First Cup.

First Cup.
Today, our brand new tech writer made me a cup of real coffee, using a coffee press. It was thick, foamy, and almost creamy. I've never had pressed coffee before. Just the filtered stuff, which requires vast quantities of a cream ingredient (preferably to achieve the HTML color code 996600 shade of brown) and a sugar ingredient in order to please me like a vanilla latte pleases me.

Pressed coffee is incredible! INCREDIBLE! I'm never going back. This is even better than a latte, for the love of all sacred things I never thought I could or would denounce.

Oh, and in other news, and we hired a new tech writer who makes phenomenal coffee. I'm sure he writes well, too, but ehhhh. I have my priorities.

Boy.

Boy.



Internet, meet Lucas. Lucas is both beautiful and crazy. Crazy, like, genius crazy. In fact, if you ask him, "Lucas, where's the excavator?" he'll point to the picture of an excavator truck amongst a page full of other dump-truck looking things. Dude, I didn't even know what an excavator truck looked like before a 20 month old pointed to one for me.

Before Lucas was born, I referred to him as "baby lu." Depending on which sex he ended up, he would be a Lucy or a Lucas, so "Lu" worked as a gender-neutral catch-all. The whole time his mother was pregnant, I had this vision of baby lu being cuddly and gurgly for a long time and then all of a sudden being in school and being a boy. It turns out that Lucas stopped being a baby lu long before being a grown-up. And it turns out that the inquisitive, becoming-a-person, genius toddler stage is even better than the cuddly gurgly stage. Totally better.

Here he is shining in the sunlight and investigating a non-digital camera. I love you, baby lu.

One down.

One down.
This whole first anniversary weekend was magical and lovely, except for the fight we had about cleaning the house for the party. (I was, however, impressed with our communication in the Fight Aftermath. You know, less “shut up, damn it,” and more “____ made me feel _____.”)

We spent much of Saturday getting things in order and cooking for the party, and then we spent a lovely evening with our friends and family. Sunday, we went sailing with my precious coworkers after church. All was beautiful and your standard sunny southern California sailing experience until the mast cable broke, sending the sail plummeting onto Erik’s head. His head broke through the canvas. I’m serious. In fact, after we pried him out from beneath it, we decided we had just missed a prime photo op and then staged a reenactment. There was much commotion and hullabaloo and two of my friends held out a towel to pick up the wind and carry us ashore in the absence of a real sail. I don’t think I could pick a better bunch of friends with whom to find myself shipwrecked.

That night, we shared a lovely dinner at Galoka, home of amazing all-vegetarian Indian food, fantastic art, a mostly organic wine list, and kick ass music. I pretty much cleared my plate. Except for those carrots. I once ate some carrots that tasted like dish soap, and I haven’t been able to forgive carrots since.

The anniversary weekend ended bittersweetly, with Erik driving back to Ojai this morning. SAD TIMES. However, the rest of the day was peppered with the following little gems:

Erik found out that as soon as he gets back into town from his National Forest job, he is starting up again at the county for election season. Thank you, sweet gods of employment.

Sarah came over tonight and we mastered “Cedar Tree” by the Indigo Girls. I had to tune my guitar down to DGDGBD and it sounded so beautiful I’m considering leaving it that way permanently and limiting my repertoire to drop-tuned songs.

Sarah was recounting a story to me from earlier in the day, in which she quoted herself as saying, “my best friend Julia…” I can’t even describe how lovely this makes me feel. Call me twelve, but I adore being a best friend.

As I retreated to the boudoir, I noticed that my sweet departed husband had left a mix-CD for me on my pillow. On my PILLOW! It’s a mix of sweet songs very dear to our hearts. (I totally feel like I’m being wooed by the main male character in a WB drama. A mix snuck onto a pillow is so Dawson and Joey.)

Never felt magic, crazy as this.

Wild Horses

Wild Horses.

While listening to that Sundays CD with the freaky looking baby on the front, I realized that, actually, wild horses probably could drag me away from Erik. I'd also get scratched up and break a few bones. Regardless of this physical and maybe even mental vulnerabilty for separation, it was really comforting to know that Erik would find me again, meeting me in the emergency room ICU after the wild horse dragging. We're pushed and pulled in so many different directions, physically, emotionally, etc., but the good news is that if I happen to be walking through some tough times on my own, my sweet husband and I will love each other the whole time and then we'd have the happy reunion of the long distance relationship variety, and rush to tell each other breathless stories with massive run-on sentences and kiss a lot and hold hands even in the car.

Today, I took a shiny new route to work which shaved off about 7-8 minutes from my commute. This makes me ridiculously happy. Granted, there's a highly convenient Peets Coffee and Tea on the way, which in turn adds about 10 minutes. This, too, makes me ridiculously happy.

This weekend, Erik and I are having a big party because in a few days we'll have been married a year! A FUCKING YEAR! I really can't comprehend how this year has flown by, but frankly, if the rest of our lives are like this, we'll get our "seven year itch" around our golden anniversary. I couldn't imagine another life, even now with the distance because then I wouldn't be getting my sweet groggy whispering phone calls while lying in bed in the wee hours of the morning (i.e. 8am).

Yesterday, my coworker John drunk-emailed me back and forth all morning. I'm going to wait until this sentence to tell you he was in the Phillipines for work, raiding the company-funded minibar in the wee hours of his time zone, because a mental image of a bunch of drunken engineers in midday suburban california with an empty minibar in their cubicle is really entertaining.

My very-different-from-me carpool buddy Matt just came back from Cancun, where he was PHOTOGRAPHING SWIMSUIT MODELS FOR A CATALOG. I'm completely serious. No, he didn't have any photography experience before this, and his pictures are actually quite good! And yes, he's bringing his new swimsuit model girlfriend to the party this weekend. Words fail me.

Sweet Jackie is dangerously high on my list of Favoritest People Ever, because while I was away from my desk for a few minutes yesterday, I received four emails from her. The first one informed me that David Sedaris, my dream (gay) man, is coming to town and that we must go. The second, third, and fourth were all about how SHE JUST BOUGHT TICKETS FOR US ALL AND GOT INCREDIBLE SEATS. Jackie, I love you.

See the above three bullets for reasons why I love my job these days. Air delivery systems and thermal control and vibration analysis and alignment just get sweeter by the minute when there are scheduled tea breaks and car rides home and night hikes to look forward to with the best coworkers in the world.

I'm such a fucking sap.

Sail away.

Sail away.



This is the sail of my friend Greg's boat. About a month or so ago, we took it out onto Mission Bay in San Diego. I was completely taken by how beautiful the whole situation was. The glistening water, the movement, the giddy children, and this vast, solid sail swaying slowly above us.

Earlier, Greg's sweet wife, Shawna, had been talking about how they'd retire the boat after this summer; it was too much hassle. I could understand this. They had to load not only a toddler into their van, but also load up the boat trailer and the boat. And it was quite old and tattered and always needing repairs.

But lying on the edge of the boat as we skimmed across the water, fingertips breaking the surface, I whispered to Greg, "don't ever get rid of this boat."

Matchy-Matchy.

Matchy-Matchy.
In recent years, my sweet long-lost friend Katie introduced me to the term "matchy-matchy," designating overly and misguidedly coordinated outfits. Sometimes, copious color coordination looks great, like when the swank lady at my church wears a black tank top with a turquoise skirt and black shoes and a turquoise necklace and earings. Most times, however, it's easy to go overboard. Like wearing turquoise shoes. Or something that was black/turquoise-y patterned. (Ew, patterns.)

I had always been conservative when it comes to shoes - just a good solid pair of brown shoes and a good solid pair of black shoes and maybe some birkenstocks or flip flops for saturdays, and I was happy. Well, happy up until about 4 years ago, with the Great Tall Boot Purchase of '00. I was late on the tall boot bandwagon, but it was as if I'd discovered sex in shoe form. I had a new leash on footwear. I ripped my shirt open and let my hair down and wrote erotica and ate oysters with champagne. I became a bonafide Shoe Ho.

Now I have red shoes! pink shoes! green shoes! heels! pointy-toes! peekaboo-toes!

I always take care to walk the line between put-togetherness and matchy-matchy. If I'm wearing all neutral tones or all black, the shoes and one other accessory will suffice. And of course, some days no amount of shoe color coordination will save me from frumpiness.

However, this morning, as I pulled on my yellow cardigan and dark grey skirt, I pretty much jumped the shark when I thought to myself, "man, if only I had yellow shoes."

Sadness, Failure.

Sadness, Failure
I really hesitate to talk about this, because I'm ashamed and I'm afraid of hearing that I'm doing the wrong thing. This weekend, we decided that our home is far from the best home for sweet Franklin the cat. We've taken a few steps to find a new happy home for him, and we're probably not going to take him back to the shelter. Who knows if someone would pick him?

Looking back, I think we realized that it wasn't a good match from day 1. We've been mulling over this for over a month now.

I always hear about people giving puppies and kittens back to the shelter and it had always irritated me, like maybe the owners jumped into the decision irrationally. They should have thought about this beforehand! They should have considered all the consequences first!

As much as I tell myself that yeah, we did think about all this beforehand, and yeah, we considered the consequences first, I still join their ranks. I'm one of those people. I teared up at lunch today when a coworker told me that he's also a failure because he threw away his compost heap.

A glimmer of a silver lining is that if he were still in the shelter, he wouldn't have been treated for all of his little sicknesses - the parasites, the eye infection, the tapeworm, what have you. I do feel like we did make a positive difference in his life for just a short period.

But, for the long term, we failed.

The hard life of a lonely spouse.

The hard life of a lonely spouse.
I'm actually really happy at this moment, but I have to say that it is REALLY rough being physically and communication-ally apart from my husband. I haven't talked to him since a whispered, too early Monday morning phone call.

Stupid little things are really getting to me, like the (normally wonderful) fact that his side of the bed is always smooth and doesn't even need fluffing or folding in the morning. Like the fact that the soap in the shower is lasting me at least three times longer without him using it. Like the fact that his boy-cosmetics and deodorant aren't lined up on the counter right next to the sink where my elbows hit while washing my face, even though he has plenty of space in the medicine cabinet. Like the fact that the last grown-up/non "c'mere kitty" tone of voice the walls of the house heard was probably sometime mid-afternoon on Sunday. Like the fact that when the small of my back is cold in the middle of the night, I can't just wiggle over to his usual 400°F radiant sleep-heat. Like the fact that putting conjunctivitis ointment in Franklin's eyes is way easier with two people.

The hair on the bathroom floor is all long and blond. There are no boxer shorts or My Neighbor Totoro t-shirts in the washing machine. There's no cheese in the fridge. The CDs are piled up and EVEN THOUGH I PROMISE THEY'RE TOTALLY "ORGANIZED," look like they're in total disarray and not filed away in our cabinets alphabetically per genre, chronologically within each artist. I saw my coworkers kiss last night and while it was really OH MY GOD MY SWEET COWORKERS ARE KISSING AND ARE SO HAPPY, the way their lips touched made mine ache.

These negligible things expose absense and lack and I just want Erik to come home so I can feel his lips on mine and mess up the bed and watch him alphabetize CDs.

Lycophilic

Lycophilic.
The other night, I picked my very first home-grown tomato and opted to end its life and eat it. I cooked up a little seasoned tofu, smothered some rosemary bread with vegan cream cheese, extra rosemary, black pepper, and some sliced tomato, and sunk my teeth into something I actually grew myself. It was a moment of great pride, as well as tastiness, in my life.

So of course, I had to document the occasion. Click to enter:



first fruits: the first organic tomato crop. late summer 2004.

Step 1: Please select your software's Fuck menu...

Step 1: Please select your software's Fuck menu...
Today just called for a "custom" menu.

I'm gonna rock you like a...

I'm gonna rock you like a...
Last night at the spur-of-the-moment-let's-go-to-the-Dave-Matthews-concert, my dear friend Sarah and I were standing on the back patio, relieving her tired, pregnant body of the blanket of smoke covering us at our seats. We listened and watched the people around try in vain to bob to the jagged rhythm. Sarah, laughing, asked, "what is this, 5/8?" Close, it was 7/8. We then decided that 7/8 meter makes for pretty bad sex music.

If I had to pick a favorite, I'd say that a moderately paced (andante!) 6/8 is the best sex meter. 123456. You can count out every eighth note for rousing movement, or, kind of like how music directors sometimes chose to conduct 6/8 in 2, cutting the pace in half for a slower, sweeter romp. 1--2--. Conductors do this if the pace is too fast to conduct every eighth note, or if the feel of the piece just calls for a cut-time lilt.

Radiohead's Nice Dream is in 6/8, and while it's a little too fast to "conduct" (bwah) all the eighth notes all the time, there are definitely moments. (Also, that's one of my favorite posts linked there.)

And then there are times when sexing to a particular music meter seems contrived, or maybe one party is TOTALLY NOT CAPABLE OF IT, so then you're just going to have to settle for Hooverphonic's entire amazing album "A New Stereophonic Sound Spectacular." Spectacular indeed. It has the whole gamut of meters that are still ridiculously sensual even if ignored.

Update: The comment box is now the Favorite Sex Soundtrack box.

Iron Mountain

Iron Mountain
Last night, my coworker John and I raced up and down Poway's Iron Mountain after work. It had to have been the most invigorating and entertaining run/shuffle up a mountain ever. This guy cannot be quiet, but that's a good thing when you have lots of stories about alone-in-the-wilderness close calls and mishaps to tell.

The Iron Mountain trail has a beautiful, rocky, sometimes steep ascent that twists around the back side of the mountain, winding through sagebrush and something that looks an awful lot like holly. Almost to the summit, the trail hooks back around again to the west-facing side, and thus into the sun. It was such a beautiful moment to creep back into the warm golden light of the setting sun. Also, at this point we had stopped playing John's step-only-on-rocks game which involves a great deal of hopping, so we had slowed/calmed down a bit and paused to look out at some gorgeous country and the distant San Diego skyline through the hazy late afternoon light.

The peaceful moment was soon punctured by John whisking past and yelling that we were racing to the top. It was a photo finish at the summit, when we both grabbed onto different sides of a viewer thing. However, it turns out that the viewer thing rotates, and was well-oiled at the time. I almost lost several digits and/or my head when he pounced on the scope from the other side, twisting it around towards me. Luckily, my reflexes were in tip top condition, so all body parts remain intact. This is also proof that I TOTALLY GOT TO THE TOP FIRST, since I was already touching the viewer before John pushed it towards me.

There was no time to dilly dally at the top and enjoy the sunset, but after making fun of some people's pathetic love poems to each other in the summit log book (and briefly contemplating writing another to My Dearest Cathleen), we then ran back down, chasing the daylight. Ridiculously rocky terrain, fading light, exercise-induced tunnel vision, hunger-induced weakness, and trying to outpace each other made this quite difficult. Also, my coworker was literally prancing around and making gymnastics-esque leaps and kickouts, which was really distracting among other things. But we did six or so miles, up and down a mountain, in an hour and a half with only negligible injuries. Not bad.

On my way home, after almost breaking my car in half trying to get back onto the main road, I was struck by a sudden craving. After a quick (cough, forty-five minutes, cough) stop in Whole Foods, I was ready to spend some very quality alone time, curled up with a Soy Delicious faux-ice cream root beer float, the internet, and the Hamm twins.

Believe it or not.

Believe it or not.
Last night, while Erik and I were out to dinner, I asked him if he could remember the first few words to the "dadadadada, I'm walking on air" song.

Sure enough, not only did he remember the first few words, he knew the entire song. And he sung it all, in his beautiful voice, on the restaurant patio. THE WHOLE SONG.

He tried to quickly redeem himself by getting nostalgic about whichever TV show and watching it with the whole family together, blah blah blah. But what matters here is he sang the entire believe-it-or-not song in public.

I am so in love with this man.

How To Not Dress Like A Vegetarian

How To Not Dress Like A Vegetarian
Really, I promise everyone is happy you're vegetarian - you don't need to wear it on your sleeve. And here is a simple guide to ensure this doesn't happen.

Accessories
Any strict vegetarian knows how difficult it is to find swanky shoes and accessories that aren't made from cow. But you're just going to have to try harder. We'll break this down into three main groups: Purses, Shoes, and Belts.

Purses:

Don't settle for anything made from hemp, or anything that looks like it's made from hemp. And the current flock of corduroy cargo purses at Old Navy, while ridiculously cute, don't count. Would you wear corduroy cargo pants to work? Well, maybe you can get away with it. But if not, the purse won't fly. Go out of your way to find quality faux leather or a nice sleek fabric finish.

Another rule of thumb for purses: the smaller the better. Only hippies and mothers carry big purses. A friend of mine hypothesized recently that there is an important distinction between good looking women who drive old convertible VWs and frumpy women who drive old convertible VWs: purse size.

Shoes:

Again, it's also really difficult to come by classy, fabulous shoes that aren't made of leather. But do it anyway.

An excellent resource for shoes is Payless. Basically, they're too cheap to make leather shoes anyway, so most shoes in the store are fake. And, to make things even better, they go out of their way to draw your attention to the few leather shoes by plastering the boxes with "GENIUNE LEATHER" tags, so they're easy to avoid. You could probably get away without even hunting for the materials list. Zappos actually has a "vegetarian shoes" category.

One of the best-but-seldom-realized things about being vegetarian is that your shoes are cheap. Embrace this, and try to build a collection of nothing but beautiful shoes.

Flip-flops do not count, as hard as you may argue that they're classy and fabulous.

As a side note, New Balance makes a good crop of leather-less running shoes. But don't wear them unless you're running or hiking.

Belts:

Lucky us, fabric belts are back, stronger than ever. Definitely take advantage of this. Ridiculous colors and stripes on the canvas belts look too military, but for the most part you can include these as a delightfully ironic part of an otherwise classic and plain outfit.

Sash belts are fair game for now, too. They're becoming a little too common, though, and you don't want to be in a meeting with three other sash-belted women, do you?

There are also faux leather belts to be found. Speciality vegan stores, like All Vegan in San Diego, generally carry a good collection. If you can find one that doesn't use child labor, you could probably get a good faux leather belt from your standard beach-town no-name boutique, too.

Miscellaneous Clothing
Not considering shoes, purses, and belts, it's actually really easy to dress well as a vegetarian. But there are still some important things to remember to save you from looking like you smell like sandalwood.

As tempting as they may be, save the "Vegetarians Taste Better" and "Seitan Worshipper" t-shirts for the monthly potlucks at the co-op.

Leather jackets try really hard to come back in fashion every year, but I don't think they're ever very universal. Unless you're in a motorcycle club, you can easily go without and not feel deprived. And for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT GET A FAUX LEATHER JACKET. There are some lines you just don't cross. Wool coats (for the wool-wearers) and cotton/canvas pea coats or jackets are far classier and smell way better.

Chances are, if they sell it at earth day festivals or street fairs, it's not going to work out, okay? This includes but is not limited to: tie-dye, any sort of long flowy patterned skirt, and hankerchief tie-back tank tops.

And finally, if Banana Republic decides to ice the most amazing skirt of their collection with a leather trim or tie, it's time to start writing letters.

Go on then

Go on then...
...wish me a happy birthday.

The Make-a-Difference-ing-est Thing Of Them All

The Make-a-Difference-ing-est Thing Of Them All.
Erik comes home tonight, after not talking to him all week. He's been out on the trails, camping out every night. He's going to be completely exhausted, I'm sure. The good news is that he gets paid an extra $19 a night with provided (backpacking food) dinners and (backpacking food) breakfasts.

The funny thing is that I have those nervous/anxious/giddy feelings about seeing him again. So much has happened this week. Our best friends are pregnant (again), the kitten came home (who will probably hate Erik for taking valuable kitten-cuddle time away from me), the kitten is sick and has already piled up a) quite the vet bill, and b) quite the litterbox. and... well, that's about it, but these things are HUGE.

Now that our sweet and dear friends are pregnant, this really does have an impact on our bébé plans. When it comes down to it, people may never be as travelled and settled and financially secure as they plan on being before starting a family (not that these things aren't totally critical for which to strive, might I add), so we're going to have to stop using those as excuses pretty soon. Another major factor in Family Preparedness for Julia and Erik is our friends' children. I know, it sounds fleeting and peer-pressure-y, but let me explain.

We have a closely knit family of friends. I've known some of these people since high school, some since a few years ago, but I'm not using the word "family" lightly here. I know that our friends' children will hardly have an advantage when it comes to being buddies with our kids in high school or something, but at least growing up, it's so imperative for them to have sibling/cousin-like children of similar age around them often. We've seen the effect this has in our friends' first sets of children (and the mothers! holy god the mothers! with the breastfeeding tips and when can we feed them strawberries?), and we're not about to let this pass us by again.

I had these great plans to have figured out What I Want To Be When I Grow Up before I had kids, because frankly, let's hope people grow up themselves before they spawn. But I recently remembered a moment in high school, at a summer childcare job, chatting with another worker about our life goals. She said (uh, a paraphrase at this point), "you know, I sound so pathetic and submissive, but I just really want to be a mother." Right then, the 16 year old feminist Julia with big plans to make a difference in the world had a brief lightbulb go off, one of those discernment moments. Of course, I completely forgot that moment and that feeling, and my sweet coworker went on to discuss how she wanted to marry then-Padre Steve Finley, in all his mulleted glory.

Now, watching these amazing mothers (and fathers, but I don't really have much hope becoming one of those) with their darling children, I'm reminded of the notion that being a mother is a calling. This isn't one of those pro-stay-at-home-mom messages - it's just that some people are just supposed to be raising children.

I may not develop the make-a-difference-ing-est non-profit organization in the world. I may not write the Next Great Almost-American Novel. I may not join a symphony. I may not leave technical writing. I may not be a guest on any late shows. But to have raised a child, and have raised a child well - that's really all the difference I want to make.

Many Updates.

Many Updates.

I picked up our freshly adopted kitten yesterday. He's four months old, super clingy and nuzzly and sweet, and viscious with those feather-on-stick toys. He also doesn't really have a name yet. Our favorite was Franklin, the recurring-guest-role black kid in Peanuts, but it felt a little strange calling him something so formal/old-man-y like Franklin or Frankie when I was trying to convince him our home is a loving home. His official name is Joker (according to the microchip paperwork), but that has to go. I figure he's only got four months of Joker under his belt, and none of the volunteers at the shelter knew his name anyway. I'm officially open to suggestions. I definitely like Frankie, though. It's half cute, half mob. Well, 1/3 cute, 1/3 mob, 1/3 old-man-y.

He has an upper respiratory infection right now (I'm taking him back to the vet tomorrow), and even though it sucks for him, KITTEN SNEEZES ARE TOTALLY CUTE.

He bit my boob yesterday. BIT. MY BOOB. He bit my fucking boob. That wasn't cute.

As of this morning, Erik is camping out on the trail for the rest of the week, deep in the Los Padres National Forest building walls out of rocks they break themselves and redefining trail boundaries and shredding poison oak with their bare hands (just kidding on that one; I think they wear gloves). This means that not only will I not see my husband for the rest of the week, I also won't be able to talk to him. There are no cell signals out there. I think we've gone more than a day without talking while one of us is out of town - maybe a weekend max. This is going to suck. Luckily, I have a sweet sneezy kitten to keep me company. And luckily, my husband is a total outdoorsy stud.

I have a new political-crush on NPR's Asia Correspondent, Rob Gifford. His week-plus-long series as he travelled across China's route 321 was fantastic, even the part where he sang karaoke Desperado.

Don't worry, Marc Garlasco isn't being replaced.

That's all. Real posts and even a list or two are forthcoming!

A Postcard to Yesterday.

A Postcard to Yesterday.
A scant 12 hours after I assigned yesterday as a "crummy day," today decided that was a challenge and decided to out-crumb it's predecessor.

Sure, two paychecks (two! we're a two income family again! thank all that is holy!) were deposited in our account overnight, but that doesn't change the fact that I sat at the train-track intersection by my house for ELEVEN MINUTES this morning, and then, as I arrived to work far later than I had hoped to arrive, I tripped over my own feet walking up some concrete steps and fell, looking like a fool and scraping up my leg pretty nicely and nobody will be there to kiss it better for me when I get home. WOE IS ME. (Nicely = gruesomely, by the way.)

I also forgot to brush my hair this morning and am rewarded with a frizzy tangled Amazon-y mess.

Dear yesterday: I was just kidding; you were lovely and not crummy at all.
Dear today: I hate you.

Fair & Balanced.

Fair & Balanced.
Tonight, my lovely friend Melanie (and her sweet Republican husband) joined up with a bunch of local Kerry supporters and watched "Outfoxed," a documentary about Rupert Murdoch's Fox News Channel.

Holy shit.

I think I have a foolish tendency to be quick to boycott. I found out early in my post-college surge of political interest that the Fox News channel was far from fair and far from balanced and not in Julia's favor. So of course, I stayed away, making sure my favorite right-wing pundits' pollution and the subtle choice of news stories stayed far from my brain.

This little boycott, however, has had an unintentional negative result: I wasn't outraged enough.

I'm completely fine with Fox News saying what they say, reporting what they report, arguing what they argue, effectively being a state-controlled media outlet, hollering "shut up" when someone disagrees, and using the most wussy liberal voices when they absolutely have to have a liberal on. I'm fine with that. Free speech. Just don't call it fair, and certainly don't call it balanced.

That dishonesty is fucking with the American people, and I'm not going to put up with it. Yes, I'm mad as hell.

"Scrabble"

"Scrabble"
Last night, I had some fabulous friends over for vodka and Scrabble. After playing a normal round with a ten point bonus for dirty words, we decided to just lay out all the pieces and make only dirty words, following all scrabble rules except for those pesky little details about only having seven letters at a time and not conspiring or combining forces.

At the end, it turned out that we had three letters we couldn't fit anywhere. We used every letter except O, R, and N. I really have no idea how that happened, what with the very obvious word and all.

And I have to say, dirty words fully utilize the high scoring letters.