that in mind come tip time.

Picky eaters: Are you a vegan? Allergic to basil? Morbidly afraid of raw foods? Tell me before your food is delivered. Better yet, tell me before you order. A novel concept, I know but sadly, I am not a mind-reader. And if you tell me ahead of time that you absolutely positively must have every food item you’ve ordered served on a square plate and I go back to the kitchen and have a special meal prepared just for you – know that a lot of people (myself included) had to jump through a lot hoops to stop what they were doing to take care of your special request. Remember, you are not the only customer in the restaurant.

Large groups: If you are with a party of 5 or more people try to keep in mind that your server has more customers than just your table. Under the best of circumstances waiting on a large group can be very taxing. So, when she comes to the table and asks if she can get you anything - tell her. Don’t send her back and forth to the bar a 1000 times by ordering drinks one person at a time. And seriously, if you are a high maintenance party of at least 8 people and with big drinkers and eaters that are camping out and your server has given you decent service - 25% is the least you could do because she totally busted her ass to make sure that you were all happy

Separate checks: If you’re going to pay by separate checks, tell your server ahead of time, before she starts taking the order. Restaurant computer systems are rarely programmed by anyone who has ever actually waited on tables, so once your order has been placed, it can at times be a very complicated process to separate it out. Also, when paying separately, there is always one cheap bastard in the group who feels they don’t have to tip because they know everyone else is. Keep this in mind when paying your portion of the tip. Think of it as a stupidity tax for hanging out with assholes.

Messy people: Have you been blowing your nose a lot through out the meal? Perhaps you’re a compulsive cracker eater? Remember I’m the one who has to clean up all of those grody tissues, wrappers and cracker crumbs. If at the end of your meal your table looks like a de-militarized zone, despite the best efforts of your server and her beleaguered bus-person, tip her well

Awkward situations: Have personal problems at home? Try not to argue with your wife or scream at your children in front of your server. It’s just weird. Conversely, don’t make-out and grope your mistress while I’m trying to serve you a couple of steaks. That’s why God invented hotels & room service. If you just can't seem to keep your personal life private, at least have the good taste to tip your server a little extra for having the good sense to ignore your poor conduct.

Who pays the bill?: If your server brings you the check and you’ve decided to involve her in the argument of whose husband gets to pick up the check again, the least you can do is tip her for putting up with being placed in such a awkward situation against her will.

Extra-special service: Last, but certainly not least. Has your server gone out of her way to make sure that your dining experience is a pleasant one? Maybe she suggested a particularly satisfying menu selection or she helped your 90 year old grandmother to the ladies room? Has your server gone out of her way to do anything for you that really isn’t part of her job description? If so, tip accordingly.

Rule #3: Don’t be rude. And, if you or anyone in your party must be rude, tip accordingly.

Unless you’re choking, don’t interrupt your server when she is helping another customer.

Don’t ever grab me or poke me to get my attention. It’s rude, and it’s a surefire way to wind up with a martini in your lap.

Don’t wave at me or yell for me across the restaurant. It’s bread and it’s free – babies won’t die if you have to wait another 2 minutes before you get that 3^rd loaf of sourdough.

When I start to clear the dishes off of your table – don’t start handing them to me all at once. While I appreciate the effort, it’s not my first time clearing dishes and if you start piling them up in my hands all at once, I’ll drop them in your lap.

Don’t ever grab anything off of my tray. Ever. Carrying a tray full of food and/or drinks is a balancing act and I will spill margaritas down your grandmother’s back if you grab that Coors Light before I’m ready to serve it to you. And really who wants to see Granny wearing a margarita soaked sweater set?

Don’t talk to your server like she’s an idiot, or a 2^nd class citizen. Thurgood Marshall waited on tables before he became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court so let’s refrain from the character judgments, shall we?

Rule #4: Base your tip on the gross sales of your total dinner bill.

Are you paying part of your check with a gift card or coupon? Your tip should be based on the bill prior to any discounts or deductions. If your bill is $80 and you have a $50 coupon, don’t leave a $6 tip and think you are some sort of 20% big-tipper, because you are not. In fact, you are a cheap asshole.

Did you get any of your food or liquor comped? Unfortunately, the health department frowns on me tasting your food before I put it on the table so it’s not my fault you had to send back that food because it was undercooked. My job is to make sure you don’t have to pay for it. If I’ve done that well, with a pleasant demeanor – then tip accordingly.

Similarly, if your best friend owns the restaurant and you’re eating for free even though I’ve been waiting on you hand and foot for the last hour – tip accordingly. Nobody likes privileged assholes like you and it just means that the next time you come in someone will probably fart on your dessert before it leaves the kitchen.

Rule # 5: Tip your carry out person.

Ordering carry out? Unless you’re ordering from Domino’s, typically the person who’s taking your order and making sure it doesn’t get completely lost in the kitchen is some poor server who got stuck with “take-out” duty that night in addition to her regular tables.

It doesn’t have to be 15% - 20% but a give a girl a little something for the effort.

Rule # 6: No excuses, please.

The only excuse for a shitty tip is bad service (see above). The following excuses are not valid reasons for a shitty tip:

Foreigner: I don’t care if you are British, or French, or freaking Scotch-Romanian. You are in America and we tip 15% or higher for good service. It says it right there in your guidebook. So don’t play the “I didn’t know” or the “that’s not how we do it where I am from” bullshit with me. When I am in your country I make damn sure to respect your customs, please pay me the courtesy of doing the same when you are in mine.

Old people: Simply because you are old enough to remember life before television is not an excuse. If you drive up to the restaurant in a Benz and pay with a platinum AmEx don’t cheap out and play the “but we’re senior citizens card”. If you really are on a fixed income then you shouldn’t be spending your money on $12 martinis and shrimp cocktails. And you wonder why your children never visit…

Young people: School’s out for the week and you and your pals want to chow down on some fine eats after smoking a fatty in your old man’s SUV? Do yourself a favor and tip your server well, she probably takes spinning classes with your mom.

Phew. Boy, am I glad I got that off my chest or what? Feel free to pass this along to any cheap assholes in your life. God knows, we've all got 'em.

If It's Sin To Kill A Mockingbird, Where Does That Leave An Emu?

2006-10-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

2 months ago, I moved to Easton, MD.

All in all life in a small town has been good. Easton is a lovely little town and it is listed as one of the Top 10 Small Towns in America. I often wonder who comes up with that list. How does a town make the cut? For instance, Easton, MD and Mt. Vernon, OH are roughly the same size and both have a Dairy Queen, but something tells me that Mt. Vernon, OH didn’t even make it past the first round. Too bad, because Mt. Vernon has a “Friendly’s” restaurant and Easton does not. And even though you may not always want a Fribble and a Friendly Frank – it’s nice to know it’s there. Just in case.

I’d like to take a moment here to discuss something that I didn’t have to deal with, on a personal everyday basis, while I was living in New York City. Republicans. Lots of Republicans. OK – now you would think that because it’s a small town it’s just the usual redneck, gun-toting, religious-right wing-nuts. I mean, if that were the case, I wouldn’t even mention it, because really – there’s no accounting for white trash. Hell, at this point, I’d be happy with some good old fashioned Goldwater Republicans. But you see, Talbot County has more millionaires per capita than most places on earth – and we are just a hop away from the nation’s capital. This means neo-con wing-nuts. People who believe that we are actually winning the war on terrorism, that the GOP has our children’s best interests in mind and that George W. Bush is an eloquent man. Yes folks, I find myself living in the same county that Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld have decided to set up house for some country living. Kill me now.

But I digress...When I lived in New York I loved to read the NY Times Op-Ed pages. The same is true here in Easton and I have to say that Maureen Dowd’s got nothing on The Op-Ed pages in the Star Democrat. First of all, I happen to find it reassuring that contrary to the assumptions of some of my over-educated liberal compatriots, smart people live in small towns, too. But also because it often bears up lovely little everyday reality checks that remind me that not everything is about terrorism, school shootings or Congressional pedophiles. It's about the little things. Things that happen through the course of the day that make our lives unique. For instance, just last week the hot topic of the pages was the plight of a local emu.

That’s right, an emu. Kin to the ostrich, indigenous to Australia, winged bird without flight and evidently a recent resident of the woods neighboring the Caroline County Country Club Golf Course. I have no idea whatsoever how this bird got from the Australian outback to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, maybe it thought it needed to work on its short game and thought Caroline County was just as good a place as any. All I know is that it decided the golf course was a nice to place to live.

But sadly, some of the local residents, concerned for the beast’s welfare (after all, hunting season is upon us) placed a call to the local Humane Society in hopes they could return it to whatever zoo/preserve/farm it had escaped from. Evidently, this was not a good idea. The Humane Society, accompanied by the local sheriff, arrived on scene and attempted to apprehend the wayward bird – not with a net, or even with a tranquilizer gun. Instead, they decided to use a taser on the poor beast. When the first shot didn’t subdue it, they just kept on shooting it. And then it died of a massive coronary. All of this took place in plain view of several area residents and a few foursomes out for a quick nine before lunch.

Can you imagine? You're just hanging out, maybe you've just let your buddy take a mulligan for like, the fifth time that day when all of a sudden a freaking emu tears by, chased by some crazed animal rights freak with a taser and the local sheriff?

So came the letters. People are outraged. Horrified. Oh the humanity! Oops...wait a minute...According to the Humane Society the goal was not to kill the bird but merely to subdue a potentially “vicious” bird so that it could be moved to a more appropriate “emu”-like environment. have you ever seen a picture of an emu?

click here

Are you scared? No, of course not. Because it’s the goofiest looking thing ever to grace God’s green earth. He wasn't bothering anyone, he was just trying to get through the day just like everyone else. Maybe eat a few worms - flap his wings (just in case!). You know, just living for the day. And so it goes.

I’ve been reading about this bird since last Tuesday. Life is good.

At Least In Italy, Gravity Is Not My Friend

2006-09-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

OK, so last month I had the fantastic opportunity to travel to Italy for a week to celebrate Cary’s 40^th birthday. We stayed in a gorgeous villa in Tuscany, rode in a hot air balloon, toured a vineyard, ate some of the most delicious meals ever, wine was flowing – it was simply fabulous. A dream come true. Seriously.

Everything was perfect except for one little hitch. On the very first day about 12 of us took off on mountain bikes for what was (ostensibly) to be a lovely hour long bike ride through the Tuscan countryside. The plan was to end up in Monterrigioni where we would meet up with the rest of the group for lunch. It was about 25 minutes into the ride that it dawned on me that this “leisurely ride” was more like a spinning class gone horribly awry. Nonetheless I was going to suck it up and make it to Monterrigioni even if I had to cough up a lung. Ya, not so much. It was somewhere at the 45 minute mark that we came to the top of this hill that was at about a 45 degree angle. The path down the hill was gravel and at the bottom of the hill was a hard right turn on to pavement.

It’s about 1/4 of the way down the hill when I come to appreciate that, in cases such as these, gravity is not my friend. Here’s the dilemma – do I stick it out and take my chances making the right turn on the pavement? Noooooo…if I don’t make the turn I could careen over an embankment – possibly run into a tree (ouch!). OK, so I decide to slow down a bit using my rear brakes. Oh god, now I am fishtailing…must get off bike now….shit…slow down…head for the dirt…big rock…and there I go, over the handlebars. Holy Shit! I am totally fucking injured and wow – it hurts like hell. I open my eyes and I am staring at no less than 4 gay men, all of them impeccably dressed for a day of biking in Italy. Me, I am covered in blood and dirt. I can hear 5 more on the way. Everyone is remaining very calm and for that I am grateful. However, here I am with all of these professional, successful, over-educated men and not single doctor among them. Why don’t I know any doctors?

Next, I am greeted by Hot-Italian-Bike-Tour-Dude. He moves my wrist around – determines it is not broken – and then rings up his Hot Italian Wife and asks her to come fetch me and my damaged bike. I am such a dork and this moment is rather embarassing - fierce pain notwithstanding. I mean, this the 1st day of our vacation and I've already completely spazzed out. OK, so after I reassure everyone that I am fine to go back to the villa by myself I am left sitting on the side of the Tuscan country road with Hot-Italian-Bike-Tour-Dude. Hmmm, I am usually pretty good with the casual conversation thing but, he is like well, super hunky hot, and I am covered in dirt and blood and about forty pounds overweight weight sitting in the blazing tuscan sun in unearthly pain. So I took a pass on flirting with Hot-Italian-Bike-Tour-Dude.

Fast forward through the rest of the week: I fashioned a lovely sling from a lovely lavender faux-pashmina that I brought along, co-opted every pain-killer in the villa (which were considerable, mind you), drank a lot of red wine and successfully ignored the fact that while my wrist seemed to be OK it was really my elbow that was causing me the most concern and pain. It wasn’t until I was stuck in security in Frankfurt in line behind some dumb American who evidently hadn’t gotten the memo that we had just recently declared war on mouthwash and lens solution that I realized I was fucked. The pain at this point has become ungodly. By the time I got to the Lufthansa gate for my connection to JFK I was in such a hysterical state that the creepy German lady from Lufthansa totally managed to make me cry even while she upgraded me to Business-class for free. The flight attendants in business totally rocked though. They were so nice and helpful and even got extra pillows for me for my arm. I wish everywhere was like Business class.

When I got back to Maryland I went straight to the ER in Easton. Easton Hospital has got a lot of problems, let’s face it, it’s not exactly the Mayo clinic. However, the one thing the country hospital has over the city hospital is the wait in the emergency room. As in, there wasn’t one. I was in & out with X-rays and an appointment for the ortho specialist in less than 3 hours. Good stuff. Even got a script for Vicodin. Nice.

The 1^st ortho doc I went to took one look at my X-rays and immediately referred me to one of his partners that specialized in “unique” breaks in the forearm and elbow. Evidently, the fracture of the radial head in my left elbow was so severe that it completely freaked out the ER doc and the 1^st ortho doc. Thankfully, the 2^nd ortho doc was a bit more reassuring and indicated that my fracture could be remedied in some manner (though there goes my pro tennis career – darnit!). Long story short: I had surgery where he took the broken bits of my elbow out of my arm and decided that was the best solution. Now I have to go to physical therapy for 2 hours/day, 3 days/week. My PT is very impressed with my committment by the way.

Did I mention that it was my left elbow that was broken and that I am left-handed? Bummer.

The good news: After the surgery – there was no longer anything in my arm that was broken. So no cast! The bad news: I have a nasty scar from my surgery and it’ll be a few months before I get meaningful mobililty & strength back in my arm. Was it worth it? Hell yes. I love Italy and can’t wait to go back.

True, these last few weeks have been at best inconvenient and at worst painful and aggravating. Particularly when it comes to the little everyday things that I cannot do or have trouble doing. Here’s a list – just to give you an idea.

Things You Can’t Do With One Arm – or – Why It Sucks To Break Your Left Elbow When You Are Left Handed

I cannot put things in my hair, at least, not very well. Barrettes, ponytails, shampoo. I have now resorted to wearing my hair in a scarf everyday. Gray roots have completely taken over. Thank goodness I can carry off the “natural bohemian” look.
Eating - so much for table manners. Here’s a test for you righties out there. Tie your right arm at your side (use a scarf or a belt) and then try eating a bowl of cereal using only your left hand. Suddenly, I am 3 years old again trying to master the art of using a spoon. Thankfully, roasted chicken is an acceptable “finger food”.
Wear jeans. Again, keeping your right arm at your side, try putting on your favorite jeans.
Sign my name. The expression on the nurse’s face after seeing the look on my face when she asked me to sign my surgery release is particularly priceless.
A good night’s sleep. Can’t sleep well if every time you move into a new position you potentially put yourself into excruciating pain (see final note).
Put on deodorant. If you can’t bend your elbow – you can’t put on deodorant. It’s just that simple.
I cannot open things. Anything. Bottles, doors, windows, bag of chips, prescription bottle of pain killers.Kill me now.

Unemployment – Day 5

2006-07-21T16:13:00.000-07:00

Behind schedule in the packing department, though I must say I have achieved previous goal. Bathroom and kitchen are shockingly clean. Today I will conquer the living room and foyer. Must admit I’m a bit concerned – it’s a bit depressing to have to go through Milly’s things and face the reality that I do, in fact, spoil my dog more than most people do with their children. She must know that there is a big move on the horizon – she keeps pulling out toys that I haven’t seen in months. Where she finds them – I couldn’t possibly imagine.

I dropped off 45 lbs of laundry this morning. It pretty much consisted of all of my towels and linens. Of course, I’m still going through a major underwear shortage. TMI, sure, but I don’t really care. I’m just looking forward to doing my own laundry without walking 2 blocks to get there and worrying if I left my dirty bits somewhere on West 4^th Street.

Very depressed to discover the reruns of “Charmed” have been pre-empted by the British open. Stupid boring golf show. It’s barely even fun to watch in real life let alone on TV. At least if you’re watching at the club you can toss a few G&T’s back to pass the time. Otherwise, G&T’s in front of the TV during the middle of the day is just plain pathetic.

I’ve been avoiding the news lately – because it’s depressing and irritating. Of course, last night after a spin ‘round the internet it’s no surprise to see that not much has changed. Our president is still a complete fucking idiot. I mean, we’ve all met his parents, right? I may not agree with their politics but I always assumed they were good mannered folk. So what the fuck happened with their son? Talking with his mouth full of food, using the word “shit” to describe what could possible evolve into WWIII and then groping a world leader like she was some temp from the steno pool. Who is this man? Why ? Why ? Why ? Why is he still the president ? Note to self: Stop watching the news.

Ready for my afternoon nap now.

Unemployment – Day One

2006-07-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

Have watched 4 episodes of “Charmed” today alone – can only imagine what’s next in store for the Charmed Ones.

Have also become obsessed with The Learning Channel. The episode about “The Shrinking Woman” is fascinating and grotesque all at the same time. She lost over 400 pounds and then had the final 40 pounds of “extra” skin removed surgically. It’s insane. Between TLC and the commercials for Relacore, Nutri-system and something called “Hoodia” – must make note to self: Join Y when I arrive in Maryland, maybe start running again, at the very least forego the late-night ice cream runs.

Have begun detailing the bathroom and kitchen. When I am done with them they will be shockingly clean. Question: Why do I have so many cans of evaporated milk and split-pea soup? And why do I have so many bars of soap? I never use bar soap and don’t recall ever buying any.

Still ignoring “land of the misfit toys” by the front door. It has become a landing area for any and all dirty laundry. Have resorted to wearing boxers under my skirt since I haven’t had a clean pair of undies since last Thursday. It’s just too damn hot to even think about doing my laundry.

Electric bill arrived today. $150 for June – only $15 of it was for the gas stove. Hmmmm….can only imagine what July will be like with A/C running 24/7.

Scrounged up every single coin and bit of foreign currency laying about the apartment and cashed them in at the bank. Made $60. Good times.

No really, I can explain....

2006-05-25T19:52:00.000-07:00

1. I slept with my hair in pin curls and setting lotion to achieve this look.

2. I loved, loved, loved that Holly-Hobby-Laura-Ingalls-Patchwork dress. Wore it everyday if they'd let me.

3. What's with the neon green barette?

4. Dig the way the Kool-aid mustache sets off my dimples.

5. Freckles or dirt? or Grape Jelly? Possibly all three.

I Promise, It's Not Just About The Dog

2006-05-25T19:16:00.000-07:00

So I've decided to join the blogosphere. Finally, right? Well, I'm not going to lie to you. It's a bit scary. There's just so much pressure...Pressure to be funny, pressure to be witty and topical..and funny.

Lord, grant me the strength to post photos that are more than just a picture of my dog hiding under my bed and looking oh so freaking adorable. And Lord, grant me the strength to post more than the usual weekly rant about that fucking asshole George Bush.

And Lord, thank you for providing us with people smart enough to come up with the internet and spell check and all that other groovy gadget shit that makes it possible for dorks like me to randomly drone on and on for forever and a day about absolutely nothing while at the same time still being able to feel as if I'm actually a half-way literate human being. Run on sentences, split-infinitives and sentence fragments notwithstanding.

By the way - here's a picture of my dog.

Cute, right?

Her name is Milly, and though, as promised, this blog will not just be about the dog, expect many Milly photos in our future together. It's an addiction - and while I'm willing to admit to it - I'm not quite ready to kick it.

I feel the same way about handbags. And that hottie actor who plays Warrick on CSI.

He is so fine.