Projecting My Ridiculous Insecurities

I returned home last night after almost two weeks on the East Coast at my parents house. It was a week of drinking wine, napping, making fun of each other and board games. All around a good holiday and great family time.

When I got home I came home to a pissed off cat (she does not like it when I leave) and an empty fridge. To be honest, it wasn't empty. What it did contain was rotting left overs and sour milk. So I ventured out to a Deli around the corner from me to get some take out. Whenever I order take out or delivery I usually order enough for two meals. It's my own warped form of multi-tasking. I reason with myself that if it's delivery and I'm paying for the delivery I'm actually saving money. I'm not sure how I'm justifying it when it's take out. Anyway, I order a bit of food. The last time I was there when I told the guy that it was To Go, his comment was "I assumed you weren't eating it all yourself." Except that I was.

Tonight when he handed me my order he said something about getting a workout on my way home. I assumed he was referring to the size (and the content) of my order. I'm pretty sure I blushed and was about to make some reference to "we" (we being my imaginary dinner partner so he wouldn't think I was eating all that food by myself). Then I realized he was actually referring the weight of my order, as in, the bag was heavy. (Not me)

I need to relax.

And enjoy my mozzarella sticks, my brownie, my chili mac. yum.

Rerun

I think it warrants a repeat...this was almost two years ago.  I was telling my family this story and it stills cracks me up.  I was, of course, kidding when I made the comment.  It was something I said frequently.  In addition, I would affect a vally girl accent while saying, but still someone quoted me.

Word of The Day

Time with my family made me think of this word. Can't imagine why:

Wisenheimer

Main Entry:

wi·sen·hei·mer

Variant(s):

also wei·sen·hei·mer \ˈwī-z^ən-ˌhī-mər\

Function:

noun

Smart Aleck

Etymology:

²wise + -enheimer (as in family names such as Guggenheimer, Oppenheimer)

Date:

1904

Do your mother a favor...

My mother called me last night. She read my latest story, and this is what she had to say: "Can't you write anything happy? Do your mother a favor and write something happy."

Ugh. Mothers.

I didn't sleep last night. Not at all. I packed (last minute) did some tidying up in my apartment, explained to my cat that I will be gone for 10 days but that I am coming back and someone is checking in on her (yes, I am a crazy cat lady, I don't usually like to advertise that, it's my dirty secret) and then suddenly it was time for the cab to pick me up (4AM thank you very much).

I hate people who hum along with their iPod on the el. That was me this morning. Well, I haven't slept. I didn't realize I was doing it until I opened my eyes and saw the looks. Oops.

Then I was in line behind a Romanian family of 6. yes, 6. They opened a special lane for them. Thank you TSA for family lanes.

Then I actually got on my plane. One of the only flights not delayed. I sat in my chair and watched them de-icing the plain, thinking Is this a good thing? when they announced we were deplaning because of mechanical difficulties.

WTF

I am trying to use my time wisely. But I ask you, why am I TRYING to write something happy?

Ugh. Mothers.

Sometimes I write more than the random blog post

My second published piece titled Molting is part of the current edition of Poeticdiversity.

My first published piece Doors Closing was on Failbetter this summer.

What was surprising to me is that I just googled my name and "Doors Closing" and came across this blog review of my story, which gave it 4 stars. I had no idea it was out there. Now I really do feel like a writer.

It's beginning to smell a lot like winter

I love the smoking ban. I LOVE the smoking ban. I remember my first morning after the New York smoking ban. I woke with a hangover complete with headache, nausea and fuzzy teeth. But my hair smelled like my shampoo. My coat, well my coat had a whisper of a smoky smell from earlier pre-smoking ban nights but it didn't need a febreeze fogging in order to wear it to lunch.

How quickly we adjusted. Even my smoker friends. Until it was as if we had always stood in bars with out smoke, as if we never had to do that dance to dodge the ends of strangers cigarettes being waved around too close to the backs of our heads, as if smokers always snuggled outside of bars puffing quickly whilst missing their drinks sitting back at the bar.

Than I moved to Chicago. And I knew smokers. I was spending time with writers. Not just writers. Writing students. There's something about an MFA that ignites cigarettes. I re-adjusted to smoke in bars. To frebreezing my coat after a night out. To burning eyes, the smell, the thickness of air in bars.

And then it happened in Chicago. THE SMOKING BAN. And it was a beautiful thing. But there's something I've been noticing lately. The smoke covered things. Horrible things. Disgusting things.

People fart. A lot. Walk through a crowded a bar and breathe deep, the pungent smells will assault you. The greater the crowd, the greater the risk of crop dusting. In the summer it's not as noticeable, maybe because we spend the summer drinking on patios or near open windows. But now that winter is here and windows are shut tight and doors kept close, there is no escaping it. People fart.

If only we could have a farting ban.

It's a {Bleeping} Valuable Thing - the week so far

what a week....

Embarrassing

I started to read the complaint. It's juicy Romance Novel addictive. And horrifying. And embarrassing. And bleeping insane.

Hot

I have a big time crush on Patrick Fitzgerald. It started after the Scooter Libby trial when I saw him at the taping of Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. And after his press conference Tuesday it grew even bigger. He's all kinds of hot when he's steaming mad and full of righteous indignation. And you know, making the world a better place.

Just Straight Up Creepy

Caught this on Dr. Phil yesterday. And all I could do was think, ick. That is NOT a baby. That is a doll. There's this thing called reborning. They are dolls that are made to look like real babies. A woman on the show has two nurseries, one for the girl dolls and one for the boy dolls. It's just creepy.

You can teach an old dog new tricks (at least this old dog)

Friday night, once again I got all fancy with makeup and high heels. The heels were ridiculously high and a size too big. Gel inserts and socks didn't make up for the extra room. The slush on sidewalks didn't help either. This blogger could only take tiny steps, slowly. Now, you might be curious, why would someone buy shoes that are a size too big? Some of you are already guessing the answer. Because they were on sale. And cute. And Tahari. And yes, they are uncomfortable, too big and awkward to teeter around in. But I still love them.

I came into some unexpected money, which since I'm unemployed went to bills. But I haven't been able to shop in, I don't know, several months, I decided to treat myself to one frivolous purchase. I found myself holding a shoe that was cute, high heeled, a size too big and on sale. But I put it down. The occasional uncomfortable impracticale shoe is one thing. But I'm attempting not to stock a closet full of them. At least not until I get a real paycheck.

You Get Me...You Really Really Get Me.

Maybe you are comfortable with who you are, secure in your “You-ness” and confident in how you are perceived by others. Me. Well, I am and I’m not. I am a complex mess of insecure and overconfident, but that’s more than a blog post, that’s a whole book of exploring essays and possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars in therapy. But this weekend two things happened that made me realize that sometimes people get me. Really get me.

One was a conversation I had on Friday night. It was a brief, in passing conversation. With someone who, when I met him this summer, nicknamed me Legally Brunette. I am ditzy. This I know. I have never pretended to be anything else. But I am also smart. And sometimes I don’t know which side of me people see. I assumed calling me Legally Brunette was a nod to my ditziness. Which didn’t bother me. I myself like to mock my ditziness. But on Friday night (actually it was probably more like Saturday morning because I’m guessing it was close to 1AM) the aforementioned friend said something to the effect of “Sometimes I feel like I need to be prepared to have a conversation with you.”

I asked, all insecure and freaked out, “What the hell does that mean?”

And he responded, “Why do you think you are Legally Brunette?”

I assumed it was my ditziness. He then explained (and I am paraphrasing because this was late into Friday early into Saturday after many a vodka) that like Elle Woods in Legally Blonde people probably underestimate me not realizing that I am actually surprisingly smart.

It took awhile for my late night pickled brain to process words and thoughts and I wasn’t feeling so smart swimming through my inebriation but I took away a whole new appreciation for being called Legally Brunette.

The other surprising moment came in the form of a gift. It started on Tuesday when I was out in the netherworld known as The Suburbs. A friend and I were weaving our way up and down the aisles of a Home Goods when we across a wooden box that was a replica of a typewriter.

I said “When I get a job, (I start many sentences with this. I have already alloted my first several paychecks to shopping sprees at Zara, a dresser, plane tickets- both domestic and international, shoes, a decorator, various outings around Chicago, dubious investments in jewelry. All and all anything from the practical to the ridiculous. It’s not quite as insane as my If-I-won-the-lottery list, but the When-I-get-a-paycheck list is growing) I want to find an antique typewriter.”

Many of my fellow SAIC writing program friends had one, my parents have one. I want one. Not to use. To look at and imagine what if I was Hemingway or Capote clacking away brilliant things on a typewriter. My friend made a face and I assumed it was a there she goes again that weird writer girl look.

Then Saturday afternoon she showed up at my door with a typewriter. An antique typewriter. It had belonged to her neighbor's grandfather. The neighbor used in it college to type all her papers. Apparently my friend had already been planning on giving it to me as a belated birthday gift.

She gets me. Really gets me.

Twittering Too Much

Twitterific

Unemployment means a lot of time available to waste. And for me, I waste on it online and watching tv, usually simultaneously. I have become a news and blog junkie. And twitter is not helping. At all.

At first my tweets were from friends. One is a college friend who tweets every thought. No matter how mundane. All day long I read about how he can’t find a folder, has a meeting, is eating a cheese sandwich for lunch, found the folder, ate a dorito that fell on the floor, is on a conference call and ready to go home for dinner.

Then I progressed up to tweets from Obama, the Adler planetarium, Buzz feed, until I moved on to full on obsession with gawker.com, daily intel, chicago tribune, npr news, cnn, politico and other obsessive twittering.

News and gossip galore.

This morning, from four difference sources, I got a tweet on the 533,000 lost jobs.

What fun.

One can be TOO informed.

I wish I could sleep like my cat

aren't you jealous? doesn't she look cozy?

High Brow Flatulence

The best, the BEST thing about this article is that it is the #4 most emailed story on the nytimes.com website. (dailyintel)

SCIENCE / ENVIRONMENT | December 04, 2008 As More Eat Meat, a Bid to Cut Emissions By ELISABETH ROSENTHAL Farm emissions are being discussed during international talks on a new treaty to combat global warming.

Most Emailed 1. The 10 Best Books of 2008 2. College May Become Unaffordable for Most in U.S. 3. Episcopal Split as Conservatives Form New Group 4. As More Eat Meat, a Bid to Cut Emissions 5. Vermont Town Turns to College in Bid to Guide Change

Shaving Your Beard Gets You A Cabinet Nomination

Was it my imagination, or did the Chicago news anchors pretend to be surprised that Bill Richards got a nomination? On ABC they pointed out that he had been his competitor at one time. Did they forget that he endorsed him too? Wasn't it a forgone conclusion that he'd be somewhere in the Obama Administration?

Am I missing something? Is there a reason this nomination wasn't part of the Economic Team?

And I'm really curious why now the nominees get to speak? When the Economic Team was announced they stood behind our Prophet President Elect and nodded and looked pleased with themselves and smiled. Or am I remembering the press conference wrong? (seriously asking, I'm not being rhetorical) If I am remembering this correctly, is it that the number crunchers can't speak? Or I wondered if our future Secretary of State wanted to speak and so they set a new precedent.

side note: I thought it was kinda cool that he broke out into Spanish. Take that Pallin and all your "Real Americans"

And could you love Obama any more than when he goes off script and riffs? Calling himself a mutt, mocking Mrs. Reagan and her séances and then today bemoaning the loss of Richards beard. I mean, honestly, I LOVE him.

Word of The Day

While the stories I write are short, the stories I tell are long. I've been called chatty and loquacious. My conversations have been described as elliptical (lots of tangents and extraneous details but EVENTUALLY I get to the point). I now have a new word for my wordy speak:

Prolix

Main Entry:

pro·lix

Pronunciation:

\prō-ˈliks, ˈprō-(ˌ)\

Function:

adjective

Etymology:

Middle English, from Anglo-French & Latin; Anglo-French prolix, from Latin prolixus extended, from pro- forward + liquēre to be fluid — more at liquid

Date:

15th century

1 : unduly prolonged or drawn out : too long 2 : marked by or using an excess of words

synonyms see wordy

— pro·lix·i·ty \prō-ˈlik-sə-tē\ noun

— pro·lix·ly adverb

Thankful for Chicago

Things in Chicago for which I am thankful
(and while I love them, I’m staying away from the obvious things like the Lake and the Cubs)

The CTA

It’s like dating a bad boy or having that friend. Unpredictable, frequently late, crowded, frustrating. But it serves a purpose. And it’s worth it for those moments. Like on the brown line when you cross the Chicago river or on the 145 or 146 on Lake Shore Drive and you get that view of the Lake Front. For those moments of “Wow” I’m grateful.




Two sided.

If you get a card from me, 99% of the time I purchased it at Two Sided. They have the best selection of cards and wacky unique gifts. Plus it usually smells nice because of all the different candles in there. And they have dog biscuits outside the store. That’s just cuteness all around.


Large Intelligentsia skim lattes with three packets of Splenda.

The foam is crack. My crack. When I take that first sip I have to resist moaning out loud. Public displays of java orgasms are just not cool.


Matilda’s and it’s bartenders.

My local. My home away from home to drink. I like it best during the week when it’s quieter, a little older. Less drunk horny twenty-somethings and more grown ups getting tipsy on a Monday night. I crave the fish tacos and I think the best deal ever is Fish Taco Tuesdays. They have my favorite juke box in the city. But really my favorite thing about Matilda’s is that they always make me feel at home and totally welcome. Like I’m their favorite regular. I have no delusions about this. I have bartended and waited tables but still I eat it up. And my favorite bartender is Calvin. He’s adorable, funny and always engaging to talk to. He’s flirty in the right way. (but sorry girls, he does have a girlfriend) Still, I like some innocent flirting with my vodka. And he’s an amazing musician. sigh.

Sweet Mandy B’s cupcakes.

I miss Magnolia Bakery. I do. And I wanted to love Cupcakes (since it is on my corner) but really, really, my absolutely favorite cupcakes in Chicago are Sweet Mandy B’s. The icing is sugary and the sprinkles pastel. I don’t know what it is with me and cupcakes, but I love LOVE love them. And Sweet Mandy B’s are my favorite. Just. Simply. YUM.

If You Want My Body And You Think I'm Sexy

Thoughts on Attraction

Friday night I got all dolled up (eye shadow, painful high heels and everything) to attend a party. At the beginning of the evening a friend and I were dud magnets. If you are boring and not very attractive, you talked to us. Even after we tried to politely make an exit by saying we were going to the bar, you asked us to get you a drink, or you followed us. You were not bad guys or losers. Just not guys we were interested in talking to. Ironically (or maybe karmically) there were two guys who we thought were kind of cute and amusing that we ended up with in conversations. Except they walked away from us. Twice. We joked (and wondered) if they were trying to avoid us like we were trying to avoid the duds that kept talking to us.

I did have a conversation with one guy in particular that was funny. He had a razor(ish) sharp sense of humor. I admit, I enjoy the challenge of trading barbs with someone who almost offends me but pushes me to be wittier. He was not unattractive but still not my type. He made a comment that he wouldn’t have talked to me so much if I wasn’t so cute. (First of all, ick) And rhetorically (at least he thought so) asked “Isn’t that why you are talking to me? Because I’m cute?” (again, ick) I truthfully told him I hadn’t decided yet if I was attracted to him. He actually tried to argue with me that I was. Which is kind of funny and probably to some girls attractive. Sometimes cockiness can be intriguing. But other times it’s just annoying.

I tried to explain to him that while for men attractiveness is black or white, for women it’s all kinds of grey shades. Men are attracted or they are not. At least, that’s been my observation. I think it can evolve and change at times. But pretty much, it’s there or it’s not.

For woman though it’s so much muckier. Sometimes you can be a bit attracted to someone. Just a bit, there are random moments it pops up (sorry for the pun) and moments its just not there at all. At times I have met a guy and been intrigued by him but not sure if attraction was going to show up or not, so then I go on a date with him. And at times, on the date, he’s charmed me in his own way and then wham! I want to kiss him. And other times I’ve gone on a date with someone and although they are charming and interesting and a great guy, I just don’t feel it. And know that I never will.

In that way it’s black and white for me. Once I realize it’s not there. It’s not there.

An interesting thing to note (at least interesting to me) is that I did kiss someone Friday night, someone who the first time I met I thought he was cute. But then occasionally times I hung out with him, I found him kind of annoying. He is charming and a good guy but he’s a LOT of personality at times. And while he could be fun to hang out with, I didn’t think of him as cute as the first time I met him. But the magic of Vodka, the dance floor at Carols, and the late hour I guess a moment was created so I kissed him. I don’t know why, I just know that in that moment it seemed to make sense.

Who knows why, when or how attraction occurs.

Mundane Monday Musings

A Tale of Two Press Conferences


I watched two press conferences today. The first was our current president. Huddled a bit to his side and behind him was Paulson, looking a bit like Lurch. At least that's what I first thought. His shoulders slightly curved, his eyes darting around, his mouth closed as he nodded his way through Bush's speech; Paulson looked tall, creepy and awkward. This is the man behind the wheel driving our economy. Bush looked squat, short, uncomfortable and ready to dash at any quick movements. But then I realized who they looked like. Smithers and Burns.

I tried to listen objectively to what Bush was saying, in particular because I bank at Citibank, so this current we're-not-calling-it-a-depression is getting really, really close to me now. (Not only am I unemployed but now I REALLY have to worry about my pitiful amount of money being FDIC insured). But I was distracted by the clumsy image they made right up to the painfully clunky exit. Bush finished speaking and they split in two, Bush darting in one direction and Paulson's lankly arms and legs slinking off in another, like an ungracefully choreographed high school dance performance. I was left thinking Bush just wants to get the hell out of Washington.

The next press conference was Obama announcing his latest nominations. He is smooth. Always. In his defense, he is new, a fresh face in charge of bringing us hope and change. He is unsharpened pencils, new notebooks and straight A's on the first day of school. He hasn't had a chance to mess up yet. Which I'm sure he will. Regardless of his water walking and prophetic oratory skills, he is human. But I am really excited to see what he will do.

A bizarre and disturbing reflection of me. (and my internet habits)

The google news recommended column cracks me up. There have been days when it was all Obama all the time with the occasional Hilary popping up for variety sake. Other times it has been all fluff and gossip with a random local Chicago story. I'd like to fancy myself intelligent and urbane. Someone who reads smart things and doesn't have time for foolishness. But really, I mean honestly, I love The Hills, Gossip Girl, Facebook, fashion magazines and even my news served with a touch of sugar and frivolilty. (considering my biggest source for news is Daily Intel) I read about foreign affairs, local politics and People's sexiest Man Alive. Witty, urbane, intelligent and frivilous. That's my Googlenews recommended section.

Gleeful disdain for perspective
There are those girls that whine "I'm so fat" just so that you will say, "No you're not." Or the friend that always complains about how much their life sucks when they are flush with money, have a great job, enviable partner and an apartment that makes you drool, while you are jobless, loveless, and stressed about real things. That's what how I felt about the Big Three autmomakers and their private jets. To be fair, the bailout would be for the guy on the factory floor, but it's hard to take them seriously when they are tooling around in $36 million private jets. Even Goldman Sachs is making sacrifices (although it strikes me as, well, not so much a sacrifice and more a DUH, of course your should give up your bonus. It is after all a BONUS and, in theory, a reward for a job well done not an entitlement. )

This weeks sweetness (with an overload of bittersweet)
Emily Bear, a seven year old piano prodigy wrote and performed a song as a wedding gift for Ellen. The song is titled "Once Upon A Wish" because Ellen's wish came true. Well, I cried through out the whole song watching Ellen try not to cry. It was so sweet and so sad.

I am not Helvetica

Following is an essay I wrote this summer and read at a reading:

I am not Helvetica. But my laptop thinks I am. My Macbook, if I’m being precise. It’s new. Semi new. Well, it’s five months old. But it doesn’t know me yet. It knows me a bit. The desktop picture is mine. The alert sounds are the sounds I chose. It tells me when I have new mail and knows to open my gmail with firefox. It knows what songs I play the most in iTunes. Tied for first are Colin Hay and The Postal Service. Second place is Neil Diamond. Only my Macbook knows this.
It knows my passwords, my online bank account, my web search history. When I begin to type in C - A - L, it offers up Calvin Marty. My new favorite musician and not so secret crush. It knows these things. And yet, when I open a document and begin to type, it starts in Helvetica.

I don’t know why Helvetica. Helvetica is a close suburb of Arial. It has the same shape to it’s A’s. The contemporary lack of pageantry with a stiffness. The letters straight, tight. Less foolishness, more content.

At one time I used Arial. Only Arial. Always. For everything. But somehow, at some point, I became Georgia. I don’t remember why or what prompted the change. But I do remember actively making the choice at some middle point of graduate school. A story had survived most of a semester and countless drafts in Arial. Then between advising appointments or before a workshop, it evolved into Georgia. And continued on as such through more drafts until my thesis.

Georgia, at times, was problematic. It was not as ubiquitous as other fonts. Not quite Mac compatible. Many of my professors and classmates had Macs and all the computers in the writing lounge (save one sad neglected PC) were Macs. When emailing something to my advisor, I would have to save a different draft in a different font. Usually Times New Roman, which is similar to Georgia. But Georgia is fuller, less ordinary. My copy was always Georgia.

My old laptop was an IBM. A thinkpad. It didn’t do much thinking, towards the end it did more crashing than anything. I’d had it for four years. Compared to the rapid shrinking of newer laptops, it felt heavier and clunkier over time. One day it just gave up. It simply never turned on again. Not even an attempted whirl from the fan, no blink of light. Just coldness. A black brick sitting on my coffee table.

I now have a Macbook. Light. Girly. A clean fresh white color. Hipster and cool. Fun. I like it. A lot. Friendly, easier. Modern. A Mac. But still, it doesn’t know me yet.

When I open new documents, it starts out in Helvetica. I type a sentence, maybe two. An inspired, I’m a writer-on-the-cusp-of-greatness feeling buzzing at my fingertips, except the letters in front of me are tall, straight, tight letters. Helvetica. I try to keep writing. The words don’t look like my words. My brilliance has to pause. My creative writerly flow halted when I have to change the font to Georgia.

I have tried to make Georgia the default font. But this laptop, this Macbook, it loves itself some Helvetica. Maybe it will always feel new. Maybe it will never completely know me. Or maybe it will some day. But, by then, will I have switched again? No longer Arial, no longer Georgia, could I possible become Palatino?

Back in the Saddle

I know, I know ...where the hell have I been? Too much has happened since I last posted to play catch up (and lets be honest, I'm too lazy).

But here are somethings that I've been contemplating lately (I almost said ruminating, but then I'd feel like I was stealing from Aaron Karo)

On election night I was called an elitist by a McCain supporter (and at the time I thought a red stater - but in the end Indiana went blue - Go Indiana!). My question is, can you be an elitist if you voted for a minority (and especially if you voted on the issues and not because of some white liberal guilt)?

They day after the last election, that pointless and dangerous re-election of Dubya, I felt an overwhelming sadness. I was so disappointed in the human race. I was, at the time, in the very blue state of New York and in the very liberal borough of Manhattan, and working at a liberal Internet company (and the greatest company ever). I remember the permeating feeling of disappointment in the office. We were all disillusioned.

Then Obama 08 happened. I still cry when I see clips of his acceptance speech. The sense of glee from reporters, the (literal) partying in the streets, the euphoria every where was amazing. THEN, facebook statuses happened.

I grew up in the (once red) sort-of-southern (depending on what county) state of Virginia. And went to college in the (once red - yeah! Now blue!) southern state of North Carolina. I have always known many a conservative but was shocked by some of my facebook friends facebook statuses the day after the election. Like "disappointed our next president thinks that babies that are 'mistakes' should be aborted to not 'punish' the mother" and "Sad and disillusioned" WTF. Really? REALLY? I mean... REALLY?

In the end, ridiculousness will always exist.

Also, what the hell is up with Prop 8 and California? And what the hell is wrong with gay marriage? I do not understand why gay marriage is a threat or an insult to marriage. Let me be clear, I understand the arguments being made. It's not that I can't grasp them from an intellectual stand point. It's from an ideological, emotional, humane perspective that boggles my mind. How does Ellen DeGeneres and Portia Derossi being married take anything away from my Grandparents marriage? To me adultery and divorce are a greater insult.

And WTF with the Mormon church? Couldn't money be better spent? And I say this having many a Mormon in my family. My brother was recruited - during his dark days of illegal activities and drug use - and I have many a niece and nephew who are Mormon. I love them. They are amazing kids (and now most of them- adults) and have been through some incredibly crappy times (including losing their mother when they were young) but I struggle with their religion and their politics. Yet, they, god love 'em, accept me for the heathen that I am. But, they have gotten married and divorced. One before she was 21 (married that is, the divorce was after). Again, how isn't that a greater insult than gay marriage?

In the end, I recognize that the philosophical difference is that I don't think homosexuality is a sin. It is not a moral issue for me. And I know that the bible is used to argue against it. But COME ON kids...that's Leviticus. You can not pick and choose bible passages to justify your prejudice. That's just unchristian.

I liked Keith Olbermann's rant. (HufPo)

And, I'm addicted to Nymag.com's news blog Daily Intel (DailyIntel)

Also, I have a confession, I watch The View. I know, I know. She infuriates me, and I even yell at the TV when she talks, yet I am missing Elizabeth Hasselbacks blind, idiotic support of the republican party. I loved how passionately dumb she can be. How annoyingly black and white. How ridiculous. I love to hate her. And I miss the craziness of her yelling at Joy Behar and Whoopi and even when Barb WaWa, while trying to remain nuetral, would catch herself telling Elizabeth she's an idiot. It's a sickness. My joy in it, kind of like watching the Pallin Katie Couric interview.