Happy f'ing New Year!

This is dedicated to all of the uptight fuckers who got upset when I said the word "fuck."



Happy 2009! I plan to say it many, many more times!

Tag!

I got tagged by D (who, like me, started writing political letters when she was 12), so now here you all are.

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

My six:

1. My parents told me from day one that there was no Santa and no Easter Bunny. They made me swear not to tell my friends in kindergarden. Guess who made the announcement at school the next day? Guess who had to go back and say, "I was just kidding!" So my parents made me LIE!

2. I once interviewed Dan Quayle. I thought maybe - just maybe! - the press had given him a bad rap and he might be able to string a sentence together. I was wrong. He didn't even know where his press office was.

3. I like to say the word "fuck" a lot. (Big surprise to blog regulars.) Once, in college, a guy I went out with told me he didn't think it was "very ladylike" to swear. "Fuck you," I said.

4. I went to high school with James Franco (that cute guy in the Spiderman movies.) Of course, he was two years younger, so I didn't know he existed.

5. I have never had stitches. I suppose there's still time.

6. I got married in a red dress. This distressed the alligator-hunting Republican side of the family.

I'm tagging:

Darth Weasel

Scarlet

Granny Annie

Pheromone Girl

Shionge

Mr. Riot Kitty

Holidays

We had a really nice Christmas with my husband's family - and it reminded me that, Yay! One of the things I love about being an adult is that I get to choose whose house I go to on holidays, and who can come to mine.

One more excellent thing about not being with my ex-b.f. is that I didn't have to go to his evangelical relatives' house and hear all about how God didn't spare the World Trade Center, on purpose.

Other things I love about being an adult during the holidays:

I can eat the damn pie when I like.

I don't have to wait for my mother to put on makeup before we open presents.

I don't have to hear that I'm "ungrateful" from my own evangelical relatives because I don't want to sleep on the floor in their house where there is a big, stinky dog...

I could go on and on, you know?

I think these pics of our nephew are even cuter because of his chocolate Joker smile, don't you?
He even offered to leave his new (awesome!!) remote-controlled tarantula for Mr. Riot Kitty to play with.

I wasn't that thoughtful when I was 7...I don't think I'm that nice now, actually ;)

Rest In Peace, Eartha Kitt

She was sexy and successful as all get out, but did you know Eartha Kitt was an activist for voting rights, HIV/AIDS awareness, and spoke out against the Vietnam war?

She was just awesome...enough said.

The whitest fucking Christmas, ever.

So call me Scrooge. For reasons unbeknownst to me - because it does freeze now and again each winter here - the Portland, Oregon metro area refuses to invest in de-icing, de-snowing technology on a scale grand enough that we can escape our homes when the weather hates us.


Some statistics for you:

In the past 8 days, we've gotten 14.5" of snow here - a record - the last time we had that much was in 1968.


Said snow is more than the total snowfall for the entire winter each year, for every year back until 1980.

Stir-crazy, Mr. Riot Kitty and I went out to get groceries and coffees today. When they played "Let It Snow" at the cafe, I thought there would be riots.

"The people making money," he notes, "own body shops." Pause. "And 976 sex hotlines."

My new mantra: Let It Melt! Oh please, please, please.

Because I am turning into Scrooge.

PS! However, lest I get too Scroogey...check out Darth Weasel's hilarious post about snow shoveling as it relates to weight loss...

How did you get your name?

Instead of ranting about corporate fuckheads and the impending loss of jobs for nearly everyone at Mr. Riot Kitty's work, I thought I'd come up with something with slightly less bile.

I have been snowed in most of the week, doing what work from home that I can, and reading news stories in between. Once a reporter, always a news junkie...

Anyway, I came across a list of the top 100 baby names for 2008. Mine wasn't in it at all; Mr. Riot Kitty's was #51. Actually, his middle name was #51 - his first/legal name is his late dad's name, but he's always been called by his middle name so they wouldn't get confused, and it just stuck.

Just curious - how did you all get your names?

I was named after a Beatles song. (And no, it wasn't "The Yellow Submarine," smart ass.)

My dad says before it came out, hardly anyone in the U.S. had heard of that (French) name. Now everyone just mispronounces it...

When I was little, I kept telling my parents that I had changed my name. Then, when I grew up, I changed my middle and last names - just because I felt like it.

When Mr. Riot Kitty and I got married, a few people asked why I didn't change my last name to his.

I replied, "I like my last name. I paid $500 for it!"

And the letter of the day is...fucking brr!

OK, I grew up in Minnesota - but I haven't lived there since I was 6.

It snows maybe once or twice a year where I live in the Pacific Northwest, and usually it melts quickly.

Yesterday, we got 5 inches of snow and with the windchill, it was 7 degrees.

I think it should be illegal for temperatures to have less than 2 digits, don't you?

I know...most of the country is probably laughing at us for all of the closures. Mr. Riot Kitty was sweet enough to go out in the morning yesterday, before the snow really came down and the roads were closed, and got me a coffee for yesterday AND for today :)

In the meantime, it's pretty, but I'm a bit claustrophobic. Let's just say I'm dreaming of a greener Xmas.

Is it so difficult?

Have you ever noticed that, when you're out in a public place - say a restaurant or cafe - the people who have the loudest voices have the most irritating, mundane things to say?

I mean, when is the last time someone interesting was audible?

It makes me want to turn around and go, "Oh, REAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLY? How Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinteresting," with a fake Russian accent.

My little social editor doesn't always work, you know.

What have you overheard lately that has made you laugh?

Holiday card etiquette and alligator-hunting Republicans

I've blogged before on family and how I believe we create our own.

I don't think blood is thicker than water - because I get along so well with my (step)brother. I think of Mr. Riot Kitty
and the cats and myself as a rather neat and tidy, loving family unit.

(Case in point from my little bro: we went to see Nine Inch Nails Sunday night, and I told him that I had finally found someone - Trent Reznor - who said "fuck" more than I did. His reply: "You'll have to work harder, then.")

And there are definitely family members with whom, as my dad said, I can't possibly share any DNA...

Which brings me to holiday cards.

I am sending out personal ones with photos of our catley children to friends and family, but I bought a box of "peace on earth" dove-type cards today for another category of people that I'd like to send cards to, but not ones that are as personal as signing off as, "Love, Earl Grey, Lucky, Mr. Riot Kitty and Riot Kitty."

You know - volunteers and board members I like working with, etc.

Is that weird?

And then there always comes the question: do you have to send holiday cards to people with whom you theoretically share DNA, but don't really care for?

My unofficial rule is that if I receive one, I send one back...

We were discussing this at the bookstore tonight when I was ringing up.

Bookstore employee: "You know the cards are buy two boxes, get one free?"
Me: "There aren't that many people I like."

Pause.

Me: "Really. One side of my family are alligator-hunting Republicans."

This sent a couple of customers near me into frantic giggles, but it's true! I couldn't make it up.

What do you think? Who do you send cards to this season?

Social change: yes, we can!

Fred Phelps and his hateful followers were planning a protest at a community college in a town about an hour north of me, because the college is putting on the play "The Laramie Project."

Several fearless feminist, progressive friends of mine (is that redundant?), who didn't think Phelps and his fellow assholes would show up, nevertheless went to the counter-protest supporting, well, the opposite of hate.

Phelps didn't show - but about 300 people against his hateful antics did!

I am amazed because this is a super conservative mill town (I used to work there. Guess who didn't fit in?) that's typically behind the social times by about 50 years.

My three friends were debating whether or not it was better to go or not to go, because to go would give Phelps attention if he and his minions showed up - but this was my (straight) friend's take:

My take on it is:

Fuck them.

This isn't for the Westboro Baptist Church; this is for all the good citizens of Cowlitz County who so dutifully rallied around the "Celebrate Diversity" mantra last year without even once mentioning the word "gay". This is for all the folks who marched in the diversity march because they so self-righteously stand behind rights for African Americans and yet feel that they can hide behind their religious beliefs in order to discriminate against gays.

As far as I'm concerned, it's more of an in-your-face "Accept all types of diversity or go stand on the other side of the street with the Phelpses, assholes!" message to this community.

There's absolutely no message that the Phelpses are going to hear and comprehend so I repeat--Fuck them.

I was proud of her.

And my god...if that many people can show up on a winter day to protest anti-gay hate, we are moving forward toward civil rights for all.

I am looking forward to that day.

How do you order new karma?

Mr. Riot Kitty tells me the universe has interesting kinds of karma.

"My kind," he says, "is that people don't see me. Your kind is that no one ever gets your order right."

Apparently the building I work in has karma, too.

A couple of months ago, the owners of the building moved all of their people to another one. They're selling the building, but my work and another nonprofit are still using space there.

As a result, there's no longer a receptionist, ergo, the mailman doesn't bring in the mail. There's a slot in the front and we asked ahead of time for him to leave slips (like you do) if we have packages. This was after he said, "I'll just leave your mail outside in a bin from now on."

To which we replied, "No, that would be illegal."

It's too much trouble for him to ring the buzzer and wait for us to open the door and pick up the mail.

Apparently it's also too much trouble for him to put the mail in the slot. We came back from the Thanksgiving break and found our FUCKING PAYROLL INFORMATION, as well as envelopes with checks for our annual appeal, on the grass. Soaking wet. Out in the open, for anyone to take.

My mother-in-law, god bless her, works for the post office and is getting to retire at the end of the year. She works in customer service and I imagine she's counting the days. She has actually intervened for me before, when our home mailman was putting the wrong mail in our box. (She asked: "How hard can it be to put the right mail in the right slot?" Apparently, this, too, is part of my karma.)

I know there are people who call who are real jerks. All the more reason for them to take my polite and very real complaint seriously, right?

Silly me.

In my dealings with the post office, I was repeatedly asked all kinds of ridiculous questions before anyone would take my complaint.

Why hadn't we complained before? (We did.)
Why would he want to put your mail in a bin? (My guess is as good as yours.)
Had we talked to the carrier? (Yes.)
Why, then, did this keep happening? (You tell me?)

My favorite question, from the regional post office in our zone:
"Is the slot right near the ground? Is that why he'd put mail on the ground?" (The slot is waist high. As for his motivations, search me.)

And then the final question, which was what made me reach my limit, because I'd heard it so many times: "Why would he put the mail on the ground?"

My reply: "Presumably, because he didn't want to put it in the mail slot."

Who knows what will happen now? Maybe he'll spit on it. I'd like to order some new postal karma, please.

Sisters in arms

OK, if you didn't get the Dire Straits reference...well, I just pointed it out for you.

Lots of my blogger buddies have posted about what they're thankful for (or not - see Darth's Thanksgiving post!) and yes, although I know the roots of this week's holiday are at odds with my Apache ancestry, I take what has evolved into Thanksgiving at face value. It doesn't hurt to count our blessings now and then.

Awhile back, I wanted to blog about Pheromone Girl but I was too embarrassed - and then she wrote this wonderfully sweet blog about me, and I got more embarrassed.

But I have to say, out of all of the people, places and things who have come into my life recently, I'm most thankful for her.

Here is a person who I met completely by accident - aha! Eastern philosophy says there are no accidents, and this is proof.

She is like the older sister I never had - someone who always listens to my rants, someone who I know would be there at 2 a.m. if I locked myself out of my car, etc.

I don't know that I have met anyone as strong as her. Despite all of the challenges she's gone through - some of them atrociously unfair - and is still going through, she just plows forward with a lack of self-pity and determination that I admire so much.

After the dust settles, I am confident that she will find the love and great job that she deserves, and in the meantime, come on, universe! She's earned her wings.

So if all of you would send a little good vibe out for her, collectively, it can't hurt, right?

Random Acts of Kindness

Scarlet has the most interesting posts - her latest one was about random acts of kindness. (You should also check out her post asking about what Jesus means to everyone.)

This is what I wrote in response to her random acts blog:

Do I believe in random acts of kindness? Yes. I've been the recipient and the donor...I suppose it's all karma.

Probably the one that stands out most in my mind is an "act" that happened my freshman year in college. It was the only year I lived in a dorm, and my roommate and I were about to go out - walking it, of course, because we were in NYC and didn't have cars - and as soon as we stepped outside it started pouring. An unexpected cloudburst!

We didn't have umbrellas, and we were going to be late, and SOAKED if we ran the two blocks to a store that might have umbrellas.

We stood there for a few seconds debating what to do, and I kid you not, two people who also lived in the dorm that we had never met were coming back in. And they said, "Hey, do you want our umbrellas?" And they handed them to us and ran off.

I never saw either of them again, and I sometimes wonder if they were angels.

Is that silly?

How about you?

A couple of my own random acts have happened in cafes.


Both times I felt compelled to secretly pay for the check of a person who was by himself; one was a happy-looking young guy in his 20s, writing music, in a cafe in the West Village in New York. The other was an older, lonelier looking man in a cafe in North Beach in San Francisco.

Non-political, non-incendiary...just curious

I mailed a package to my parents Saturday. Because of the 13-ounce rule - if a package weighs more than 13 ounces, you must hand it to a retail clerk or, well, the post office will eat it or blow it up or something - I handed the package to a clerk after paying for postage at a machine.

Just a note for the future, she says - the 13-ounce rule only applies to stamped mail.

Versus mail with a "postage paid" label.

So please do tell me: was this rule put into place because the Unabomber was more likely to use stamps? Does this help make us safer from, say, getting our fingers stuck in the mailbox?

Inquiring minds want to know!

PS And no, the image has nothing to do with this post...I just thought it was appropriate.

Food for thought

It probably goes without saying that when I took a business trip to North Carolina last month, the idea of vegetarian food was met with expressions like this :)

I don't like meat. I don't expect other people to become vegetarians, so I don't like getting harassed about what I do or do not eat.

I've found that vegans in particular are a rambunctious group when it comes to food. I don't do much dairy, but I like scrambled eggs and cheese enchiladas (not together.) I don't think I'm abusing bees if I eat honey.

So here's my modest proposal: I think we should all channel this energy and feelings we have about food into figuring out how to feed people who don't have enough of it.
In line at the grocery store tonight, I was presented with a sign that said $2 could feed a family of three people for a day in my county.

How is this possible? I can't imagine feeding myself on $2 a day, let alone any other people.

It's maddening. I have never understood why, in a country as rich as ours, we allow some people to go hungry. I've never understood why, as a global society, we have the ability to end poverty, but collectively choose not to.

Any suggestions?

Art in a hurry!

My hands hurt too much to type much, so here's a visual...

Would you like a date with that funeral?

I thought I'd been asked out at the most inappropriate venue, but then I read Scarlet's post about getting asked out at her grandfather's funeral!

My own story was ridiculous enough - at the memorial service for a beloved professor and mentor, when I was a senior in college, I got chatted up by another professor - who was also, mind you, more than twice my age.

Dumbstruck with grief, the tears still wet on my face, I didn't realize he was hitting on me until after he had walked away, leaving me with his business card!

Then I read Scarlet's story...Then one of our volunteers at work yesterday said, "This guy started chatting me up in the garbage area at my apartment complex."

Neither of us could stop laughing. I mean, what kind of pick-up line does someone use at the garbage area? Come here often? What's in your bag? Imagine meeting someone like you at a place like this!

The saga continued...I told Mr. Riot Kitty about all of these stories, and it turns out he had the best one of all...but I'll let him share that one.

So here's the Tuesday challenge, people: where is the most inappropriate place you've been hit on?

What it means to me.

The first time I voted, a couple of months after I turned 18 and had just moved to New York for college, nearly everyone I voted for lost. Cuomo got knocked out by Pataki, W became governor of Texas, Newt Gingrich became speaker of the house, the "Republican Revolution" kicked into high gear.

The one candidate that I voted for that won - the city comptroller - was hardly a comfort!

"I'm so depressed," I told my dad the day after the election.

"So am I," he said.

Since then I have voted in every election - including the primaries.

I've been a political kid since birth. Having read lots of books on various civil rights movements in this country, I have never understood why anyone sits on their ass when people have died for this right.

If you don't vote, I have always told people, you shouldn't complain about what you get.

I was thrilled that Clinton won in 1996, when we had the specter of Pat Buchanan winning the New Hampshire primary, of Bob Dole taking money from cigarette companies and minimizing the dangers of smoking by saying, "Some people think milk is bad for you." (Yes, the dairy farmers *loved* that one.)

We were young then - we thought Rush Limbaugh and Newt were as bad as it would get.

This was before Clinton became corporate Clinton, before two presidential elections were stolen, before the gutting of the Constitution and eight years of international embarrassment.

"You can literally make yourself crazy, thinking about it too much," a friend commented.

The day before the election, the same friend, who describes herself as a "radical feminist Christian," said, "No matter what we get tomorrow, it'll be better than what we have now."

She paused.

"Isn't that sad?"

I knew intellectually that Barack Obama would win; all of the data pointed to the fact that Americans always blame the sitting president for the economy. This fallout, clearly, is the result of the "me first" attitude of deregulation.

We're losing two wars.

We're losing our jobs, our homes.

Sarah Palin drove the final nails in the coffin. (Yes, my dear, Africa is a continent.)

People have been, in short, fed up.

But some part of me, deep down, worried that another election would be stolen. Or hidden racism would take over the polls.

I was prepared to be thrilled at an Obama win.

I was unprepared for the "I have to pinch myself" elation.

As my husband and I sat perched on the edges of our armchairs in the living room, listening to Obama's speech, tears streamed down my face.

Exclamations followed:

"He's a mixed race person like me!"
"He mentioned Native Americans!"
"He mentioned gay people!"
"He mentioned disabled people!"

My whole life I have had other people try to tell me who I am.

Not white enough.

Not "Indian" (Indians are from India, thank you, I am Apache) enough.

Not a "real" minority.

I have had people make nasty racial comments not knowing that I was what used to be referred to as a "mixed breed," "half-breed."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know," they've said when I have indignantly pointed it out.

Does that make you change your mind?

Less than forty years ago, a segregationist bastard took 25 percent of the popular vote for president, and today, we have a progressive, a reformer (I hope), a person who is unafraid to say that he will appoint judges who sympathize with people who have disabilities.

Palin mocked that one, too, despite the fact that she has a baby with a disability.

Since when did it become unpopular to sympathize with the downtrodden?

I think Reagan took care of that.

This is not the first time I have picked a winner, but it is the first time I have been proud of my president.

YES WE DID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As a progressive, a minority, a mixed-race person, a female, an American - I AM SO PROUD! I AM SO HAPPY!

I AM NO LONGER EMBARRASSED BY MY GOVERNMENT!

Yes to civil rights!
Yes to women's rights!
Yes to caring about the disabled, the disenfranchised, the regular people.


YES, WE DID!

How low can you go?

When I was pissed off at a little jerky boy in sixth grade, one of my bike-to-school buddies, Renee, came up with this one:

"Tell him he's so low, he could limbo under a pregnant ant."

Sarah Palin's reached that point, in my book. She has been so mean, so inflammatory, and behaved so despicably in this campaign it just makes me want to spit. How can you in good conscience say someone is "palling around with terrorists"?

And how can you, as the parent of a child with a disability, mock a candidate because he said he wants to appoint judges who "sympathize with the disabled"?

So nasty. So unnecessary. So juvenile!

It reminds me of what my parents said about bullies when I was in grade school: "They can't think of anything good about themselves, so they have to insult others."

I wonder.

Here's my PSA, everyone: go out and vote!!!!

Welcome back, chocolate!

Follow up from the blog awhile back about this awesome chocolate cafe being ruined by corporate greed - I went to the Moonstruck cafe today to pick up some chocolate for an upcoming family trip (sorry to spoil the surprise, guys!) and - guess what? Almost ALL of the old desserts (chocolate pyramid, built-like-a-brick brownie, peanut butter cheesecake, etc.) were back! The skimpy ones that cost twice as much were gone!

The barista said there were literally at least half a dozen people coming in every day asking for the corporate contact info. to complain. (The million dollar question: how many of those were fueled by rampant PMS made worse by the deprivation of our favorite dessert fixes? Inquiring minds want to know!)

The original move was made to save money because Moonstruck had expanded into other, non-Oregon locations and wanted to pay for it. Well, pay they did - they closed those locations to focus on (duh!) their local stores.

So the moral of the story is...if you complain enough about the $6 desserts that you're missing, they'll come back :)

And I'll try not to get eaten by bears.

I'm off to North Carolina tomorrow for work. (An aside: I have to get up at 4:30 a.m.!!! How I will pull that one off without biting anyone remains to be seen.)

I've never been there before.

So I'm telling this to a counterpart at one of our organization's affiliates and she says, "Oh, North Carolina's cool. Just watch out for bears."

Huh?

I wait for laughter. There is none.

Me: "Are you just kidding?"
She: "Nope. I lived there for three years and they just sometimes wandered into town."

That's some interesting business travel advice, I have to say.

So I hope all of you lovely people out there in blogland have a fabulous weekend...meanwhile, apparently I'm going to the zoo.

Burn after running

Do you ever have little things add up until you're just absolutely livid?

I had that happen today. I'm not a patient person to begin with, and I'm anxious about a couple of upcoming events, and stuff at work just drove me fucking CRAZY!

Tip for the uninitiated: when I have to work on grants that need to go out before COB Thursday, and I say I'm sorry that I don't have time to meet with you, this DOES NOT mean you should stop by my desk and show me pictures of your fundraising quilts!!!!

I came home and cranked at Mr. Riot Kitty because everything wasn't in tip top clean shape, and realized I needed to go for a run. I had THAT MUCH energy to burn off...

I know running isn't for everyone. For a brief period in college, my brother decided to get up at 8 a.m. instead of noon, and run.

"But didn't it feel great?" I remember asking.

"NO!" he replied. "IT FELT LIKE I WAS GOING TO FUCKING DIE!!!"

So this lasted for about a week.

Before I moved to the Northwest, I used to go running all the time. Living in California with a climate that was dry most of the year made it easy...so did living 20 minutes from the beach.

I forgot how much I hate running on cement, even if it is around a lake. My ankles have been telling me to go fuck myself ever since I ran the first step.

But it felt GREAT! I've never had runner's high, but runner's relaxation is impossible to equal. I came back calm and happy.

Next time I'll opt for a rubberized track, though.

What do you do to relax?

The awesome!

Just hung up the picture from Coby - it's as if it was made to match the colors in our living room?

My dad is proud of me - it's my first purchase of a major piece of art. Most of it has been kindly donated by said daddy.

Chew on this

Those of you who know me know I'm thrilled that Connecticut's top court has thrown out its ban on same-sex marriage as unconstitutional.

Some of you may not agree with this - and although personally, I think if you're against gay marriage, don't have one, consider the argument that Justice Peter Zarella made against allowing same-sex marriage:

He argued that argued the real purpose of marriage laws is to regulate "procreative conduct."

Huh?

How many of you want the government to regulate your decisions about whether or not to have children? I'd say all of the conservatives, liberals, and in-betweens that I know are formidably against Big Brother telling them that they should or shouldn't have kids.

Zarella continues:

"If the state no longer has an interest in the regulation of procreation, then that is a decision for the legislature or the people of the state and not this court."

THE REGULATION OF PROCREATION!!!!

PEOPLE!

This argument has also been used by the Washington State Supreme Court.

Think about it.

Using that argument, my marriage isn't valid, because the only pitter-patter of small feet we have in my house is that of our kitties.

What about people who don't want children? Or can't have them?

One thing I know for sure - I want the government to stay out of our pants.

The need for proofreaders

My brother sent me the e-news that he gets from one of his favorite independent comic book stores, with this note:

"See if you can spot the typo on the list of percentages off. Please don't forward it around though, as I'm sure L- is embarrassed enough."

Weeeeeeeeeeeeelllll, I've omitted any revealing details, but L- clearly needs a proofreader.

Here is a snippet:

25¢ Comics.

$5 Graphic Novels.

50% off all sets.

20% off all back issues.

20% off new comics.

20% off Shits

10% off Graphic Novels.

(Sorry, no discount on subscriptions or that week's new items.)

*So clearly he decided to put the GOP on sale, right?*

And to make you laugh

Scarlet asked in a post for everyone's most embarrassing karaoke moment (isn't that redundant?) I have never done karaoke. Short of that, she asked for our most embarrassing moment in general.

Ah, so many to choose from, so little time to type.

I had been looking for a good blog idea for awhile...so please join me in the comments section with an embarrassing moment of your own.

One of the (many) embarrassing moments in my life - when I was a reporter covering energy policy, we had an editorial board meeting with some high-ups from the Northwest regional Dept. of Energy people. One of the guys who was their PR guy I hadn't seen in awhile, and he had done his hair differently.

So I blurt out in front of editors and all of the federal muckety-mucks, "Hey, Ed! I like your new hair!" I forgot to add "style" to the end of "hair."

Everyone stared. The room went silent.

He said, simply, "Same hair."

And then, thank god, someone started our meeting.

A bit of history

Not too many people know that a female and an African-American man have previously shared the ticket.

Yet in 1872, Victoria Woodhull was the first woman who ran for president, sharing the ticket with abolitionist Frederick Douglass.

An interesting campaign, because Douglass was advocating for the Republicans (this being post-Civil War, when they were actually for civil rights) - but do some reading, if you haven't already. It's fascinating stuff.

Bookstore. Not porn store.

Truth may be stranger than fiction, but it's also so much funnier!

A couple of stories from friends who work at bookstores that I just had to share:

Story #1

From my friend Mike D, who is studying library science and working in a Barnes & Noble:

So, this guy came into the store today looking for a job. Ugly, skinny dude
with big eyebrows and a Vinnie Barbarino (welcome back kotter) accent. He
said he was looking for a "legitimate job" and that he was mostly "a bartender
and took my clothes off." Try saying it with the accent, it's that much
funnier.

I shit you not. According to his resume (which has his picture on it,
self-portrait), he is an exotic dancer and bartender. Wow. Highlight of my
day.

Story #2

From my friend Janelle, who is a public health major and working in a Borders - her former supervisor got a call from a guy wanting to know:

Guy: "Do you guys have books on sexuality?"

Supervisor: "Why, yes, we do."

Guy: "How about anal sex specifically?"

Supervisor: "Uh-"

Guy: "Because I am trying to convince my girlfriend to do that with me. Can you give me any advice?"

Supervisor: "Try Barnes & Noble."

Rest in Happy

Originally I was going to post today about a certain person's invited resignation from my office, which became official today. That's why I got this cake.

But then I read today's version of my hometown newspaper and saw a high school classmate's memorial service notice.

Is it legitimate to be sad about losing someone you weren't especially close to? Are we still entitled to feel loss?

DH, as I will call him, was actually the adopted brother of a girl in my class who was kind of stuck-up. He had Williams Syndrome, a rare genetic condition which causes developmental and medical illness. He was 35 when he died last week.

Oddly enough, one of the typical traits of individuals with Williams Syndrome is that they are very, very outgoing - and DH was no exception.

I met him in the Special Friendship Club in high school. It paired students with buddies in special education classes. There were group events sometimes - I ended up dropping out because I thought I was too busy with other stuff - but mainly it was a way to meet people and make friends.

I was shocked when a couple of guys I took for asshole jocks came to the club. It was like they became totally different people when they stepped in that room, or when they greeted one of their buddies in the hallway.

Saying hello, each of their faces lit up with happiness - a special kind of happiness. A complete and total understanding, complete and total being. Everything's OK with you, with me. It's just us, we can just be, for this moment.

DH would always break into a big grin, not self-conscious about his braces, and say, "Heeeeeeeeeeeeey! How's it going?" And he'd give you a big hug. He'd wave to you from across campus, always smiling.

I don't think he ever had a bad day. He came to all of the school dances, and hit the floor with gusto. He always had more dance partners than anyone else. Being around him, it was impossible to feel self-conscious about anything.

DH wasn't a particularly close friend of mine, for the simple reason that everyone was his friend. I didn't keep in touch with him, or anyone else from my high school, when I moved across the country, went to college, and grappled with the next, adult, free (so I thought) phase of my life. But knowing he is gone is literally like a bright spot going out, a stillness created, a silence where there was laughter before.

I thought about him recently, for no reason. I wondered what he was up to. And I would say "rest in peace," but knowing DH, that would be far too boring. I'm sure he's resting in happy.

Why I can never be a nurse's assistant

A good friend who has a background in marketing has boldly decided to switch careers. She's on the way to nursing school, and just got her CNA training completed.

She has been working, temporarily, at an assisted living facility. I didn't know - should have known, I suppose - what "assisted" entailed.

She is also nice enough to volunteer at my office, and the other day she said, "Remind me to tell you some stories from work sometime."

Me: "What kind of stories?"
She: "Well, let's just say I had an interesting experience with someone's foreskin the other day."

!!!

Apparently, Gentleman X needs help with the urinal. (Friend, you are a better person than me. I could never make it as a CNA, let alone a parent.)

She: "So when he peeled back his own foreskin the other day at the urinal, he peed on me."

Me: "Yuck!"

She: "So I learned. And the next time, I peeled it back, like they showed us in training (!!!) but...I think he thought I was playing with him."

Me: Giggles uncontrollably and almost falls over. "No, no, no way! I'm sure he didn't think that!" More giggles.

The next day, I heard part 2. Note to the uninitiated: memory loss does not mix well with help at the urinal.

She: "So did I tell you what happened yesterday? He told me he had to go to the bathroom, so we went to the urinal and I took down his pants. And then he said, 'WHY ARE YOU UNDRESSING ME????!!!!!!!!!'"

Me: Laughing so hard I almost piss my pants.

Fortunately, she has a new job now.

As for me, I think I'll stick with the writing and fundraising.

Newsflash!!

Mr. Riot Kitty updated his blog!

Click the link above to learn about the relationship between the Sex Pistols and butter! No joke!

Sweet spot

Today, I'm taking a break from sarcasm, venting, and abusing Republicans...not ALL DAY! Gasp! Just for this post :)

I am so proud of my sibs this week! My 29-year-old brother just got his writing accepted into two publications (!!!), my 12-year-old brother got a poem published in an anthology of poems by young American students, and my little sister turned 8.

I wrote her this e-mail - warning! You might be nauseated by the sweetness:

Dear Little Riot Kitty,

Good morning and happy birthday! Mr. Riot Kitty and I hope you have a wonderful day. If you were here, the cats would want to sit in your lap and share your cake and ice cream!

When I was 8, my favorite ice cream was cookies and cream - it's still my favorite, actually.

Have a great birthday!

Love, Your big sister

And I received this reply - and she really does call me Kitty:

Thank you, Kitty! I read it myself!!!
I love you, I wish you were here!!
When I was seven my favorite ice cream was Sweet Cream from Cold Stone.
Now that I am eight it is still my favorite ice cream!
Goodbye,
Tracey

So tired of right-wing b.s.!!!

OK - I am a progressive person, not a partisan one, but I am DISGUSTED at the distortion, hypocrisy and other b.s. coming from the GOP these past few years. It's like Rove & Co. took over in the truth-telling department.

So I loved this...Green Tea beat me to posting it, but it's worth sharing again. (Check out her blog!)

"This took some figuring out...

If you grow up in Hawaii , raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic, different."

But if you grow up in Alaska eating mooseburgers, it's a quintessential American story.

If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim.

But name your kids Willow, Trig, and Track, and you're a maverick.

Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable.

But attend 5 different small colleges before graduating, and you're well grounded.

If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drive that registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with more tnan 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate's Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any real leadership experience.

But if your total resume is: local weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with fewer than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you're qualified to become the country's second highest ranking executive.

If you have been married to the same woman for 19 years while raising 2 daughters, all within Protestant churches, you're not a real Christian.

But if you cheated on your first wife with a rich heiress, left your disfigured wife and kids and married the heiress the next month, you're a Christian.

If you advocate teaching responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of society.

But if, while governor, you staunchly advocate abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in your state's school system while your unwed teen daughter ends up pregnant, you're very responsible.

If your wife is a Harvard graduate lawyer who gave up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to raise a family, your family's values don't represent America's.

But if your husband is nicknamed "First Dude," with at least one DWI conviction and no college education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.

OK, much clearer now."

"If I give you a quarter...

will you call someone who gives a shit?"

OK, I've had a cell phone forever and I admit to not knowing how much a pay phone call costs these days...but still.

I work in a very small office that does a lot of different stuff. Somehow, it was timed that EVERYONE except me was on vacation for a couple of days. And we don't have a receptionist, so guess who had to answer the phones?

We have a helpline (I work at a nonprofit health organization) and those calls are usually OK, in terms of people being polite.

It's the people who WERE NOT having problems that were pushy, demanding, assholic (is that a new word?)

So here's a list of answers for the next time this happens - and these really do apply to calls I got:

"No, I DO NOT know how much it costs to copy your class training manual at Office Depot."

"Yes, she really IS on vacation! Just because she is answering work e-mails does NOT mean she is secretly hiding here in the office, avoiding your call. Although I wouldn't blame her if she did."

"Yes, her last name does start with G." (I am not making this up.)

"No, we will NOT give you $200 to come to the meeting on Monday. Ha. Ha. Ha."

"Person A is on vacation. Person B is also on vacation. Person C is also on vacation. Yes, really."

"No, I will not call Person A at home because you have a question about your Office Depot order. Are you the jerkoff who called before?"

Needless to say I would never last as a receptionist. I have a whole new respect for what they do!

Feminism 101

I'm reading a book called Getting in Touch With Your Inner Bitch - yes, I know some of you think I could have written it. But seriously - it has frequent references to "Toxic Niceness," which, believe it or not, was my mantra for a little while.

My adoring dad has always said that if I had been born in another century, I would have been Joan of Arc. Maybe not - but I was born with a personality that probably would have gotten me burned as a witch. I came out of the womb opinionated, I think, and my parents tell me that I talked and talked and made my opinions quite clear even before I learned words. And I talked in complete sentences before age 2.

That said, there was a short period of time when I was a bit of a mouse, a bit of a doormat - and it got me in trouble. This lasted from about age 6, when my parents got divorced, to around my sophomore year in high school, when I learned to say, "Fuck you!" and mean it. This was in 1991. I read Susan Faludi. I got excited about Hillary Clinton. I got my personality back. I have been a full-fledged fighter of sexism ever since.

To come back to the point, I was fortunate to be raised in a household with a feminist father and parents (divorced) who both told me that I could do anything I wanted to do. I never heard about gender limitations because my parents didn't believe in them.

Before the Bitch book (which I highly recommend, by the way), I read another book about bitching, The Bitch in the House, which was a collection of women sharing thoughts (and, yes, sometimes, bitching) about home, self, work, romantic partnerships, kids, etc. I had these two books on the brain when my grandmother e-mailed me a couple of nights ago.

My grandmother is still figuring out e-mail and the internet, and it's a help to her, as it is to me, when she gets bouts of insomnia. Her last e-mail was raving about my aunt's last visit to their cabin in Minnesota, while they were out, because my aunt "left it spotless and in good order, besides beautifully arranged what was left out. I can take lessons--K- would enjoy greatly the order."

"If K- enjoys order," I wrote back, "he should do some of the cleaning!"

She chided me in a reply that he does do some of the cleaning, which I think means he may have once killed a mosquito up there and wiped up the messy spot afterwards.

Seriously, both of my grandfathers - and most American men of that generation, I think - have been slaved over their entire lives: first by their mothers, and then by their wives.

My grandfather on my dad's side remarked a few months back that he'd like to move into an assisted living facility at some point. My grandmother snapped, "You dolt! You already have assisted living!"

It's true. Both of my grandmothers do all of the cooking, all of the cleaning (even the yardwork, in my paternal grandmother's case - I think the other side, which has more money and a firmer belief in the caste system, probably hires someone to do it)and they were both responsible for all of the child-rearing.

And they each had five!

I think about this and three things come to mind:

1. I'm absolutely baffled. How did they manage to do all of this and have enough time in the day to sleep? (Maybe they didn't all that much.)

2. I'm absolutely pissed. Why was this the norm? Why is it still the norm in their homes, and most of that generation?

3. How the hell did my parents, and my friends' parents, break out of those gender stereotypes and encourage us?

It's food for thought, anyway.

I have never even considered the possibility of not ending up with someone who would expect me to be a Stepford Wife, or even a Stepford Girlfriend. (Mr. Riot Kitty, by the way, just came in to tell me that he finished doing the dishes.)

Granted, I've experienced my share of sexism - at work (remember, I worked in newsrooms for several years) and out of work. But I am thankful to come home to a partner who is willing to share the suds, as well as the cuddles.

And I am thankful to have been raised by parents who taught me to expect nothing less than that.

Speaking of - or from - experience?

From a good (and liberal) friend:

I just read this about the importance of Sarah Palin's experience and I snorted coffee through my nose:

"Because having experience is like having an unusually large penis. I mean, it's a neat thing to have, and in some situations it might come in handy -- but it doesn't really matter all that much and if you keep waving it in people's faces, they will generally run away."

An open letter to Moonstruck Chocolate Company

To whom it may concern:

My husband and I have been going to your cafes almost weekly since 2004. We frequently brag about your desserts, coffees, and propensity to play jazz music and Frank Sinatra; we ship your chocolate bars to my siblings and parents; we bring our out-of-town friends to the cafe, etc. You get the point.

Imagine my shock when I met a friend for coffee at one of your Portland metro area cafes last week and saw your "new" desserts. Gone was the delicious peanut butter cheesecake, brownies, and otherwise yummy and reasonably priced desserts (oh yes - I forgot the chocolate pyramid.)

In their place were skimpy, wilting things that may have once been chocolate, for about twice the price. I mean, it was laughable. One of them was literally the size of a Kit-Kat (or more exactly, one of the Kit-Kat bars) for nearly $5; instead of the lemon tart there was the slice of one, again for about twice the price of the original dessert.

Like any reasonable person, I find the characteristics of skimpy and wilting undesirable in both men and dessert. Surely you agree?

Mind you, I am not a dessert hog. I am not one of those people who thinks super-sized portions are a good idea. But I do expect to have more than three forkfuls if I'm forking over $5 for a dessert.

Then I looked up to see that the menu was redone. The biscotti and chocolate-dipped cookies were gone. So was the jazz music, which my friend and I were informed you
no longer allow.

After I exclaimed something along the lines of, "What the hell?" a kind barista gave us the skinny on why the desserts had gotten skinny.

Apparently, a new marketing person at your corporate HQ in Portland, a guy sans people skills, has decided that while Moonstruck cafes were already making money, you needed to make more. He apparently also decided that you need to use the "Starbucks model."

A tip for the uninitiated: Starbucks closed 600 stores recently because they were losing money. They woke up to the fact that they needed more, not less, of a good thing.

Furthermore, people like me have been loyal Moonstruck customers because it's a local, unique place - not because it's a copycat rendition of a chain coffee place. Why would I drive across town to go have a Starbucks experience when I can drive down the street instead? Just because it says Moonstruck?

"Buy local!" you yell. What happens when local starts sucking?

So now what happens? According to the barista we spoke with, enough people have made noise that the manager has taped a card with the corporate phone number and e-mail address to the cash register, so irritated folks like myself can call and/or write.

Like any business that gets more corporate, you probably won't listen.

And you'll lose customers.

And then the usual suspects - "the market getting oversaturated," "the economy," etc. will proverbally get blamed, and your gracious employees will lose their jobs.

But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps, like me, you won't settle for skimpy and wilty in men or chocolate, and don't think Moonstruck customers should have to, either. Maybe Mr. Sans Personality, who probably got his job because of nepotism, will get a swift kick in the ass and go back to his trust fund. Maybe Moonstruck will once again be the unique, fun, yummy place my husband and I will take friends for birthdays and other occasions.

Until then, I'm going to go elsewhere, where the dessert is less corporate and more robust.

Regards,

Riot Kitty

PS I really did send this to Moonstruck. You can, too! E-mail them at info@moonstruckchocolate.com. Or call them at 503-247-3448.

Is this funny enough to blog about?

Please cast your vote. Mr. Riot Kitty says no. I disagree.

At any rate, as I have mentioned in several other posts, he works with several people who speak English as their second or third language.

Apparently the word for "chop" in Lao sounds like the word "fuck."

So today, someone brought in a bunch of carrots to Mr. Riot Kitty's work, and one of his co-workers, who enjoys cooking and happens to be a native Lao speaker, was waxing poetic about recipes.

"So you take the carrots and go fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Just like that."

And you take the chicken...

You get the picture.

How to make telemarketers hang up on you

For those of you who aren't on the do not call list...or are tired of getting political candidate calls...

Here's a short how-to guide, courtesy of Mr. Riot Kitty and his friend Dave. This has all been said in the following types of phone calls!

When a credit card company calls with an offer:
Caller: "Heeeeeeeeeey, we have an XYZ card at just 27.5 percent interest!"
You: "Oh...no. I can't go through this again."
Caller: "You have been pre-selected-"
You: "After last time..um..all the therapy...no."
Caller: "The approval process is-"
You: "You don't understand! There were BAGS of porn!"
Caller: "We can have a card sent-"
You: "I can't have the police here anymore. She will divorce me for sure this time. When she saw the German Scheisse video, well, it wasn't good."
Caller: "Scheisse?"
You: "You know, when she-"
Caller -click- line is dead.

When a political candidate calls you:

Politician: "Hi. I'm calling to let you know that I am running for election in XYZ county"
You: "Hang on...Suzy, lean a little more to the left! Save the pudding for later."
Politician:"My stand differs from my opponent because I do not support-"
You: "Just a sec... Hey! Add the orange!"
Politician:"I do NOT support putting babies on spikes"
You: "Yea, wait a moment...Are you going to take all day? We don't have that much film left. And get your hair out of the way!"
Politician: "I'll try back at a better time"

When your naive friend who your wife will never, EVER forgive passes on your phone number to a retirement planner:

Caller: "Hi, I am a retirement plan consultant. Blah blah Blah"
You: "My retirement plan is taken care of."
Caller: "Do you mind if I ask what your retirement plan is?"
You: "We will be collected."
Caller: "Collected?"
You: "By the mother ship."
Caller: "The mother ship. Do you have a will or estate plan? It's never too early-" (sounding flustered)
You: "We don't need to have a will or estate plan. We will all be collected at he same time."
Caller: "OK. Uh, if you need any of my services you have my number" -click-

Riot Kitty needs...

I snagged this from Jessica, who snagged it from someone else...

Go to Google and type in "your name" and "needs" and post the first five things that come up.

Needless to say, this was difficult, because I typed in "Riot Kitty" and got references from my own blog!

So I used my first name...which will remain anonymous and be substituted here with Riot Kitty. Enjoy!

1.Riot Kitty needs a family that will be patient, consistent, kind, loving (have one, luckily!)

2. Riot Kitty needs attention (don't we all? But hopefully not from the wrong people!)

3. It's Riot Kitty who clearly needs to shut the fuck up. (I LOVED this one! Was it posted by my ex, the GOP, or my mother's side of the family?)

4. Riot Kitty needs to take an extended break from golf after this weekend (No problem. I have never played it, and never will...although I will never take a break making fun of people who do.)

5. Riot Kitty needs help translating. (Um, again, don't think so. I'm pretty fucking clear, in several languages, actually. Especially when I am irritated.)

Putting the Ho-Ho-Ho back in the holidays

Special Guest Blogger

Mike D

I have known Riot Kitty for over 10 years, when we met in Washington, D.C. She was visiting a mutual friend and I was working for a foreign embassy at the time. We took off from there. So, when she asked me to re-tell this story I had conveyed to her during her last trip to New York City, how could I refuse?

Several years ago, I was a new web/graphic designer in Connecticut. Once I was there a few weeks, I was told the primary reason I got hired was to help the lead designer with an “adult” (i.e. porn) website.

Actually, it was the website for a well-known adult store around the area. After working there for a few months, the site was done, so there was one last thing that needed to be done before it went live. I was told to test the site.

That’s right, folks. Test the site. Make sure it won’t break or break down or any number of things that could happen to a website where you could buy stuff. Adult stuff. They gave me a fake credit card and I went nuts. I bought dildoes (to quote a comedian, is this the plural of dildo? I wonder), I bought videos; I bought various plugs and sex toys.

Just to make sure some pervert chucklehead didn’t accidentally break the site or get his whack-off material for free. I got paid for this, people. My uncle thought it was the funniest thing he ever heard.

This was also around Christmas, so my boss had me design a Christmas-y home page for the site. With the catch-phrase, and I shit you not: We Put the Ho-Ho-Ho Back in Your Holidays. With garland, trees and blinking lights.

Then this ass of an owner tells my boss he doesn’t want to pay us for the work done on the site. My boss told him that if he “could convince my guys to work for free, knock yourself out.” Preferably with a dildo. I added that one myself.

What a job.

Scary monsters, super creeps

I have been tagged by JLee to do a scary meme...although this is making me laugh already.

The theme: 5 things that scared me when I was a kid.

1. Alice Cooper, after he appeared on the Muppet Show. (Giggle.) I know, I know...and this lasted until about sophomore year in high school, when I saw Wayne's World. And now he does commercials for Staples, has written a book about golf, and has opened a Christian youth center...yes, yes, keep laughing at me.

2. A Gilette commercial circa 1979. I have had super-sensitive hearing since birth, and when their electric razor commercial came on the TV, I ran behind the couch and covered my ears. Keep laughing.


3. My younger brother - briefly - because he threw my Burt stuffed doll in the toilet. And because he bit me from time to time. But I wasn't really afraid of Nik, so much as I was afraid of him throwing more of my stuffed citizens in the can. Post script: for his birthday a few years ago, I got him a Burt doll. I am reasonably certain he hasn't thrown it in the toilet.

4. Sharks. I am still afraid of sharks. I blame this squarely on my fourth grade teacher, who showed our class "Jaws 2." What kind of teacher shows a horror flick about a man-eating great white to a bunch of 9-year-olds when she has a free day? I mean, shit! Talk about running out of ideas for lesson plans. Extra reading would have been just fine with me.

5. Briefly, bear tracks in the snow in my backyard in Minnesota, when I was about 5. My best friend next door and I ran inside and hid under the covers. My parents thought it was hilarious, because the bear tracks had been left by the plumber.

How now, brown leotard?

I have no shortage of glee: the Hooters in my town just closed!

Mind you - I am not against strip clubs. If people are dumb enough to fork over money for women (and men) they'll never get to touch or talk to, so be it.

However, Hooters pisses me off because it's a fraud - pretending to be something it's not.

Their corporate fuckhead mouthpieces continually say that they're a "family restaurant" - excuse me, that's not how my family dresses for dinner!

However...their defense a few years back, when their female employees sued several male managers for sexual harassment, was that the workers "should be used to it" because it was that kind of place.

Right!

So it bothered me no end that one of the sleazeholes opened up in the same shopping area as my Trader Joe's. Veggies and breasts, anyone? Then the local newspaper - which is part of a chain owned by a born-again Christian pastor, no less - partnered with this family restaurant for a promotional bbq giveaway. I'm not sure how many legs and breasts were promised in this package...

But yesterday, Mr. Riot Kitty noticed a glorious thing...the Hooters lot was empty. The sign, which had glared out at me dozens of times like a Home Depot sign, but with breasts, was gone.

Yippee kay yay, motherfuckers!

Go, Henry!

*Note: the situation described below took place with no men in the room - obviously!*

At work this afternoon, one of my co-workers was talking about the funeral service of a member of our nonprofit community who died suddenly of an aneurysm last week.

Apparently, there was a lot of talk during the service about "his women" - he had quite a lot of them! His mother said, "His first girlfriend is still in love with him, and when they broke up, she was still his friend, and the second girlfriend is still in love with him, and when they broke up..."

And so on.

I blurted out, "He must have been GREAT IN BED!" right as another said, "He must have LASTED A REALLY LONG TIME!!!"

(I mean, IS THERE any other reason to hang around an ex? Unless he has come out of the closet and really wants to be friends?)

And then we all laughed loudly.

Yet we humans think we are so clever...

Check out this story about a 111-year-old lizard and his 80-year-old mate!

And...drum roll, please...she's just one of THREE of his bed buddies.

Not bad for a guy who weighs just 2.6 pounds.

While we have no photos of Henry, here's another picture of a tuatara like him - and I suppose that for his species, he must be one sexy guy!

Another day, another asshole...another reply on Hello Kitty stationary

I parked at a bookstore last weekend next to a truck with these bumper stickers:

"Gun control is hitting your target"

"Is there life after death? Find out if you mess with this truck!"

and similar crap...one of the stickers made reference to a body BBQ cafe.

So I thought you'd all be proud to know that I left a note on the windshield of said truck onHello Kitty stationary (that nifty little set that my 12-year-old brother got me) and I wrote, "I'm quite sure your dick is the size of a peanut."

Of course, Mr. Riot Kitty thought that would actually be giving him a compliment...

And of course I shared this story with a legislator friend who is a liberal, but also a longtime NRA member.

Happy Tuesday!

:)