Blonde Goes Green.

At 5am this morning my blackberry delivered to me a piece of breaking news via CNN.

FORMER VICE PRESIDENT AL GORE WINS NOBEL PEACE PRIZE

I have no idea why this would be funny to me - but it totally was. I just think Al is funny looking. But it isn't funny. Global warming is a very serious issue. A very very serious issue. And once I figure out what it is, I will take it even more seriously. So I decided to take it upon myself, on company time of course, to research global warming.


Global warming is synonymous for climate change. This increase in global temperature is supposed to have secondary effects, including a rising sea level and extreme weather. As I read on, I came upon a dozen words I didn't understand and caught on a secret this was like all about science. So I lost interest.

So here's the deal. I don't get the charts and big words. But clearly this is a big deal to Al and he was our vice president. Out of respect, I'm willing to make some changes. Also, I got an e-mail at work that said I had to. I have to print less and use these new blue bins and plates instead of paper ones. I'm not clear how the new plates are helping glaciers floating around in Alaska, but until I can get clarification on the big words I will trust Al and his big fancy prize.

Fairness and the f word

I just told one of my coworkers to fuck off on instant messenger.

So he walked over here.

And waited at my cubicle for an appology.

When he realized it was not forthcoming-He retired to his desk to retrieve his apple turnover.

At that point he returned to my desk to eat and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Until I beat him down so much with insults and criticism, that he told me to fuck off.

And we became fair.

I will miss them both.

Today Luciano Pavorotti, and my beta fish, Sweet Dee met the very same fate. He of pancreatic cancer, she of presumed terrorism by my house cats, and record valley heat. But they both were important to me. I went to a progressive sort of preschool where we listened to opera and classical music. When I'd come home and my Mom would ask what I'd done, she tells me all I was interested in telling her was "I had listened to Luchy." Not crayons of bubbles, play-doh or puzzles.
If you spend any time around me you know I cannot survive without music. At work or getting ready for my day. I need it to be whole. And I like it in any box it comes to me in. Whether it's a large Italian tenor, Australian country singer, Dutch trance dj, or country girl turned pop singer. Where Pavorotti in preschool stopped, the rest of my life sort of picked up.
So today I say goodbye to both Luchy and Sweet Dee. Both sweet, only one with ability to breathe underwater.
Sweet Dee came to me out of a need to have a pet in my kitchen. I couldn't fathom any other reason to go in that room. Once I'd dropped several pellets and she swam swam swam to the surface to eat, my work in the kitchen was done. I'd check on her often, mostly as a result of my untrustfworthy felines. But in the end, her death seemed to be just a long battle with being an old fish.
I really will miss her.
As I will miss them both.

Today I had banana pudding.

Today I had banana pudding. My friend suggested it. I ate my share. And I'm here to provide to her a full report on my thoughts.

As a fan of the banana, it's difficult to do it injustice. It's simply perfect in just about anything, pudding not excluded.

This pudding in particular sees it's origins in a quaint Memphis bbq establishment in Santa Monica California named Baby Blues. Baby Blues not only knows bbq, it knows pudding.

My banana pudding, from the first cracking of the container, explodes with a full sensory experience. It's coloring, yellow easy on the eyes. It's texture, plump and squishy with rolling valleys of banana chunks. It's smell – it takes one to an entire pasture of freshly ripened organic bananas. Tasting it was only just one last bit of pleasure of the banana pudding experience.

Today I had banana pudding.

A weekly series entitled: today is thursday

Today is Thursday. It isn't better, or worse, than any of the other days. There was a real force behind the "Thursday is the new Friday" movement. But in the end, we all knew, Thursday is Thursday and Friday is Friday. Just as Saturday is Saturday and not Sunday. And less is not more. Less is less. If less was more, can you imagine the chaos in our school system? Less is not more any more than more is less. In the same way losers think winning isn't the point. Because if it wasn't the point, losing would to the point, and losing would be winning and still winning would be the point. The point is to win. And to have more when more is more and less is less. And this has been brought to you by the proud weekly makers of the day, Thursday.

My inevitable crushing by powerful ocean waves

I tried today to sign up for a writing class at the local college here. Goal being to give myself some direction in my writing, and eventually get published. After I hit next half a dozen times filling out the online form, and answered such a broad range of questions as when I became a California citizen (um, 1979? – I don't remember I was a fetus and connected by an umbilical cord), the color of my skin (a golden tan thank you), my personal views on the designated hitter rule in major league baseball (it's a shitty rule) – I discovered going to school, getting your degree, it isn't about academics at all. It's a Survivor style test of who can persevere the forms and applications, the paper and the mouse strokes. After a good hour, I'm not even clear how I enroll in this one class. I, unlike others, don't encourage younger generations to go to college. So you can become more qualified, smarter, and more efficient at the job that I do? So that in a few years I will need to again take classes at the local college to remain relevant? No thank you. Which got me thinking about how completely against the grain almost everything I think is. Firstly, I think it's alright to end a sentence in is. I don't think women have any place in sports. Sweating and grunting and falling all over yourself isn't cute. Mia Hamm didn't make it ok for you. Global warming isn't the end of the world. Ok, so it is. But I'll get to wear a mini skirt in February and for a brief while before my inevitable crushing by powerful ocean waves, it will bring the beach closer to my modest little apartment in the valley. Where I am sure I will simultaneously be filling out yet another form.

oh COME on!

I read what under normal conditions, on any normal day, by someone who was normal – to be tragic. A one eyed gator, in Venice Florida, pulling a golfer in a pond while he was trying to retrieve his ball. No one was seriously hurt, including the handicapped gator and twice now handicapped golfer (get it, golf, handicapped?). Christ, I thought it was funny, get off my back.
The golfer's name? Bruce Burger.
I'm no advocate of gators attacking humans, but being one eyed, with a name like Burger, creeping on his pond, all I'm saying is I can see the confusion. He probably seemed just too delicious to resist. That's like naming someone Sally Sirloin - or Dan Dodgerdog, as is my case. It was a tragedy just waiting to happen.
Today all I ask is that you view life through the lens of a one eyed gator. When naming children, avoid those names that sound appetizing to an awaiting alligator.
Bruce Burger, oh COME on!