Monday, May 05, 2003

Little League Mom

Trying out this new persona -- kindof a soccermom, littleleaguemom thing -- what do you think, does it suitt me?

Well, anyway, little league moms go to bed at 9:32 which is just what I'm about to do. Busy day.

Dancing Halley Halley-loo-yeah Dance

Thank God! I been writing all day w/a deadline of 6:00PM and I think .... Oh My God ... I'm done. I nailed it. Crank up the disco music. Now! Don we now the pink high heels! Dance! Dance! Dance!

Super Trouper -- ABBA

Super Trouper beams are gonna blind me
But I won't feel blue
Like I always do
'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

I was sick and tired of everything
When I called you last night from Glasgow
All I do is eat and sleep and sing
Wishing every show was the last show
(Wishing every show was the last show)
So imagine I was glad to hear you're coming
(Glad to hear you're coming)
Suddenly I feel all right
(And suddenly it's gonna be)
And it's gonna be so different
When I'm on the stage tonight

Tonight the
Super Trouper lights are gonna find me
Shining like the sun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Smiling, having fun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Feeling like a number one
Tonight the
Super Trouper beams are gonna blind me
But I won't feel blue
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Like I always do
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

Facing twenty thousand of your friends
How can anyone be so lonely
Part of a success that never ends
Still I'm thinking about you only
(Still I'm thinking about you only)
There are moments when I think I'm going crazy
(Think I'm going crazy)
But it's gonna be alright
(You'll soon be changing everything)
Everything will be so different
When I'm on the stage tonight

Tonight the
Super Trouper lights are gonna find me
Shining like the sun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Smiling, having fun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Feeling like a number one
Tonight the
Super Trouper beams are gonna blind me
But I won't feel blue
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Like I always do
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

So I'll be there when you arrive
The sight of you will prove to me I'm still alive
And when you take me in your arms
And hold me tight
I know it's gonna mean so much tonight

Tonight the
Super Trouper lights are gonna find me
Shining like the sun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Smiling, having fun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Feeling like a number one
Tonight the
Super Trouper beams are gonna blind me
But I won't feel blue
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Like I always do
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

(repeat and fade)


Well, it was fun meeting all the NYC Bloggers but now one in particular is giving me a run for the money. Seems Howard has decided to do me one better by turning my Alpha Male series into the Alfalfa Male series. With a sailor suit and a ukelele, this guy knows how to get the chicks. I mean he's got 4 babes in Hawaiian grass skirts who can't get their eyes off of him. Watch out Rageboy, you've got babe magnet competition. Check it out:

Alphalfa: "Gee spanky, I'm not sure about this Alphafa Male stuff."
Spanky: "But what about your promise to the He-man woman-hater's club?"
Alphalpha: "I'm sorry, Spanky, I have to live my own life."
Buckwheat: "OTAY!"


Yes, a few hundred thousand bloggers have wanted me to know that DEFINaTELY is DEFINiTELY DEFINITELY. Sorry guys. She can blog but she can't spell.

Sunday, May 04, 2003

Bikini Beach Blogging

Hey folks, when I set the date of May 10, next Saturday for Boston Bloggers to meet at Woodman's up on the North Shore, little did I think it might actually be warm, sunny and beautiful. Well, if this weekend's any clue -- it might be terrific. Even if the weather stinks, we're on for next week at 12:00 noon on Saturday at Woodman's and then off to Crane Beach afterwards.

No bikinis required but feel free to wear them if the weather, wind, water and spirit move you.

Doc, They Say That Falling In Love Is Wonderful

Lest it be passed over casually, and it MUST NOT BE, I need to mention that I finally met Doc this week for the first time, at the Harvard conference in NYC and like everyone else who knows Doc, you can not help but fall in love with Doc.

It's a given. Some sort of force like gravity and magnetism and ... what's that other force? ... oh yeah ... the strong force. Doc's the strong force. Here's my big fan post, man. Just wanted to say a big thanks for coming to my conference and thanks for being terrific and thanks for being Doc. I am definitely falling in love.

They Say It's Wonderful
By Irving Berlin

They say that falling in love is wonderful
It's wonderful, so they say

And, with a moon up above, it's wonderful
It's wonderful, so they tell me

I can't recall who said it
I know I never read it
I only know they tell me that love is grand

The thing that's known as romance is wonderful, wonderful
In every way, so they say

To leave your house some morning
And, without any warning
You're stopping people, shouting that love is grand
And ...

Gnome-Girl Rebirth

Holy Heck, no wonder it's a terrific day, it's Gnome-Girl's official birthday. Go girl go. xoxoxxo H

When I Say Softly, Slowly

Don't even get me started on Bernie Taupin. One of my all time favorite lyricists. Just so damned good. Even if you don't like or didn't like Elton John's early songs, you can't say Taupin wasn't incredibly brilliant.

I was busy dissing the tiny virtual dancing girls featured on Strip Kittens (see post below), but take it all back. Is there anything as beautiful as a woman dancing, whether a tiny dancer in the sand or a virtual tiny dancer on your desktop?

Tiny Dancer
Music by Elton John
Lyrics by Bernie Taupin

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Jesus freaks out in the street
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad

Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows, the tune she hums

But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can't hear me
When I say softly, slowly

Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
you had a busy day today

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Whatever Gets You Through The Night

I take it back. I take it back. Who am I to say you shouldn't get off on a a Tiny Desktop Dancer? Really. It's alright, it's alright. Whatever gets you through the night.

Whatever gets you through the night it's alright, it's alright
It' your money or your life it's alright, it's alright
Don't need a sword to cut thru flowers oh no, oh no
Whatever gets you thru your life it's alright, it's alright
Do it wrong or do it right it's alright, it's alright
Don't need a watch to waste your time oh no, oh no

Hold me darling come on listen to me
I won't do you no harm
Trust me darling come on listen to me, come on listen to me
Come on listen listen

Whatever gets you to the light it's alright, it's alright
Out the blue or out of sight alright, alright
Don't need a gun to blow your mind oh no, oh no

Hold me darling come on listen to me
I won't do you no harm
Trust me darling come on listen to me, come on listen to me
Come on listen listen

Virtual Strip Kittens

I don't know. Call me crazy. Maybe there's something I'm missing. But really, if you need to resort to a virtual strip kitten to get it up ... isn't it time to just give it up?

Friday, May 02, 2003

Thinking of Eric Raymond

I want to get this right, Eric. I’ve been thinking of what you described in The Cathedral and The Bazaar, I won’t slow down here to say you are an eloquent and gifted writer, but you are. I’m thinking of way you describe programmers working together in the open source fashion, sharing brain power, networking brains, “parallel processing” in their many brains, a peer network of great intelligence and I’m wondering if this might be something writers are doing in blogs.

Maybe blogging has those same dynamics of open source programming, where there is no doubt the networked power of many people taking an idea and thinking it through about 25 iterations in … 25 hours … instead of 25 days or 25 weeks of 25 months or 25 years … maybe that’s what blogging is actually about.

And I’m thinking of this, Eric, because yesterday at the Harvard Conference, Doc and I both had a “Whoa! Aha! Hey!” moment when one of the Harvard Business School professors, Robert Cialdini, was describing a conversation with the DNA guy Watson … or was it Crick? … no, it was Watson who was explaining why they had the breakthrough on DNA and some other more intelligent folks did not.

The reason? He gave a few preliminary ones, but the humdinger was that they chose to collaborate and leverage the power of their colleagues and the other researcher thought that that wasn’t necessary.

If blogging is open source thinking, then that may be why it’s such a turn-on. I mean, really, how much of it is the content – how much does anyone want to read about someone’s cat or whatever … but it’s not about that, I mean the cat stuff is just as cool as any of the rest of it. The cat stuff matters, in that it’s what takes up space in a blogger’s head with everything else.

If you’re “going in” – yes, if you plan to do some cranial scuba diving -- you need to get in deep with the cats, the disappointing dates, the RSS fights, the discussions of freedom and authenticity, the visit to a 90-year-old mom in North Carolina, the thoughts on privacy and homeland security, all of it – because YOU NEED TO GET INTO ANOTHER PERSON’S HEAD. So blogging is parallel processing, one networked brain made of many, e pluribus unum, with feline fur.

Traditional Japanese Breakfast

Green Tea
Dried Seaweed
Broiled Salmon and Pickled Vegetables
Scrambled Eggs
Miso Soup with Green Onions

Now this is my idea of a he-man breakfast. I’m at the Plaza reading the room service menu, starving and reluctant to plunk down $27.00 for “The New Yorker” breakfast, coffee , two eggs, sausage, toast, juice.

On the other hand, for a dollar more I can pretend I’m a Japanese newly wed starting the day with a serious protein packed breakfast and a new husband. .

I am not a Japanese newlywed, but I’ve seen some in Central Park, dressed like twins, taking pictures of one another with excellent cameras, and it seems so irresistibly cute to begin married life dressed alike – I find it touching and naïve in the extreme.

They really do have that tradition of dressing alike on a honeymoon. I’ve seen it. Also, sometimes I’ve offered to take their picture in the park, they’ve let me hold their excellent camera.

Perhaps I’d still be married if we’d taken a page out of that Japanese book and just dressed alike. Perhaps if we had dressed alike, we would have thought alike. Perhaps if we had eaten seaweed and salmon every morning, things would have gone more swimmingly. Perhaps …

Right Coast/Left Coast

Blogger’s dinner at Katz’ Deli last night was a ton of fun, but boy, have I got Coasteremia. It’s confusing to have Dan Gillmor of the San Jose Merc stroll down Houston Street and look like he lives around the corner, but he lives on the other coast. And then Anil Dash, or someone pretending to be Anil Dash pops up and I had him in my mind as a West Coaster too, so this is also confusing to learn I just happened to be wrong about that.

BTW, all the most swell and cool NYC bloggers were in attendance.

And Kevin Werbach is up from Philly, but always makes me think DC and is as likely found on the right coast as the left.
And Doc hosted so that meant his shocking suggestion the night before that 25 – 30 people might show up was of course -- spot on. And he’s from the West Coast, some town called, Hanna Barbera or something.

And if the two coast problem wasn’t bad enough, don’t forget another celebrity spotting – JP Rangaswami from London, so we’re talking Dover Beach if you want another coast.

And then there’s me – the one wearing the “Halley Suitt, Church Council” name plate last night (holding my special Katz Deli Orange Meal Ticket which I only lost 2 times) – there I was, I live in Boston now, visiting the Big Apple these past two days, only three grueling East Coast winters away from my ten-year stint in California, and you can take the girl out of Manhattan Beach, CA, but you can’t take the Manhattan Beach or the Manhattan out of the girl, so I’m in complete coast confusion.

And I don’t need to point out the obvious, but it seems easier to find all you guys online these days than to actually expect to find you in some town. [Big Thanks to Doc and Sebastian for the pix.]

Tuesday, April 29, 2003

NYC Bloggers Dinner

Okay, is he teasing me ... after all my writing about men and sex and alpha males, etc. Doc decides we should do the bloggers dinner on Thursday night at the same deli where Meg Ryan did that scene where she imitates an orgasm ... hmm, now Doc ... you're not throwing down a challenge or anything I hope.

Thursday, May 1, 7 PM, Katz Deli, 205 East Houston Street, see all info here.

Safe As Houses

BTW, in case I did get anyone worried, don't be. I feel safe as houses. I don't know what that means exactly, that odd expression, but I do feel safe and sound. Traveled down to NYC today and it was a piece of cake. I love NYC and I forgot how much I love it. Fun to be here.

Meanwhile, Doc's given us a location for dinner on Thursday night, thank goodness. More about that above.

Let's Be Careful Out There

On September 10th, 2001 I wrote a story .... just a short story about a couple having a marital spat. For some reason, in the first paragraph, I used the language,
"She amd her husband Jim had been fighting all morning, one of those perfect terrorist bombings only a married couple of a dozen odd years could pull off. They had masterminded the thing, blowing to smitereens whatever conjugal peace had been in place for the last few weeks, both of them left bleeding and battered by 10:30 am. At least she had some place to go that morning. She'd pulled herself together, dressing very quickly in her best wool suit, dousing her wounds with perfume, wrapping herself in a Hermes silk scarf, as if such bandaging would speed heeling."

I saved the story, half finished that morning under the title "September 10, 2001" as I often do when I'm just starting a new story. I didn't look at it for nearly a month -- you can imagine why. My family and I were shaken at that time, but suffered no direct losses. Thank God.

I didn't even remember writing it. Then one day, I was looking through my writing on my hard drive and came across it, began to read it and nearly fell off my chair.

Why am I mentioning it? Well, I have a strong sense of intuition. A friend pointed out I've been writing in the past few days about disasters. I hadn't even noticed. So here's what I think. I feel something's cooking. And I feel like we can all do a good job of being AWARE and VIGILANT in the next few days. We can do the excellent job of trusting our intuition just like the flight attendant did on the shoe bomber flight. I don't mean to freak you out. I just feel something and I know it's a good time for us all to be aware and connected and help one another out. I hope I'm completely wrong.

Monday, April 28, 2003

I'm A Survivor

I packed for a trip tonight and FINALLY, now that the winter is over, found my long underwear for skiing which I really needed all winter but could not find. It was tucked away in a knapsack that I had commandeered for an emergency. Something 9/11-ish or something Anthrax-ish or your basic Bioterrorism. I was looking at the clothes I had packed and was unimpressed with my strategy. The clothes were very comfortable, boring, a little loose and not at all sexy.

Of course, the shoes I'd packed were flats. A lot has changed in my life since I packed that suitcase. If I really plan on surviving, I'm going to replace my flats with really sexy stilleto heels in my emergency sack. Just think, how many women will have really sexy high heels in their emergency backpacks? Almost none. So right off, this means you have a rare, extremely attractive barter item, or perhaps you might need the shoes to dress up in and ask for favors. One must never rule this type of thing out. In fact, Sketchers makes high heel sneakers that are perfect for civilian defense. I need to get some. And as for undies, I packed some of my least sexy? What was I thinking?!


Over the weekend, my 7-year-old son was asking about it -- are we at risk, is it dangerous -- and I feel sad to think how many things in his world are risky. So much more risky than my world was ... or at least felt.

Oh Yes

How I feel today. Celebrate! Good stuff coming our way. Always darkest right before the dawn. And then at dawn, you remember what really matters.

Sunday, April 27, 2003

Going Fibonacci

I'm just going Fibonacci today. It's that kind of a day. Kick back, relax and just let those integers mate. I'm spiral-bound today.

Don't ask. Just messing with your mind. Getting ready to leave Harvard next week, so I'm putting the jaws of life to the old cranium. Hear it, oh yes, racheting open, like an observatory dome beginning to bust at the seams, looking for some vast dark night sky. Telescope peeping into the heavens ... what was that streak of light ... Halley's What?

Saturday, April 26, 2003

Beach Ready... Not Exactly

Speaking of being not at all ready for the beach, as I did below, Shape Magazine has this totally adorable Hawaiian girl on the cover, and notice not only are her abs and butt cute as can be, but she has a great tan. Now, I was getting my hair cut the other day and indulging in a flood of women's magazines and I'll tell you the big word on the street is SELF-TANNING.

But all things considered, it's now becoming the top requested treatment in a lot of spas and one magazine I read had a blow-by-blow description of the many variations on how women can have others spread on the goop that turns them tan. Some places spray you with it like an Earl Scheib car job. Other joints give you long rather torturous salt and lemon exfoliating body scrubs first and then apply the stuff. It takes about 2 hours and costs everything from $25 to $300, depending on the spa.

So all those cute tan girls at the beach are using self-tanners, many not done by "self" but others and all wearing SPF 48 and underneath the paint job, they' re white as ghosts.

Our Seven Month Winter

It's not that one chilly, rainy Saturday is such a big drag, but after the lovely weather yesterday WHEN MOST OF US WERE WORKING and now when we allegedly get a break and a few days off THE WEATHER STINKS, you get a bit down about it. And it's nearly May. Honestly after this winter from hell which could be justifiably described as lasting ... let me see, I know it snowed before Halloween this year ... so from October through April ... go ahead, count it with me OCT NOV DEC JAN FEB MAR APR -- a mere SEVEN MONTHS here in lovely Boston -- well, call me crazy, but it might be nice to have a pleasant temperate Saturday every 1/2 year or so. Crikey! Is that a word?

I was looking at some fat, drab housewives picking up laundry at the dry cleaner and I was thinking, "Yep, why bother, right?" When your slogging through seven months of winter in your L.L. Bean boots or hidden away in your house, the chances of you being bikini-ready by May, well, they are slim to none.

Yes, Make Your Bed

I got a lot of email thanking me for the post I wrote about just getting up and making your bed as a place to start feeling better instead of down. Here it is again. It's funny. Now that my mom's been gone for nearly ... golly, is it 6 years? Yes, for 6 years, it seems her words of wisdom are all the more right on and more alive in my life than ever.

Thursday, April 24, 2003

Walking Sunset

I don't know why I remembered this story. I guess it was because I was emailing a new friend who lives in LA near where I used to live and I remembered this tonight.

I lived in an area right above downtown LA called Silver Lake, next to Los Feliz. When we moved from 14th Street and 2nd Avenue in New York to LA and moved into this neighborhood, I thought it was amazingly tropical and beautiful and beachy ... and it was compared to New York, I guess ... but in some ways it's very urban and for most Los Angelenos is considered a rather "downtown" location -- not beach-like at all. But this was all before I really started to learn about the beaches in LA and it looked so gorgeous to me to see mountains out the window of our little place and there was a big blue reservoir right there we used to walk around at night, just dreaming of what would happen to us in LA. Anyway it was a fun and lovely time, full of opportunity, and I was always coming up with these weird adventure ideas.

My husband and I were recently married, but then I got transferred for my job out there really quickly and to make the move easier, we moved in with an old friend -- he was a cinematographer going to AFI (American Film Institute) and so we had this great apartment with me, my husband and our friend Kev. You have to know the personalities to appreciate this crazy menage a trois (which it wasn't btw), so let me take a stab at that. I'm half hyper crazy zany risk-loving in the extreme and as some folks have noted, one of the most extroverted people in the world. My husband is a counter-weigh of Asian American good sense, patience, understanding, thoughtfulness. Kev, who's a doll, is frankly a worry-wart about everything and rather downbeat about what can happen to a person in the world. Reminds me of Eyore a little. He's a terrific cinematographer, cameraman and writer too.

So I was always coming up with these brilliant ideas (okay, it's very I LOVE LUCY, I know) sans Ethel. And one night, I read in a guide book that a really excellent AUTHENTIC Mexican restaurant was on Sunset Boulevard fairly near where we lived. Of course, anyone who knows anything knows that LA is the quintessential CAR town, but Halley decided --- no, no, no -- none of these adventures would be really fun unless we WALKED instead of drove.

Of course, I managed to talk these poor guys into this expedition and off we marched on a hot night down Sunset Boulevard. If you ever go anywhere with me, you'll note that my map skills leave a lot to be desired. What was supposed to be fairly close by ... well, let's say it was about an hour and a half away. Not only that but it was hot as hell. And not only that, but it was through an area that went from fair to dangerous very quickly. I could read the message my husband and Kev shot back and forth to one another as the streets got more and more gutsy ... "Oh great, we've got this cute blond leading us down the street and those nice guys with the knives and guns might want to take her with them, but we get to save her since we're the menfolk here. Oh, shit!" Now there was much checking by both guys with me on the EXACT address of this joint. And of course, I'm not good with numbers and did that girl thing, "Don't worry, it' probably right up there." Well, it wasn't, but finally we got there.

And I don't know what the guide books definition of "authentic" Mexican food was, but this place, even I had to admit, was a total dump. A total dump I'd just dragged us through hell and heat and danger and a waste of nearly two hours to reach. There was not one white person in the joint. So, I suppose that was the "authentic" part. It was getting dark now, which made the walk BACK even more frightening for my two colleagues. We ordered some food. .

Next to us, there was a rowdy table of Mexican guys in cowboy hats and they were making a lot of noise, drinking a lot of beer and flirting with me. Both my husband and Kev were giving me dagger looks, like "do NOT talk to these guys." It was beginning to look like some bad B movie where they would have to have a fist fight to save my honor if it got any hotter.

The waitress brought us our food, which was very unappetizing and the two guys looked at me like, "Could this get any worse? Who's great idea was this?" Just as I gave one more cheerleader speech, "Hey, guys, dig in! It can't be that bad." and we sit, the three of us with forks poised mid-air, not quite ready to dig in. Suddenly, we turn and see one of the Mexican rowdy guys, who's obviously had too much beer, trying to get to the men's room past our table,. Well, he doesn't quite make it and vomits all over my huband's and Kev's shoes.

Of course, me being the blonde that way too often escapes unharmed, I was spared. And having orchestrated the disastrous evening, even I felt sorry the guy hadn't aimed for my shoes.

Well, if we weren't finding the food appetizing before, the odor of fresh vomit hardly enhanced our dining experience. There was a moment ... palpable to be sure ... when we suddenly realized, these other drunk guys were heading for us and that it was important to be totally OKAY with their friend's vomit on our shoes. And I think both my husband and Kev got up and gestured like "cool, no problem" and then we threw money down for the dinner we would never eat and got out of there fast. I was not asked to plan any more outings for a quite a while, nor did I offer.

Get Outta Here.

Go away. Just go. Yes, get lost. That's just what I like about blog posts. I wrote all this crazy shit here today and now, I can do some more posts and the other stuff goes away.

Go, shoo fly, beat it. Yes, go away, just go, get lost. Silly stuff about spanking and panties. Beat it buster. Here's your hat, what's your hurry. Sigh-o-nara. Adieu. Arrivaderci (spelling?) Cheerio. Get outta here.

Who Writes This Stuff?

I got a chance to read the copy on the Christian Thongs site a little more closely. Don't miss it!

WWJD? When faced with hard situations, sometimes you don't have the strength of will to just say "no." When the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, let these 100% cotton panties do the talking for you, "What Would Jesus Do?" These words will put a damper on a young man's ardor faster than a bedroom full of stuffed animals.

And what a perfect opening to share your Christian witness! Start with Revelations 3:20, "Behold I stand at the door and knock." Then remind your young man (or woman!) that "True Love Waits." End by asking your suitor to join you on your knees in the sinner's prayer.

Remember, all the angels in Heaven rejoice when another soul is brought to his knees!

As for "asking your suitor to join you on your knees"... seems fine to me to stand by your man in those pretty panties and for him to go down ... on his knees, I mean ... to pray, of course.

Prayer Thongs -- Halley-loo-yeah

Now I've seen everything. Thong panties with Christian messages. I want some.

Blog Spanking

I've been warned that I can not blog at work. If I blog at work I get spanked. Problem is, I kindof like getting spanked ...

Don't tell anybody!

As much as I like getting spanked, I really like doing things I'm not supposed to do.

So, don't tell anybody. Also, don't tell anybody I really wrote this earlier and I'm just posting it now, so I don't actually qualify for a spanking.

Wednesday, April 23, 2003

Boston Bloggers Beach Bash

Save the date. We'll convene at Woodman's on Saturday May 10 at noon, up on the North Shore for lunch and then anyone interested can retire to Crane Beach if you like. Need a ride, drop me an email.

Ray Ozzie Welcome Wagon

As the self-appointed welcome wagon lady of Blogsville, I'm thinking about going up to the North Shore to leave a "welcome back" basket for Ray on his groovy Groove doorstep. This week I have Seth Godin and Kevin Werbach visiting at Harvard Business School and a ton of things to do, but surely I could throw together a little welcome wagon basket for this great guy. Hmmmmm .... thinking. Now if I could just fill it with treats from my favorite North o'Boston hang out, Woodman's!

Thanks to Doc for the update.

Tuesday, April 22, 2003

My Story And I'm Sticking To It

I have this idea. My idea is that we went horribly astray in the 80's and 90's mistaking business for sex. I don't mean anything about sex businesses. I mean, we started to get off on making money even more than on plain old getting off. We were very mixed up. (Go rent Wall Street starring Michael Douglas.) We were beginning to think cash was erotic. And if you want to talk TWISTED -- and many people think talking about sex is a little twisted ... mistaking money for sex is way more twisted.

So here's the weird thing about this new decade. Everyone loses their job, everyone loses their retirement savings, everyone loses it in just about every way lately, but at least we all come back to our senses to realize ... ready ... sex is sex! I'm telling you, it's a big breakthrough for our society. We'd gotten really off track. Even people with jobs don't find them sexy anymore, because god knows you can have one today and it's gone tomorrow.

Some people feel we are awash in too much sex (I don't think so) and too much sexuality (again, I don't think so) and too much porn (with this I do agree). But it's a time of recalibrating the whole system. No, your Lexus doesn't turn me on. No, it's no turn on that you're doing a job you hate for the money. Yes, plain old you and a roll in the hay turns me on.

Show Me The ... er, Money

If you were bored like me on Easter and read the post "Come, Come" below where I wrote a long, fairly dry critique of the idiotic porn spam that defiles my Inbox on a regular basis, you'll love Bacchus' "rebuttal" here. Notice the careful crafting of the answer to stay in harmony with the Easter Bunny theme, delivering up a number of carrots as visual aids. I have now, with Stacy the Starving Bio Major, gotten quite a lesson in anatomy and stand semi-corrected in my naive assumptions.

Bacchus, thank you for so precisely educating me on this subject. I was in serious LOL mode, I can tell you. Still, I wonder if there's a viable business model in all this. Show me the money ... seems like a lot of work for some pleasure and about as much fun as having 10 guys stuffed in a phone booth. Too close for comfort if you ask me.

Monday, April 21, 2003

NYC Bloggers Dinner

Save The Date -- Looks like Doc and I are organizing a NYC Bloggers Dinner on the evening of Thursday, May 1. Details to follow. Let's hope and pray Doc is not whipping up a meal for us from his 1974 Weight Watchers Meal Cards.

Sunday, April 20, 2003

Dancing Queen

I love pop music. And I love this A Teens CD which is a re-do of the ABBA tunes including "Dancing Queen". And I love dancing. And after sitting in my chair blogging for the afternoon, I just wanted everyone to know I've got Dancing Queen cranked up loud and I'm ponying.

The other day at work I overheard someone telling someone about The Frug and then demonstrating The Monkey! Christ! Get your retro dance steps straight. I nearly had to make a citizen's arrest. But instead muttered to myself "Forgive Them Father. For They Know Not What They Do."

Happy Easter All!

Come! Come!

I get the most ridiculous porno email. It starts to make no sense whatsoever. And as a writer who can write about sex fairly well, I find this stuff insulting and totally idiotic. I wish I could rewrite some of it and send it back with editorial comments. I just got one in my email that says, really, check this out.

Stacy is a starving biology student. She said the reason she would take two huge cocks inside her was because "I need the money!" What a whore, but with a DAMN fine pussy.

What the hell is this supposed to mean anyway? First of all I've known a lot of biology students. And most of them were pre-med students. So start with the fact that they are probably not starving -- I mean a lot of pre-med students are having a tough time, true, but many are well-off sons and daughters of doctors. They are NOT starving.

Your basic biology major spends a lot of time in a biology lab where, if things got really dire, there are the occasional lettuce leaves (rabbit food) to scarf down or even a mouse if you were pressed for protein. And if things really when to hell in a handbasket, you could probably swill some agar mixed with a little alcohol in a petri dish and drink that. You would feel no pain at least and the agar is reputed to sustain life, at least until the end of the semester.

So forget Stacy the starving biology student -- very implausible. And then this alleged Stacy does what ... "takes two huge cocks inside her" oh, yeah, that's easy to do. And how many biology students are quick to put "two huge cocks" inside them anyway? They know from germs. Biology students have a much more finely attuned awareness and appreciation for condoms than your ... say, Poli Sci major ... so I have to say again, "No way would Stacy the not-so-starving biology student" feel the need to put two huge cocks inside her. And what is she -- a rather greedy little biology student -- that she insists on TWO cocks. Can't she share? Isn't there another biology student who could use that 2nd cock in their little lab assignment. What's with Stacy asking for two? What else does she want, two pipettes, two beekers, two microscopes, two stools? I'd give her an "F" for teamwork.

And WHY is this alleged biologist-wannabe putting these two cocks in her vagina -- and this makes, I'm telling you, NO SENSE -- the writer tells us "I need the money!" Because she needs the money?. Who, exactly, is paying for this transaction?

Let's posit for a moment that, in fact, she is a bio major who moonlights as a common whore -- a stretch of the imagination dear readers, I know, but stay with me on this. If she were propositioning guys to fuck her with huge cocks -- why on earth would any reasonable man pay to compete with another customer's huge dick for space in Stacy's cunt? It just does not make solid economic sense. Stacy is no business major. So instead of getting two guys paying to fight over what is essentially one parking place, shouldn't she reconsider the whole scenario and take them on one at a time?

I have news for Stacy. If she thinks the "starving biology student" schtick is going to work with customers, she's wrong. At some point these guys are going to wonder about her credentials as a biologist -- she certainly is not impressive in her knowledge of the female anatomy.

And now to add insult to injury (possibly), the writer ends with this inscrutable, unsupported, highly unlikely claim, "What a whore, but with a DAMN fine pussy." Well, I can tell you right off, any biology major moonlighting as a common whore, having two guys sticking two huge cocks in her vagina all night is not going to meet the morning light with a DAMN fine pussy. And besides, she'll find she didn't get much of her bio homework done either.

Eight At One Blow

There was some story with a tailor that sewed a belt with that written on it. You see these hopeless lacunae I'm forced to live with ... the brain decays day by day. Anyway, all I meant to suggest is suddenly, finding a paucity (or is it a dearth), no .... I'll say scarcity of content here on Easter Sunday ... I decided to do a pile of postings and may do 8 or more before I'm through with you. It's a veritable Linotype machine today.

This may mean I've come down with SARS -- Sessum's Acute Ranting Syndrome -- where certain people do more than 30 posts in a single day. It's a frightening disease, except in the hands of a master like Jeneane Sessums. The rest of us untrained professionals should not attempt it.

Cowcatcher My Ass

Am I hallucinating or did it really say that Babbage invented the cowcatcher ... (see post below) ... as well as a few more important things. But I've always thought it was one of your most poorly named devices. Ask any cow. It's that pointy front piece on the head of a locomotive train which is hardly in the business of bovine benefaction, but rather should be called something like a COWPLOUGH as it's sole intent is to peel cows off the track and send them hurtling head-first anywhere but here.

About Bag and Baggage

I mentioned it below casually as the scene of the crime where I got addicted to Vanilla Diet Coke -- Denise loves the stuff and now I do too and of course everyone loves Denise because she's equal parts brainiac lawyer and total babe. Babe and Babbage I think her site should be called every now and then since she does know a lot about all things computerish and she's a babe and should be proud of it. (I'm testing your knowledge of Babbage here ... go look it up if you don't know the reference.).

Anyway, she's got an interesting post today referring to Danielle Crittenden in the LA Times talking about writing serial fiction on the web and selling a book out of it. I've actually sold one of my stories "Melting The Mint" to Penthouse after posting it to my site. Cool, eh? And like the author she mentions, there's something incredible in publishing on a Monday and getting reader feedback on a Tuesday. No writer has ever had such an interactive medium as that. In fact blogging does remind me much more of stand-up comedy in that respect than any other form of published writing.

I Guess I Could Tell You What I'm Eating

Well, I was invited to my sister's house for a big Easter dinner sit-down deal, but after a busy morning at church, and lots to do here at home, I just couldn't do it. One of the big upsides of my mom and dad both being gone now -- and maybe I sound like a rat for saying it -- is that there are no more "command performances" on holidays. And yes, I was glad to be invited, but I just have to get some stuff done around here and have been falling into that bad habit of writing stories out in long hand and need to transcribe some, not to mention do some laundry, roast a garlic chicken on 450 very hot, very fast, the way my Chinese mother-in-law taught me.

And I did tell you I would report on what I've been eating. Thing is, when my son's not here I don't eat a whole helluva lot. I'm just busy doing other things and don't think about it. So this morning before church I ate ... a can of Kirkland (Costco brand) Slim-Fast which they call something else, which is a little more watered down than the regular Chocolate Milk flavor Slim-Fast and I ate it just so I would eat something, because often I don't eat anything and suddenly notice I'm starving at 4:00. So I drank a glass of skimmed milk, drank a Kirkland Chocolate Milk Slim-Fast, drank some seltzer water, didn't eat anything, then took a Dannon Coffee Yogurt with me to church and ate that there in the back room where they'd already set up the Coffee Hour food. I came back here and ate a Bagel Sandwich I got at Dunkin Donuts -- egg, bacon, cheese on a poppyseed bagel toasted -- and an iced-coffee (decaf, milk no sugar) and I also bought but haven't eaten 2 Berry Berry Bagels. I'm not big on sweets but completely nuts for carbs. I could eat my way through a bread bakery -- you can keep the cookies, cakes, pies for the most part. I made my son an Easter Basket of no food, only toys, kites, little cars, gift card to Toys R Us. I knew all the other relatives would completely drown him in candy.

And after trying not to eat any chocolate or candy this holiday, I broke down and ate a few pieces of Cadbury Roses chocolates I brought back from London in February. Couldn't resist. Also, I am addicted (and will admit it here) to VANILLA DIET COKE and blame Denise Howell of Bag and Baggage for that, as she wrote about it last year a bunch and I got hooked on the idea, even before getting hooked on the drink.

At church I ate some cherry tomatoes and celery with dip, and Trisscuits and no wine no wafer today. Oh, yes, also ate a bunch of Garlic Matzos which I'm wild for. They make crumbs all over the place though.

I Guess I Could Just Write Something

I'm dragging my lazy ass or lazy mouse around blogsville here today looking for new and interesting stuff. What are people doing today on Easter ... what are they up to ... what are they thinking? And finding very little. So then I finally come to the connclusion that I could actually WRITE something myself if I feel there's not enough out there. But what the hell would I write?

Saturday, April 19, 2003

Playmate of the Month -- The Year You Were Born

Surely a killer blog app if there ever was one. Imagine your gene pool was leafing through the pages of a Playboy that looked like this.

Alpha Males -- Say What?!

A rather esteemed literary friend of mine has asked me point blank, "So what's all this Alpha Male stuff you're writing about?" He needs some context. He needs a framework. He needs to get a handle on it. Okay, okay, true, true. Let me write some "about" today for my little series, as it winds down. Yes, believe it or not, we're on Lesson 14 and I realized the other day ... "Hey, that's close to 18!"

I've been writing each piece ad hoc, as they came to me, but now, I'm heading for the last exit on the highway here, so I'll be planning them a little more carefully, and expect to be done soon. Stick around for the jokes folks. We're almost done.

But first, a little piece that will give all you late comers some context on what the heck I'm trying to do here with "How to Become an Alpha Male in 18 Easy Lessons." It's taken me nearly 14 lessons to figure it out myself.

Friday, April 18, 2003

I'll Be There -- Super Supernova 2003

Don't miss this conference if you expect to be in the know and be known and be a know-it-all and hang with everybody who's anybody and those known to be extremely cool. Supernova 2003 in DC -- not to be missed. I'll finally get to meet Mena Trott and Joi Ito, I hear.

Thursday, April 17, 2003

How To Become An Alpha Male -- Lesson 14: All About Size

This morning on the web we are served up a very well-designed, visually appealing site called The Penis Blog Project. Even if it did not feature 25 lovely pictures of erect penises, it happens to have terrific graphic simplicity, good colors, nice fonts and a bit of tongue-in-cheek (or tongue somewhere, not sure where ...) text that make it an attractive site. It has a nice conceit -- match the penises to the bloggers, that is, the writers of daily online diaries who were courageous enough to post their penises in all their glory. The author of the site says he's interested in how we reveal ourselves on the web, and particularly in blogs. Weblogs seem both the perfect medium for exhibitionism on many levels and also the perfect medium for creating connections. It's clear that the community of bloggers on this site probably know one another rather well. And I don't think I'm going out on a limb to suggest that the bloggers on this site are most likely a collection of homosexual, not heterosexual bloggers. Not only did I love looking at their penises, being a woman who has long appreciated a nice erect penis, but I also felt turned on to learn about a whole new community of bloggers and peek into their private and public and pubic world. (Stole that joke from the author of the site who already punned on pub(l)ic on the home page.)

But I guess there is a point to my rambling here. First, why are we flooded with so many naked pictures of women and find so little in the way of equally lovely pictures of male anatomy? And as for heterosexual male photos, yes, there are videos with rather explicit action shots, but simple beautiful still pictures of straight men -- prove me wrong, show me that gallery. Maybe this is the real dirty little secret of alpha malehood. For all the jockeying for position and mega-aggressive sports behavior, for all the competition at work for heirarchy and position, for all the competition to get the best looking babe and even after the many times men are accused of playing "my dick is bigger than your dick" -- is it the case that most men do not want to compare their actual dick to the next guy's dick and avoid it at all costs? What gives? Do straight men feel their penises are not ready for the light of day? Do they think they don't look good? Do they feel insecure that they don't look as good as the next guy? At least in American culture, I wonder if we are ALL not a little ashamed of our genitals. I recall a gynecologist looking rather dropped-jawed at me when I asked about my labia, vagina, clitoris, "Do I look normal? Is everything down there all right?" She answered in the affirmative and quickly left the subject, but I realized in my usual way of speaking a drop dead honest statement much to everyone's shock and dismay, that many women probably feel the same way I do. Until recently you never saw a lot of naked pussies to compare yours too -- even growing up in a family of 3 sisters I wasn't looking at such things with much scrutiny once it started to really matter, say ... in my teen years. Sure we ran around half naked as young kids, but once you start to really mature and want to check out how you compared with others, those others weren't exactly available for perusal for the most part. From conversations with male friends, I know this may be more true than false. Of course, my naive fantasy of the availablility of men's penises for viewing in the men's room -- always kindof turned me on -- turns out to be completely inaccurate and I've been well informed that taking a leak is all about NOT showing your stuff. Still, can I say, thanks to a few stone hard Greek statues and a few real flesh-and-blood men I've been lucky enough to KNOW well, the male member is a beautiful thing, flaccid or erect, it's time to give it the credit it deserves.

Clicking through the gallery of penises, it's easy to start comparing them, just as men will tend to do when clicking through a gallery of naked women's lovely round bosoms. And you notice differences. Shape, texture, width, tilt and of course, size. Much has been said about the size of a penis. Looking at the gallery on this site, I couldn't help feeling like a woman about it. It IS about size -- the size of the guy's heart who happens to own that penis. It's about the size of everything attached to that penis. The size of his kindness ... and big big kindness matters. The size of the time he carves out of his life for you ... and all of us find it harder and harder to drop everything and give a nice big full morning, afternoon or evening to the ones we love. The size of his laughter. The size of his eyes. The way they look at you, across a larged-sized room. The size of his courage. And of course, the size of his car and the size of his wallet.

No, wait, I'm kidding! I'm just kidding! But I could hear you Alpha Males thinking, that's what women are really after. But it's not true. We're not trying to get your wallet out of your jeans -- we're just trying to get YOU out of your jeans. We KNOW how good you look.

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

Guys, Show Us Your Stuff

Well, if you haven't seen the Penis Blog Project, you better go check it out. It went #1 on Blogdex, so someone sure is checking it out. It's about time we even up the score on the Net. That makes about 25 pictures of bare penises and 25 million pictures of bare girl bottoms, tops, fronts, backs, sides and insides. Thanks to Jonno for doing it and thanks to Niek for pointing it out.

Thank You For Being A Friend

Old song that used to be a TV theme for some show. Can't remember which one. Hmm, better go Google it. Feel thankful to have so many good friends, lately.

Also, thanks to Like Butter for blogrolling me. I'll butter her up and blogroll her too.

I'll Thank You for Being a Friend
by Andrew Gold

Thank you for being a friend
Traveled down a road and back again
Your heart is true,
You're a pal and a confidant

I'm not ashamed to say
I hope it always will stay this way
My hat is off,
Won't you stand up and take a bow
Thank you for being a friend

And if you threw a party
Invited everyone you knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say
Thank you for being a friend

If it's a car you lack
I'd surely buy you a Cadillac
Whatever you need
Any time of the day or night
Thank you for being a friend

And when we both get older
With walking canes and hair of gray
Have no fear even though it's hard to hear
I will stand real close and say
Thank you for being a friend

And when we die
And float away
Into the night
The milky way
You'll hear me call
As we ascend
I'll say your name
Then once again
Thank you for being a friend

May 1993

Spring cleaning has resurrected an old copy of the Sunday New York Times Magazine from May 1993 featuring a cover story by James Gleick called The Future is Here, And It's Ringing about the state of telephony at that time and where it was headed. There are great terms like "cellular phone" instead of cell phone in it, but that's just the beginning.

The cover shows the Flintstones at home in their cave -- Fred carrying Dino who's holding a phone -- and it's attached to a computer with a happy George Jetson on the screen. The subhead says, "But most of us are still fumbling around in the information stone age."

Stop and think. Where were you and what were you doing in May 1993? I think I was living in Manhattan Beach, had just stopped working as a Senior Sales Executive for Lexis/Nexis, charging a fortune for proprietary information services. The Internet was already beginning to kick our asses and we were telling our management about it and they weren't really listening. I had just moved on to a new company, a start-up that appeared to "get it" better, or at least had better technology, and on one of my sales calls in San Jose, Brad Templeton of Clarinet and his boys had taken me into the back room on a blistering hot day, the blinds pulled down against the glaring Silicon Valley sun and showed me something called the World Wide Web. It was a good place to lose my web virginity.

May 1993. Let's do the math ... it doesn't seem possible ... 100 years ago? Yes. 10 years ago? No way.

Monday, April 14, 2003

Is This Plane Going Down?

This economy is for shit. I know so many people out of work. Really great people with really great skills, great experience, great resumes. And it's like we're in a death spiral here. And guess what, I think we're just about to come back. But Christ, this is really a Chills and Thrills economy. Some freaky amusement park ride of an economy.

Or maybe it's better to call it the "Let Them Eat Cake" economy -- yes, famous last (alleged) words by Marie Antoinette when people were begging for plain bread to keep from starving and all she can say is "Qu'il mange du gateau!" Or "why don't they eat petits-fours, there are a lot of those cute little cakes hanging around my chateaux, what's the big deal?" The French kindof missed the fact that they had eradicated the middle class which is a very dangerous thing to do -- creates a lot of instability -- unless you're turned on by the guillotine.

My day goes like this ... you hear 3 more people you know well who are really good at what they do, correction, really good at what they were DOING -- are out of work and then you hear some company's earnings are 18% higher, like IBM announced today and you think, "What gives?" And then a friend points out that frightening piece from yesterday's Sunday New York Times about this generation of 50 year olds basically being decimated ... I haven't even read it because I couldn't stand one more bit of bad news. In fact, the only good news about the piece is how many people who used to be able to afford a subscription to The New York Times, are out of work, so they probably didn't read it.

So my good news is, we're coming out of this mess, but my bad news is, we may all be working at Chuck E. Cheese with an MBA and 15 years experience as a management consultant, at least for a while..

Saturday, April 12, 2003


I didn't even know I'd gone public.

Friday, April 11, 2003

Take Your Breath Away -- That's For Sure

I'm sure everyone's already blogged the heck out of Dan Gillmor's funny piece here about unfortunate tourism marketers in Hong Kong, but I hadn't seen it and it's a classic.

Scribble Scribble Scribble

Doing more writing lately, and especially enjoying writing stories. Here's one below. Fiction on a blog, even the shortest of short stories, seems too too long in this format. I can't stand reading so much text on a screen, but whatever., maybe your eyes are better than mine.

And let me add a disclaimer. Nothing like this ever really happens in any office and this is completely fictional.

Human Resources

Human Resources
by Halley Suitt

Pulling out of his icy driveway at 7:35 am, Tom was already so exhausted on his way to work, even his favorite music had no appeal this morning. Was it too much to ask – to just have a life, a reasonable night’s sleep, a wife who made breakfast? With the new baby, he never slept anymore, they never had sex, he could never leave the house in one piece, much less with any peace of mind.

Even the necktie he had put on this morning, the one a certain Miss Caldwell had given him as his Secret Santa – the one with the tiny Tweety Birds and Sylvesters chasing each other around – got baby poop on it before he even left the house and he had to take it off and put another on. That was the last straw. He didn’t even bother putting his samba music on in the car this morning.

Usually by the corner of Fifth and Broadway, he’s slipped in a CD of Brazilian music and was in a full-blown fantasy about doing it with Miss Caldwell, the sexy, young blond Human Resources VP, who’d been assigned to his department last November. It was close to Thanksgiving last year when she arrived, he remembered because one of his guys had said, “Now, we’ve got something to be thankful for,” as they shuffled out of the meeting where they were supposed to get more “intimate” with Miss Caldwell, as the head of HR had put it in his email to set the meeting date.

Depending on his mood and the volume of the samba music, he imagined them together at a fancy hotel in Rio de Janiero where he’d never been, or when he was feeling less imaginative, settled for the Embassy Suites across from his office. She had great sexy lingerie in his fantasy. He had bought it all for her. That was all she wore – or nothing – in his fantasy. It was getting bad, because he’d gone into a Victoria’s Secret store the week before, when he was alone on a business trip to Denver. He’d never done that before. Yes, he’d perused the catalogue addressed to his wife at home, but had never actually gone into one of the stores.

There was a sexy red silk teddy that caught his eye. Miss Caldwell would look like a million bucks in it, he grinned, as he thought this. A salesgirl appeared out of nowhere, standing there grinning back at him.

“What size is your girlfriend?” she said innocently.

“My, my … my what?!” he blurted out.

“Your wife, then?” she said, just trying to be helpful.

“Yes, my wife, yes, my wife …” he bumbled, backing away from her and holding the teddy on the hanger at arm’s length as if it were suddenly radioactive. “I’m sorry. She … my wife, I guess she used to be a size 8. I don’t know her size anymore,” He pushed the teddy on the sales girl and almost fled the store.

And now it was February and the new baby, Tom Jr, was still not sleeping through the night, his wife was still super fat from her pregnancy and Tom was at the end of his rope. He knew how selfish it was to even think these thoughts, but he missed his old life. Tom was really ready to scream this morning. They had both been up a good part of the night, the baby crying non-stop as they tried to “teach” him to sleep through the night.

Tom had gotten a book about it. It was clear. They had to be firm. He had insisted that his wife stop getting up in the middle of the night and bringing the baby into their bed to breastfeed him endlessly. He wanted the bed back – back to being THEIR bed – a bed where sex might happen again one of these days. He was sick of the whole thing -- the baby, the breastfeeding, sharing his wife’s breasts with this little interloper, his wife not being there for him, all of it.
He arrived at work as frustrated as he’d left home and stormed into his office.

“Bad morning?” she said. There she was. It was her. She was sitting on his couch. She was really there. He nearly fainted to see the real Miss Caldwell on his couch as he’d put her many times in his fantasies. She was wearing clothes this time, however. A beautiful red wool suit, well-tailored and hugging every curve.

“Miss Caldwell,” he said, trying to sound under control, but he was far from it.

“You’ve got to start calling me Ginny, this is silly,” Ginny Caldwell said to Tom, “I mean, yes, in front of your team, maybe, it you want to, you can call me Miss Caldwell, but really, I thought we were friends,” She was holding two cups of coffee.

“Yes, friends,” he blurted out.

“This is for you,” she pushed a cup of latte from Starbucks across the desk towards him.

“Thank you, it’s my favorite, how did you know?”

“Listening skills, big thing for HR folks you know,” she said smiling.

He was feeling unexpectedly shy. She was coming close. All he knew was that he was sweating. Maybe she knew everything, everything he was thinking about her and everything he was feeling.

“Tom?” she asked slowly, tilting her head in the most adorable way, he thought, “are you okay?

“Yes, yes, fine, yes,” he stumbled a bit.

She got up, crossed the room, ”I better close the door,” she said with a tone that excited and frightened him. She had such a pretty curvy shape and he was beginning to get hard.

“What?” he asked, his nerves were really coming undone.

“It’s about Jill Anderson,” she said.

“Oh,” he sighed at the mention of the annoying girl’s name. An infuriating sluggish secretary who seemed to spend most of her time doing her nails and nothing else.

“We had another complaint,” Ginny explained, holding the file folder carefully as if it were a baby, “It’s all I needed. I think we need to do it today.”

“Do it?!” he said, and knew he was actually blushing. Christ, he thought to himself. Get it together man.

“Tom, are you really okay?” she smiled in such a sexy way.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said.

“Let her go,” she said slowly, “I need your help today to fire her.”

“You’ve got it,” he said, rising to the occasion and wanting to say “You’ve got me, Ginny!” but not daring.

Suddenly everything changed in the room. They had a mission. It all felt better. He really liked the sound of firing someone today. It was somehow alluring in an animalistic, feral way.

“And I want to do it this morning, soon,” she explained.

“Yes,” Tom said, “Let’s do it.”

“Good” she came to the side of his desk and he liked that. She had a file folder of documentation to show him. He could smell her perfume and she smelled very good.

They reviewed the folder together. There was the insubordination, the showing up late, the “zillions of sick days”, as she called it, and then the thing that happened with the Fed-Ex guy. It was more than enough.

“She cooked her own goose,” Tom said.

“Exactly. You and I see eye-to-eye on this,” Gina said, “We need to go in there with both of us on the same page.”

She as always using these big-guy phrases and she was so petite. He smiled absentmindedly. He thought she was so cute when she talked so tough.

“Exactly,” he said, almost in the same tone she had used.

“You ready?” she said, in a way that got him more excited than he would ever admit. He could see she liked this part of her job. She was a strong and decisive woman, no doubt about it.

They went down the hall and called Jill Anderson into Miss Caldwell’s office to join them. Tom liked to watch the efficient way Miss Caldwell handled things. Not Miss Caldwell, Ginny, he corrected himself, also watching the curve of her pretty bottom, in that tight red skirt. “I am calling her Ginny. She’s my Ginny,” he thought deliciously.

The unsuspecting Jill plopped down into the chair across from them with an exasperated smirk – he had expected to feel slightly sorry for the girl, but suddenly she reminded Tom of his wife. Yes, she was like his wife in a number of ways, slightly plump, rather recalcitrant, with a bit of an attitude.

Ginny started the conversation, explaining the problems. And this silly girl, Jill, actually started to argue with Miss Caldwell. Tom was shocked and suddenly silent. How could anyone argue with his angel, Ginny?

“No,” Ginny said firmly to the girl, “I don’t think YOU understand, Jill,” he heard her say forcefully. Yes, he thought, she’s Ginny, very Ginny, so very Ginny. And I’m nuts for her, he thought.

And this Jill, golly, she was a nightmare. She was just like his wife, everything he couldn’t stand about his wife was in this girl. Intractable, irksome, quarrelsome. But thank goodness, Ginny, his Ginny was kicking her ass. He was getting even more excited just watching it. In his casual business dockers, he was growing harder still. He pressed the file folder into his lap, to keep the obvious from showing, but wished it was Ginny he was pressing into his lap.

He suddenly had the urge to interrupt and astound Ginny with his natural male wisdom.

“Miss Caldwell, let me speak to Jill for a minute. Why don’t you just step out?” he suggested trying to show he had the situation under control.

“Mr. Arnold, I think it’s best if we’re both here to let Jill know what the next step is,” she leaned towards him in a way that said she liked him, and appreciated his support, but she had everything under control.

Tom felt a swelling of pride in his chest and it felt wonderful. He wanted to rub his chest against Ginny’s naked breasts, flashing on the image suddenly.

“Jill, you’re fired,” he blurted it out, “Miss Caldwell’s made it clear I think. We’re letting you go today, now, please, Jill, let Miss Caldwell show you to your desk, pack your things and then, you need to leave.”

He stood up with great authority and sheer male energy. The two of them looked rather surprised. The meeting was over. They got up to leave as well.

Ginny passed right by him, close, in that red suit, he could smell her perfume for real. He wanted her to come home with him and fire his wife and then make love to him and then do something with the baby – get a sitter – and then they could go to the movies, he never got to do that anymore. It was a perfect plan. Yes, it turned him on no end. And he noticed again, yes, she had a most lovely bottom.

The ladies left the room. That was that. And then he pretended to work, but he was looking out the window at the parking lot to see if Jill was dragging a cardboard box to her car. Finally, he saw her. Now he could call Ginny and have her come in and they could talk all about how it went.

He buzzed her and when she came in he had this brainstorm that since the whole thing was confidential, maybe they had better go “offsite” to discuss it – an excuse to take her to Starbucks.

Ginny was cool with this and they walked to Starbucks and he bought her a Caramel Frappacino with whipped cream. She said it looked good enough to eat. He thought Ginny was the thing that looked good enough to eat. He ordered a black coffee because he had the strange idea that his might make him seem tough and mysterious and make her like him even more.

They talked about work and finally, he took a big chance and came right out with it. He asked for what he wanted. He asked her to come home to his house and fire his wife. And she agreed. Ginny was so great, just the greatest girl in the whole world.

And later, he waited in his office as the day drained into grey, as he looked out his window, more people were leaving now, getting in their cars as the sun was setting on the far edge of the lonely parking lot. Ginny came to his office in her tight grey wool coat with the fur collar. He called it her princess coat in his mind. He’d always liked it on her. She smiled. She closed the door. She said she was so proud of him. It had been a rough day really, she said, but that he was just incredible to her. She asked him if she could kiss him, just to thank him. It was a small kiss at first, but then grew more passionate, until they were hotly entangled in one another’s arms, mouths, tongues.

He warmed up the car and when she got in, he watched the angle of her pretty legs, swiveling into the passenger seat, just right. Her black high heels were just sexy enough, and just business-like enough for work. “She can keep those on when we’re in bed,” the thought raced through his mind.

He cranked the samba music up high, and he could see her rocking her hips back and forth in a sexy way, as he pulled out of the corporate driveway on the way to his house. It was cold as hell out, but he felt great. In the car, he was sambaing with Ginny, on his way home to fire his wife. It was wonderful, just wonderful.

Thursday, April 10, 2003

I Ain't Goin' Nowhere

When The World Is On Your Shoulders
Just Too Much To Bear
Boy My Love Can Make You Stronger
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere
When You're Followin' All The Rules
But Life Just Will Not Play Fair
Come To Me And We'll Roll With The Punches
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere

By Your Side By Your Side Day And Night
I Will Be Always
There's A Place In My Heart In My Heart
Just For You Always
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere

I Can't Guarantee That Your Dreams
Won't Fade Into Thin Air
But As Sure As I'm Livin' Breathin'
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere

By Your Side By Your Side Day And Night
I Will Be Always
There's A Place In My Heart In My Heart
Just For You Always
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere

But Straight To You
No One Else Will Do
My Love Will Shine Right Through Your Rain
I Will Lift You Up I Will Lift You Up

I Ain't Goin' Nowhere
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere
I Ain't Goin' Nowhere

-- Martina McBride

Wednesday, April 09, 2003

Goddess Aphrodite, The Sexy and Creative Force

A woman most closely identified with Aphrodite often is an extraverted woman with a lust for life and a fiery element in her personality. She likes men and draws them to her with her attractiveness and interest in them. Her attentiveness is seductive; she makes a man feel that he is special and sexy.

… Aphrodite is a tremendous force for change. Through her flow attraction, union. fertilization, incubation and birth of new life. When this process happens on a purely physical plane between a man and woman, a baby is conceived. And the sequence is the same in all other creative processes as well: attraction, union, fertilization, incubation, a new creation. The creative product can be as abstract as an inspired union of two ideas that eventually gives birth to a new theory.

Creative work comes out of an intense and passionate involvement – almost as if with a lover, as one (the artist) interacts with the “other” to bring something new into being. … Sometimes both the creative and the romantic aspects of Aphrodite are present in the same woman. She then engages in intense relationships, moving from one to another as well as being engrossed in her creative work. Such a woman follows whatever and whoever fascinates her and may lead an unconventional life, as did the dancer Isadora Duncan and the writer George Sand.

Goddesses in Every Woman: A New Psychology of Women -- Jean Shinoda Bolen

Goddess Athena, The Father's Daughter

As the archetype of “the father’s daughter,” Athena represents the woman who quite naturally gravitates toward powerful men who have authority, responsibility and power – men who fit the archetype of the patriarchal father or “boss man.” Athena predisposes a woman to form mentor relationships with strong men who share with her mutual interests and similar ways of looking at things. She expects two-way loyalty. Like Athena herself, once she gives him her allegiance, she is his most ardent defender. ... The father’s daughter quality may make an Athena Woman a defender of patriarchal right and values, which emphasize tradition and the legitimacy of male power …

Goddesses in Every Woman: A New Psychology of Women -- Jean Shinoda Bolen

In Memoriam

Not really in a sad or somber mood, glad to report. My dad died a year ago today, but honestly, I'm not feeling down. If he were here, I'd throw on Glenn Miller's Sunrise Serenade, give him a kiss on the cheek and we'd be off doing the Lindy in no time at all. He could be the most funny, charming, creative, difficult, silly person.

So my hat's off to you dad. Have a great day, wherever you are. Have a cup of tea, sit back, stretch out those long legs, deal out a hand of 5-card stud, nothing wild for your 4 daughters and 1 son and make the most of it. Ante up.

Tuesday, April 08, 2003

And Why I Love Men

[Another piece I wrote last year, but this one was written right after my dad's death. I wrote and posted it on April 12, 2002.]

Anyway, here's why I love men. They are brave. They are constantly called upon to be brave. It doesn't seem fair. They are expected to do things like kill bugs on the wall of summer cottages. They are expected to have flares in the trunks of their cars. They are expected to be strong and hold other people when they cry. They are expected to do such hard things. They are expected to get jobs and make money. Women want them to be more emotional, or SO WE SAY, but hate it when they are overly emotional. They are damned if they do and damned if they don't. Especially these days.

Been thinking a lot about all the kind things my dad did for me -- moving me in and out of dorms, apartments, jobs. Helping me buy cars. So many things and he was just a man, that's all.

I love the way they get up in the morning and shave -- how unpleasant that must be. I love the way they sweat and how it smells. I love the way they look in a tie, a nice leash you can grab and bring them up close fast when you get the urge to kiss them. I like the way you'll see a guy on the street and his tie catches the wind and flaps in his face with a little slap. I like their big hands and big feet, makes you feel safe.

I like their crazy projects -- they do a lot of projects these men. I like the way they read the paper. I love the ones who still carry cloth hankerchiefs. I like sitting next to one in a meeting, peeking at the hair on the back of his hand, then on his wrist, then on his forearm, his sleeve rolled up and then trying to imagine how hairy he is under all those clothes. I love the bald ones too, especially them, they are fearless. I love the way men get up in front of a room and make some super boring Powerpoint slides actually slightly interesting. I like the way their hair sticks straight up sometimes. I like the way they get all moony and sloppy over watching Little League on a summer evening. I like the way they drive off with the family early on a holiday weekend in a stationwagon for some silly historic trip to Sturbridge Village. I like the way they let their kids hang all over them like they are a climbing structure in the playground. I like the way they worry about their families. I like the way cherish their old ratty tee-shirts. I love men.

I'll Stand By You.

[This is about my dad's death on April 9, 2002 and especially about the day before, April 8, a year ago now. Having these archives is a unexpected comfort as I celebrate the one-year anniversary of my dad's passing. It was written and originally posted on April 19, 2002]

Can I talk about this? It's a little grizzly, a little scary. Turn back now if you like. It's about what happened when my dad died last Tuesday morning (4.9.02).

Over the weekend, he had been very ill in the ICU with an infection — septis — which is a poisoning of the blood. It's rough. Very hard to come back from. Dire.

It makes your body shake and shiver. So my very tall, once very athletic, handsome dad, looked like a very skinny shivering rabbit, his frail paws clutching the sheets, tubes and needles and IV's and lines jammed into him everywhere. The nurses and the doctors were doing everything they could, but my dad looked more like their science experiment than a person. It was a heartbreaker.

We were there many hours, as time would melt and pool, sometimes flying by, sometimes leaden, always sad and surreal. By early Monday morning, we'd summoned all the siblings who lived out of town to make sure they could get there if they wanted to see him one last time. The doctors were still trying to keep him going, but he wasn't responding to 4 days worth of their efforts with antibiotics and everything else they could come up with. His blood pressure was something dreadful like 60/40, a number I'd never seen.

My dad, now 83, had never wanted to be on life support and we had it in writing from a time in his 70's when he was sharp as a tack. He had a "Do Not Resuscitate" order on his chart. Still, we thought we would have to tell the doctors to just give it up and let him go.

It was wrenching. It was like being forced to kill someone. My sister and I were prepared to tell the doctors Monday morning, but in fact, the doctors told us they thought there really was no hope and had we considered "comfort care" — which means letting him die naturally. They did us a favor by suggesting it and supporting our decision to do that. They let us off the hook. You can't make a decision like that without thinking, did I let him go or did I kill him?

By noon, all my family had decided together in a dingy little waiting room, decorated with someone else's lung xrays, that we should let him go. They remove all the tubes, IV's, catheters, everything. At last, he was free of all the apparatus. They gave him more than enough morphine to be very comfortable.

It was a little like inducing labor for a pregnant woman. You know what will happen, you just don't know WHEN. But as joyous as the birth of a baby can be, this waiting turned us all to stone, but we knew we had to stick by him.

We all stayed until late, but finally I was just too exhausted, so I went home around 6:00pm to take care of my son and husband. I felt like a rat doing it, but I knew I had to.

I actually slept that night — not well, but better than I expected to. I woke like a shot at 4:45am Tuesday morning. I got dressed, out the door and to the hospital by 5:45am. Per usual procedure, I had to call into the ICU to get permission to see him, but ask first if he'd made it through the night. The nurse said he'd made it through the night comfortably, whatever the hell that meant.

I went in. I was the only one there with him. He was breathing with difficulty, sucking each breathe, as if his last — which of course they were. I talked to him, held his hand, prayed. The nurse saw him stir and told me he knew I was there. At about 6:30am, his breathing slowed, and since I'd been with my mom when she died, I knew what was coming. I was just quiet with him. I told him mom really missed him, it was all right to go.

Do you wonder if there is a soul? I don't. You can feel it fly out of the room. I did with my mom. And I did with my dad. It's beyond religious. It's primal and basic. It's a lively vital force of nature that has gone out of the body it once animated. I knew when he went. I was happy for him.

The young nurse came in in a bit of a fluster. She seemed to require scientific proof. I said, "It's okay, I know he's gone." She rushed out and got a stethoscope to check his heart. I thought she was so stupid, anyone could see he was gone. It's as if we are hardwired to see death, know it and then turn away from it — tend to the babies and children with their great silly liveliness.

She nodded yes and said, "I'll get the doctor." I sat down in a chair like a lump. I was alone with him. Why me, Dad? Why was I the only one there? I suppose it was an honor, perhaps I could handle it best? I don't know. I sat quietly until the doctor came. He was kind. I was crying. He asked me to step out in the waiting room while they tended to my dad — "tended to the body", no, they didn't say that, thank goodness A nurse let me use the phone to call my husband who was getting my son ready for school and then, I called my sisters.

In the waiting room, there was a funeral on CNN, by satellite from London, the Queen Mother had died. It was great to hear them talk about how much fun she'd had, how she loved to dance — very similar to my Dad. It was a wonderful thing to watch. I watched it for an hour, glued to it, me and Christiane Amanpour, watching the lovely hearse. I was waiting for my other sisters and their husbands to come over to the hospital. They arrived and I was glad not be alone anymore

And So We Pray

"Grant him an entrance into the land of light and joy."

--The Book of Common Prayer

[This was my original post last year on April 8, 2002.]

Monday, April 07, 2003

Say It Ain't So Joe!

Winter Wonderland

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
In the lane, snow is glistening
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Gone away is the bluebird
Here to stay is a new bird
He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say: Are you married?
We'll say: No man,
But you can do the job
When you're in town

Later on, we'll conspire
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid
The plans that we've made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

In the meadow we can build a snowman,
And pretend that he's a circus clown
We'll have lots of fun with mister snowman
Until the alligators knock him down.

When it snows, ain't it thrilling
Though your nose gets a chilling
We'll frolic and play, the Eskimo way,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Walking in a winter wonderland,
Walking in a winter wonderland.

Sunday, April 06, 2003

Nice Day To Pray

God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change,
courage to change the things we can,
and wisdom to know the difference.