Pooping for Two?

Special thanks to Chrissy for sending me this article about the conjoined twins turtle. Problem: two heads, one exit area. You know what I mean.

Talk Amongst Yourselves

Here are the names of some of the businesses I pass every day on my way to work.

-S & M Television
-Glory of God Hair Salon
-Salty's Auto Sales
-Furioso Auto Repair

Do you think they hired an image consultant to come up with those DBAs? Best of all, they're all within a 1/4 mile of each other.

THE GOOGLE

Special thanks to Jo for suggesting this hilarious solution to my work-related internet woes owing to a boss who is highly suspicious of the wild and wooly internets.

Read it now and forward it to as many people as you can or else you'll be missing a shoe in the next five minutes. Heh.

My Least Favorite Conversation

When I was in college, there was a conversation I used to have basically every time I talked to an adult I was newly acquainted with. It involved some pleasantries, the inevitable disclosure of my major, and then this question:

"Are you majoring in English because you want to teach?"

This is not an offensive question really, but it became so distasteful to me in my total inability to succinctly and adequately sum up why it is a non sequitur, why it doesn't matter, and why I desperately wanted to slap anyone who asked it, I almost spat at those who asked it by the time I graduated.

First of all, a LOT of people major in English. A LOT. At most universities, it is among the top three majors. Among people who graduate from college though, teaching is not among the top three professions. Well, that's possibly true. I am making things up at this point, but basing them on the fact that of all the English majors I knew--and I knew a ton, exactly one of them is now a teacher. I am also extrapolating on the fact that there are way more career directions out there than majors in college. AND the fact that of teachers I know, the majority majored in education, but many also majored in art, math, science, and anthropology because amazingly, other subjects are taught at school besides English. Further, the fact that very few high school graduates (in my elitest opinion) actually speak and write English with any sort of fluency speaks to the fact that of all the English majors out there, most of us are putting our degree to other use or no use at all, which is probably the more popular choice. So no, I don't want to teach, though I do think it a very noble profession. But in my opinion, it is like asking someone who likes to cook if they plan on opening a culinary institute. So if you're one of the people out there who enjoys asking this question: please stop now. Ask a different question. You can do it. There you go. Thanks.

Okay, I've said my piece (edit: see comments). Fine. The thing is, I believed that this conversation was in my past. I've been out of college for five years. I've had three respectable and totally different mini-careers in that time. But no. Clearly not. Yesterday, I found myself painfully engaged in this excruciating repartee with the deli attendant at Kroger. Then again, it's not like the level of conversation was ever incredibly elevated. He was hitting on me big time and I was just doing my best to give marginal answers and shift my eyes suspiciously. The following is a faithful narrative.

Me: May I have a pound of havarti sliced thick*?
Deli Dude: I have seen you somewhere before!
Me: I buy deli cuts often.
DD: No, I've seen you somewhere else. Do you work somewhere?
Me: I work in Lufkin.
DD: Where at?
Me: At a museum. May I see that slice of cheese before you cut them all that thickness?
DD: Have you ever been to ??unintelligible?? Museum in Chicago?
Me: No.
DD: You know, there's that movie. What's it? Night at the Museum or something? Is your work like that?
Me: I've never seen it.
DD: You should. It has a lot of neat artifacts. It's funny, too.
Me: Okay. Can I get a pound of the honey ham? No, the private selection, please.
DD: So is that, like, your major?
Me: Beg your pardon?
DD: The museum--is that your major?
Me: In college? No. I've finished college already.
DD: For real? You already been? What'd you major in?
Me: Yes, for real. English was my major.
DD: No way! That's the hardest major. I'd rather do anything but that. You look like a kindergarten teacher.

(HUH? Please note, deli dude, that kindergarten teachers are not younger than other teachers just because their students are the youngest. Am I too young to have been to college or do I look like a kindergarten teacher? Please focus.)

Me: Well, allegedly we all speak English already.
DD: Not me, man. Most people don't speak proper.
Me: That's why I said allegedly.
DD: So was SFA a pretty good school?
Me: I don't know. I didn't go there.
DD: For real? I don't think I'm going to college.

(Another brief interlude: I *hate*, hate, HATE that people I don't know are always casually saying "fo' real?" to me. It's so obnoxious and teen-like. No, for fake, Jim Bob. Yes, for real. I'm being sincere. I'm not making up boring lies for an intrusive deli counter dude.)

Me: Okay.
DD: So you want to teach?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! THAT QUESTION! I THOUGHT IT WAS IN MY PAST!!! DIEEEEEEEEEE DELI DUDE!IS MY HAM READY YET?!!!

Me: No, I don't teach. I work at a museum.
DD: But you want to teach, right? Is that why you're majoring in English?

There's just nothing to say at this point.

Me: Thanks for the ham.
DD: Do you want to pay back here?
Me: NO.

*And by the way, Matt is returning the havarti today because the deli genius was so busy prying in to my life that he smashed all the cheese together in one solid chunk, not in neat rows, nor with paper in between, so it's totally impossible to take off layers, making the excruciating time I spent deflecting his questions now, in the words of my boss, a "mute" point.

Who sent in all these clowns?

A Fetching Personality

My dog is cuckoo for fetch and it is her only real loyalty. Sure, she loves me and Matt, and really almost anyone who will pet her (not that discerning, really), but her ball and/or fetching stick is her only true love.

Yesterday, I came home with Matt's plague and did not feel up to my regular after-work fetch game with Molly T. Matt had gone to class, and since Molly wouldn't come in from the backyard unless she got her game, I went in to the bathroom and left her in the backyard.

When I came outside moments later to retrieve her, I found the back gate ajar and no sign of Molly. Panic pulsed through every inch of cellular tubing of my body as I ran all around the house yelling out her name, forgetting my total body ache. A neighbor walking by told me she had not seen Molly down the hill and I immediately imagined where else she could be: my little sweetheart running full speed towards the highway--without her collar I.D. I might add-- and tears sprung to my eyes as my feet sprung to action. Fortunately, within seconds, a voice down the block (away from the highway: yay!) yelled "Is Molly a black dog?"

"YES!" I yelled back. "Is she there?"

Out-of-breath, I jogged another 100 yards or so to the yard where the neighbor was standing with his mother, who was mid-fetch with a grinning Molly. The emotional catharsis was extreme, but I blame sickness and not the fact that I find my dog to be better than any honor student. Happy tears spilled at the edges of my eyes as I thanked the neighbors, who said they were pleased to meet my hilariously sporty dog. Apparently, Molly had been trotting from yard-to-yard with a stick in her mouth looking for takers for fetch. My neighbor told me Molly had shown up with her tail wagging and laid the stick expectantly at her feet, then sat, then stared. So they played fetch. And Molly had no intention of stopping. She was still sitting expectantly when I started back for home.

Unfortunately, it was not her day to be the boss of me, so I picked up all 70 pounds of that silly muscle head and hefted her back to our yard where I commanded her to report inside, which she did.

I was kind of mad, but it's really hard to be mad at such an adorable puppy with miles and miles of personality. She was soliciting fetch for goodness sake. That's hilarious! Molly rules. But I will never leave the back gate un-bungee'd again. Lesson's learned and fortunately, not the *too* hard way.

Judging Me, Judging You

I thought I would lay to rest this judgement issue once and for all by proving how truly righteous I am with the help of my old pal Wikipedia. Well, as it happens, I might not, er, be entirely, that is exactly right.

But I'm not wrong either--blast it. (And neither is Danny Wallf's brother, I thank you.) I just appear to be one of those obnoxious Americans who has deluded myself into thinking that British English spellings should prevail because, after all, they invented the language. In my defense, I read a lot of Roald Dahl books in my formative years.

See here.

British English sometimes keeps silent e when adding suffixes where American English does not.
...
* Both abridgment and the more regular abridgement are current in the U.S., only the latter in the UK.[57] Similarly for lodg(e)ment. Both judgement and judgment can be found everywhere, although the latter strongly prevails in the U.S. and the former prevails in the UK[58] except in law, where judgment is standard. Similarly for abridgment. Both prefer fledgling to fledgeling, but ridgeling to ridgling.

I doubt I'll change though. Now if you don't mind, I'm off to watch a colour television programme...

Some things that are hilarious.

You know what really slays me? Those glaring indicators of age that people have.

Like when you see a person in those gigantic cataract sunglasses, you instantly know: 114. And I know cataracts are no laughing matter. They make driving and reading incredibly difficult. But those sunglasses! Oh those sunglasses! They are like the Flintstones version of the little visor thing the blind dude (LeVar Burton of Reading Rainbow fame, if you care to know) wore on Star Trek: The Next Generation. (And don't even act like you're too cool to know what I am talking about. You know exactly what I am talking about, as you well know who Captain Jean-Luc Picard is.) So I think this is what makes those sunglasses such a riot. They're almost future-y in their total blackness and functionality, but they just can't be because they're clunky and ridiculous and impossibly un-sleek. A riot!

Then there are those people who have leis on their rearview mirrors. Fake flower leis mostly because hey, this is not Hawaii (unless you're in Hawaii and reading this and have a fake flower lei and to you I send a freshly-picked WTF) or anywhere even kind of like it. These people are a maximum age of 20 years old, at least in their hearts. They consider this lei a hilarious souvenir of having attended a raucous party or even perhaps having graduated from high school. When I see them, I want to remove them and leave a note that says "Don't worry young person. Days happier than those of your mispent youth are ahead. For example, days of cataract sunglasses."

I can't think of any others just now, but be assured that if I do, I'll present them in another judgemental installment. :)

P.S. I would like you, Firefox browser, microsoft word, and the world to please accept the fact that judgemental with an e is a perfectly acceptable spelling. Therefore, I advise these red squigglies to step off.

Hubris

Lately, state troopers have been heavily patrolling the stretch of 59 that is basically commuter corridor for Lufkin to Nacogdoches (and vice versa) folks, so that includes me. I have been exasperated with all of the people who--and I have said so many a time aloud-- think that just because law enforcement is around, they are required to go 20 miles under the speed limit in both lanes.

"It's *legal* to pass here, people!" I say, raising up a fist, challenging the gods. Well they answered that challenge.

Though I typically set my cruise control for 70 on the drive, this morning, one tiresome chap, was going about 60 in the fast lane. So I sped up to get around him, while he *also* sped up. By the time I got in front, I was (allegedly) doing 81, and there was a state trooper waiting for me. Oy. My first ticket since I was 20 years old. Boo.

As he turned his car onto the median and turned around, following me, I silently begged, please let him realize I am mostly law abiding! But no. He waited awhile to turn his lights on, but turn them on he did and I was busted. When he informed me that I seemed to be in "a bit of a hurry," I squeaked that I was running late for work. But really, there was nothing I could say. He had to cite me. I was 11 (allegedly) over the limit. I was hauling and I knew it and honestly, better he pulled me over than face death. Not that I am happy about the eleventeen thousand I am about to hand over to Nacogdoches County. I'm not. But no one got hurt and that is a happy enough ending for now.

I do have to say though, getting in the car these days is getting me very rattled. I *adore* having LZ back--like driving a luxury car after that blue meany-- and she is in fine form; but every time someone is too close at a stop light or seems to be tailgating, I tense up and get all crazed, praying that they won't smash my lights out. Literally. This will not help matters.

But I am paying attention now. Ye gods, take notice.

Letter Writing Campaign

I'm going on a letter writing campaign. I'm not running for political office or helping anyone else do so. I just feel there are some things to be said.

Some are trivial, such as my letter to the marketing director of Advil informing them that they wasted their money on that *odd* radio commercial about snooping in the medicine cabinet and that, for God's sake, can they please consult an actual writer about metaphors? Yes, I am writing this letter. Don't try to talk me out of it. I need to.

One in particular is a true matter of the heart. Without disclosing too much info, I will say that a very close friend of mine decided, whether subconsciously or actively, to terminate our friendship. After going through the various stages of grief, I've decided that at the very least, I need to find out why. I can't stop grieving for this friendship and have peace until I find some closure.

I have a few thank yous to write, a couple of how are yous, and various postcards to people who need to receive them. I've always been a letter writer, but there is a new urgency to my correspondence. I finished a book last night right before bed that lit the fire and I did not sleep well dwelling on these things, which I am still pondering right now. The time is now!

Also, in this same book, there was a passage about how studies indicate that the average person has 60,000 thoughts in a day. Studies also indicate that the majority of these thoughts are duplicates of the previous day's thoughts and the previous day's thoughts. And now, as if my pressing letters weren't enough, I am fighting off a fit of anxiety that I might not be having enough original thoughts every day. Change is on the horizon though and even more so because I am a woman on a mission. Check your mailboxes.

Ah Cain't Understay-und Yeh!

I am from East Texas. I was born here and aside from the occasional flight of fancy to boarding school in the Rocky Mountains and a stint on the Gulf Coast, I have lived here all my life. I am, by every measure, a local. But I tell you what: I cannot understand these people any more than you can. They start talking and I might as well be talking to Aborigines (and I have never even been to Australia). I have *no* idea what they're saying.

For one thing, L's are forbidden and there's just no one to HEP you there. Living on Elm (Em) Street was a hilarious, though often infuriating, experience.

Another thing is that syllables are counted differently. In college, a good friend of mine did a very scientific linguistic analysis of the East Texas accent and learned that it is not, in fact, more slowly spoken than say, wicked rapid Spanish that you don't understand. It's just that the syllables are all out of whack. My husband, in East Texas terms, is May-utt.

Speaking of names, I have taken two phone messages today with a question mark in the "from" section after my extremely poor guess at the callers' names.

And that's another thing--people in the country are named any number of wildly unbelievable first names so there's no way to guess. You cannot imagine what they're named. Besides, it is likely not their real name anyway--but maybe it is. For example, my grandfather was named Corliss Bowling after some farm equipment his father was very fond of. He wisely went by C.B. his entire life. The naming conventions are very similar to those of disgustingly rich society women who are given shocking nicknames that they have no problem using in public. "Oh her? That's Pussy Williams." Except in the country, the names are more, well, they just sound better in a sentence involving deer corn or homegrown vegetables. "I bought them thangs from Louvetta Jones." Have you ever met a woman named Bina? I have. More than one.

And East Texans, God love you (our favorite overused phrase to defray any malice from the mean thing we are about to say, along with "Bless his/her heart"), you've got to let off of that long A. Give it a brayk!

And someone, hep me understayund mah kin!

The Deep Fried Heart of Texas

It's no secret that here in Texas, we like fried stuff. We even top fried stuff with fried stuff and fry it all together sometimes. We fry things that shouldn't be fried that maybe you didn't even know *could* be fried and in Heaven's name should *not* be fried. But we fry it all anyway. And we eat it with a side of ranch. Or maybe even fried ranch. I am serious.

Don't believe me? The State Fair of Texas, the original mecca of fried food, is opening in a couple of weeks and this excerpt from Carol Kimbrough's "What's Cooking?" column in today's Daily Sentinel, features the seven new state fair foods that will debut this year. And what's more telling than the content of this column itself is the fact that there is not even one mention of how all of these foods are heart attacks waiting-to-happen. These recipes, most of which contain fried in the title are relentlessly, repeatedly fried, flaunting their friedness without apology. Reading them gives me heart burn. Hold on to your chest pains and bring out the stretchers. Here they come.

The Seven New Texas State Fair Foods

Source: Shared by Richard Lee Holbert

The seven new Texas State Fair foods chosen for the third annual Big Tex Choice Awards contest held earlier this month:

Deep fried latte

Fried pastry topped with cappuccino ice cream, caramel sauce, whipped cream and instant coffee powder.

Fried cookie dough

Cookie dough with chocolate chips, pecans and coconut, dipped in batter and fried. Other cookie flavors may be offered.

Zesty fried guacamole bites

Small scoops of guacamole breaded and fried. Served with salsa or ranch or spicy ranch dressings.

Country pride peach cobbler on a stick

Peach cobbler with dumplings rolled in pastry dough and fried. Covered with brown sugar and cinnamon and put on a stick.

Fernie's fried chili Frito burrito

Chili and chili-cheese-flavored Fritos wrapped in an uncooked flour tortilla and fried.

Toppings include cheese sauce, shredded cheddar, jalapeños, sour cream, hot sauce and onions.

B.W.'s original fried banana pudding

Banana pudding wrapped in a flour tortilla, fried and topped with whipped cream and powdered sugar or cinnamon.

Mama's fried sweet potato pie

Pie filling wrapped in flour tortilla, fried and topped with powdered sugar and cinnamon.

TUMS anyone?

Eating and sleeping and...turnin' pages.

Thanks to Chrissy for this informative quiz, which I honestly took about 40 million times trying to come up with every different book. When I was most honest with myself though (I think), I was this. Interpret at will.

You're One Hundred Years of Solitude!

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there
is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all
the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Slaughter the Fatted Calf!

Li'l Zippy is coming home tomorrow!!!!

Exclamity! Jumping!

Hooray!

This will be me tomorrow after 8 a.m.:


(except red)

P.S. Sorry for the graphic title. I am so excited about getting LZ back that I am willing to meditate on animal carnage.

O Pioneers!

Look, I know my last couple of entries have been wanting in content. But you know what's not wanting in content? My stomach. Thanks to Pioneer Woman. Last night, I went a little crazy making Pioneer Woman's chicken spaghetti (this is the one I made for you, Smack) and then her "Best Chocolate Sheet Cake. Ever." and then "inventing" a salad of my own (salad greens, sliced strawberries, chopped pecans, croutons, feta and tossed with Annie's Naturals Goddess Dressing). Fair warning: you will use every bowl and spare inch of counter space you have making these two at the same time. And most especially if you add the salad.

One thing I like about Pioneer Woman Cooks is that she, like me, lives in the sticks, far from fresh yellowfin tuna and so forth. So her ingredients in her D-lish recipes are things that anyone, anywhere, (yes, even those of us that live near the South side Brookshire Brothers--eep!) can get to make something tasty--and without too much skill necessary.

Another thing is that she includes very detailed photos, so if you can bring your laptop with you into the kitchen (I love modern times!), you'll never have that ominous "Is that *supposed* to look like that?" moment. There are only moments of zen.

And finally, she's not obnoxious and fesses up to some of her own hilarious kitchen foibles. Speaking of which, let me give you a warning about pouring molten chocolate icing all over a sheet cake squished into a too-small pan. It's going everywhere, even if you think you can control yourself and not pour the whole thing on top of the cake at once. Enjoy the clean-up. It will take awhile. But it will be funny and delicious.

Pioneer Woman Cooks and she rocks, too!

Relaxation Tip for Other Obsessive Types: An Occasional Series

Life is too short to listen to overtures on CDs, so just go ahead and skip them--no one will mind. This applies in all cases except the overture to Handel's Messiah, which is the only overture I know that is as devastating as the whole rest of the work.

EDIT: Not that any of you cared about this entry to begin with, but I do, so I'm back. This afternoon on my drive home, I was thinking about what I could compare an overture to. At a live performance, I sort of understand the point of it. It's to get the audience in place and slightly better behaved before any actors get to the juicy bits of the performance. But when listening to a CD, it's kind of like reading the summary of the book on the dust jacket instead of just opening the page. Sure, you can get an idea what it's about, but if you've already made up your mind to devour the book's guts, why are you wasting time? And this is how I feel about overtures, except as noted, to Handel's Messiah. I'll stop talking about overtures now.

Ho! Ho! Precocious Youngster!

Have you ever found a past letter you had written to yourself and physically recoiled with disgust? (Yes, I am aware there is a popular reading series that is about to become a book of this theme, called Cringe). I honestly couldn't remember thinking that too often when I'd read my past stuff. I mostly chuckled and thought "Ho, ho! Precocious youngster!" But that changed recently. The last time I was at my parents, I found this letter dated April 14, 1997, the outside of which read "Mary, please do not open for at least several years or in case of great spiritual need." I thought maybe past me was just joking with future me in a good-natured way. But no. Apparently, I was like some kind of Bible beater when I was 16 because I kept saying the kind of things you might find in the lyrics to the song "Our God is an awesome God" at one of those contemporary Christian services that make you want to slit your throat and/or the throat of every one around you. I had just been confirmed and was apparently freakishly high on Catholicism, a feeling I have since totally blocked from my repertoire.

It was eerie. It was scary. It made me want to get one of those "True Love Waits" t-shirts, burn it, and wave it around on a broomstick or something. I wanted to collect a bunch of promise rings and melt them down and turn them into a noisy, dangerous....noisemaking dangerous thing that is made by casting molten metal. After shredding the letter and trying desperately to explain myself to Matt who was laughing uproariously, I started thinking--what other stuff have I blocked? Did I ever have a Goth phase? Maybe a time when I found TGIFridays less objectionable or even gangster rap mildly likable? What of my roaring 20s? What in God's name had gone on that therapy had erased my memory of?

To answer your (my) questions: I never had a Goth phase, I have said "Hey let's go to TGIFridays" and meant it genuinely, and yes, I even knew the lyrics to a few Tupac songs in my teens. (Okay, I still know the words, but I choose to omit them from mix tapes nowadays. Or mix cds as tapes have gone the way of obsolete stuff.)

But I wasn't satisfied with these questions. I hungered to know more and began rabidly tearing through F-R archives for evidence of my non-irritatingness. And I have to admit, I was kind of depressed by what I found. As I read more and more, I started to get worried. Was I really as vapid as I came across at 22? 24? 27 (Eep!)? Why did anyone want to be my friend? Why was motto once "I used to be funny"? "I used to be asinine" is more like it. And I liked gangster rap. And yet, here you all are. Thank you.

I expressed this worry to Matt and he assured me that even 80-year-olds lament their wacky, uneven behavior of their whimsical 70s in retrospect. Not that Matt is 80 or knows more geriatrics than I do, but he is an insightful young man who reads a lot and is no stranger to Headline News, so I'll take his word for it. Bring on the whimsical 70s!

Cupcakes Take the Cake

red velvet & Pikes Peak
Originally uploaded by Slightly Fuzzy

Cupcake fans: your attention if you please.

I found this blog that seemed a little weird at first, but I cannot stop visiting it. All cupcakes all the time! It is a swirly, delicious dream!

Cupcakes Take the Cake

Also, I have this flickr photo they posted there as my computer desktop because it's just so dreamy!

Cupcake on a mountain! Exclamity!

Love,
Cupcake Enthusiast

Curb Your Incredulity

I have been requested to write a blog about Larry Craig--you know, the vehemently not-gay senator from Idaho who was soliciting sex from an undercover policeman in a Minneapolis airport bathroom.

The thing is, I don't think there's much to say. Not knowing (or caring actually) what Larry Craig looks like, the first image that comes to mind is that of Larry David (also a Larry with two first names as his full name) in the painfully hilarious HBO tv show Curb Your Enthusiasm and I'm wondering if it's all a huge misunderstanding. Maybe it began with some inappropriate remark to an embittered Hollywood ex-colleague or perhaps a misplaced tip at a five star restaurant that somehow resulted in a racial slander. And maybe all in all--things are just not what they seem, or at least no one is intentionally maligned. This is the way of it with Larry David, poor fellow. The reality of it with Larry Craig, however, is that I am sure things *are* what they seem and the reason is that the evidence, circumstantial perhaps, is overwhelmingly stacked against him.

1-He is a senator and everyone knows that upon becoming a U.S. senator or any type of highly public official, it is damn near impossible for those people to keep their pants on when it would be most prudent to do so. It must be the pressures of the job creating circulation issues. Maybe we can recommend that everyone in the senate starts wearing Thanksgiving pants to sessions. Or I know! Scrubs!

2-He adamantly denies being gay, which as we all know means that there's very little question that he actually is gay. I mean, I guess when your constituents are big-time homophobes, you want to be crystal about where you hypocritically stand, but most of the people I know that are not gay (and that is most people I know) have never actually denied, even casually, that they were gay. In contrast, the only person I know that did deny it was a boy I dated (briefly) and there was zero question in my mind that he was, in fact, gay. Even my terrific friend, his gay roommate, was unnerved by his concealed gayness. And then there's Pastor Schmoe from Denver. I forget his name, but wasn't he having some kind of gay affair with a chiropractor or some kind of medical personnel? Yes, nothing like sexual healing to cure the hypocritical, intolerant soul.

3-Larry Craig was "allegedly" soliciting sex in an airport bathroom. Now I don't want to say that airport bathrooms are exclusively for soliciting anonymous sex, as almost everyone, including me has made frequent stops in them for totally innocuous reasons (such as restrooming), but let me call them the lowest common denominator, at least. Larry Craig was not accused of soliciting sex in a bar (typical) or even hiring an escort service (relatively classier)--but of doing so in a restroom. Gross. People who solicit sex in a bathroom want dirty, anonymous sex and that's just all there is to it. They don't want to take someone home to mom. They don't want to admit their closeted homosexuality to their congressional district. They just want to use their perceived power and glory for a little lark. And that's great for those who enjoy it I guess, but also: kiiiinda suspicious.

4--I must add that using his business card to solicit is a bit of a red herring here. Craig's explanation that he simply dropped it in the stall is completely laughable, but you truly have to wonder at the total indiscretion of not only saying who you are to a sex-worker, but to give them your contact info in one succinct gesture? Fool. Damn fool. Even the most secretive and unassuming of actual sex workers knows they've got a big fish when they have a senator's business card. Oy. What did he think would happen? Ah, yes--he wasn't thinking. Must be those circulation issues again.

Thanksgiving pants for some; miniature American flags for others!