Oh....My......

So, I hop out of the shower and stroll into the living room, where the TV was broadcasting "Breaking News." At last! It was the long-awaited result of the Anna Nicole trial in which a court was to determine who was going to get her rotten, stinky remains ("Ooh, I do! I do!")

Truth be told, I couldn't care less about any of this crap. Like OJ and JonBenet, this craziness is just brain candy for bored, gossipy people who have nothing better to do but sit in front of the TV and delve into other's personal lives. HOW is this ANY of our business? How pathetically desperate for cognitive stimulation do you have to be to give more than a half-ounce of crap about this case? Apparently many people do care, because they broke into several reputable programs to broadcast this news. As I was scooting around the channels to see how many stations thought this was more important than their regular programming, I saw the judge of the case literally BREAK DOWN as he read the ruling. Sniffling and weeping, he dramatically tapped on his bench to get his composure. You have GOT to be kidding me! It makes me so sad that our country has reached the point where a JUDGE (an individual who is appointed to decide cases in a court of law) would turn his courtroom into a freakshow by being unable to keep control of his own emotions during a ruling. I would rather french kiss Wilford Brimley for a full three minutes than watch one more moment of that puke-inducing dramafest.

I'm now officially scared of daytime television. Somebody get me back to work. Stat.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/74/Wilford-Brimley-03.jpg

Yummy!


UPDATE: If I was at work today, I would have missed the opportunity to watch "Michael Bolton-- A Tribute on Ice" (an ACTUAL show)
I pity the skaters, who likely had to listen to Bolton's whiny voice over and over again as they rehearsed.

Gimmee an M!

My Mom is getting her first dose of chemo today. She is such an ass kicker.

To get rid of her inconvenient cancer, her brilliant doc has concocted a lovely mixture of two asskicking drugs: Oxsaliplatin and Gemzar. In her honor, I have created the first image of the Official Mascot of her Winning Team:

Say hello to Sally Platypus (with Gems):



(She looks timid, but she's got sharp teeth in that duckbill)

Go Mommer!

Introducing...

And now for something completely different.

I have decided to name my breasts.

This revelation came from being in the Philadelphia airport and having so many men blatantly stare at them that I thought--since they were so intriguing-- that they should have the ability to be introduced, thereby needing names. Hell, they both seem to have moods and personalities anyway, so what's the difference?

Instantly, I thought the one on my right should be Claire, for reasons still unknown to me (and Claire). She just seems like a Claire. Easy enough, but what about my left one? I thought it might be nice and ironic to name a breast after a man. After all, the left breast was the one that has always given me a little trouble. Moody and a little saggier than Claire. This was going to be tricky. So I turned to the person who knows them best (after me and perhaps a smattering of gynecologists)-- Seatmate. I explained the situation, and he was happy to help with the naming (he is a good man). He had some solid suggestions: Theodore and Francis to name a few, but they just didn't seem right. Then all of a sudden, he came up with the Father of All Male Breast Names-- BUSTER! I loved it immediately for the not-so-subtle use of the word "bust", but then Seatmate had an even better use of the name. Picture this: A lecherous man feels the need to visually size up my melons, and I walk right up to him and ask, "What are you looking at, Buster?" He stumbles back, stunned that a bubbly, smiley-type woman would approach him in such a threatening manner. But then I repeat, "Are you looking at Buster? Or Claire? Because personally I would be looking at Claire today because she is slightly perkier than Buster." Confused, he slinks away, swearing that he will now keep his eyes above the neck, where they belong.

So, here they are, Ladies and GentleLecherousMen:



Claire and Buster.

P.S. I hope the link works!

Curious

You meet all kinds of people when you are out in the city on a weeknight. When I was on the Silver Line this evening, I stood next to a woman who was young and quite petite, wearing a lavender coat. When she reached up to hold the bar, her sleeve slipped down and I caught a glimpse of her watch. It was a large silver men's watch-- but on her delicate wrist it looked positively huge. I was instantly sucked into morbid curiosity about why she would be wearing a timepiece that was so obviously wrong for her body type. It couldn't have been a gift, and I didn't think she would have chosen it for herself. I decided it was from a man, but who, and why? Just as my curiosity began to wane, I noticed a new twist: the second hand wasn't moving--the watch was stopped at 5:03. Ooh, now I could barely contain myself... a young, slim woman wearing a huge men's watch that was wasn't working. Why? My mind reeled at the possibilities. A stolen timepiece from a man who'd broken her heart at that exact moment? A brother who'd been shipped off to Iraq? A father or grandfather who had passed away, but was not nearly forgotten? A friend lost in the World Trade Center? Just as I was considering the possibility of gently inquiring about the watch, she rang the bell and slipped through the back doors into the night. It took me about a half hour to stop thinking about this woman and her watch. But by then, I had become curious about why I was so damn curious...