Raining Men No More

Somewhere in Ohio, I know my old music teacher is in mourning. The singer of "It's Raining Men" has died.

On behalf of myself, and I'm sure of Angel, I send up a Hallelujah, clap, and stomp in tribute.

We'll keep on singing it, sista.

Swimming with the fishies

For a complete recap of my weekend's 1.5K swim adventure, check out the full write-up over at dahlbergcentral.

Pictures, too.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others

I bring you this, courtesy Kevin Drum. Notice also that this was posted by the State Department on November 10, 2001.

Notice anything missing?

It should have been vanilla scented anyway

Confidential note to the women in my office: don't use the air freshener in the third stall of the bathroom.

I don't know what it is about the restroom in my office, but we just can't seem to get along. Between the hear-every-tear-of-the-toilet-paper silence and the frightening turbo-powered self-flushing toilets, it's just not a place I like to spend a lot of time. But alas, no one can avoid the bathroom for hours--especially not someone whose bladder stopped growing at age 7.

Even worse than enduring the backsplash of the bowl is heading in there, knowing you need some quality time in the stall. You sneak in, hoping upon hope that a) there is no one in there already; and b) no one makes an emergency dash to the loo while you're doing your own business. You have a get-in-get-out strategy. Then, before anyone is the wiser, you snap off a quick burst of the air freshener and dash back to your office before anyone can identify you.

Unless something goes horribly wrong. Unless for some reason, when you go to puff out that magical mist of fine herbal fragrance, you notice too late that there is a crack in the top of the cap. You watch in slow motion as the cap vaults off the bottle, into the air, and tumbles toward the swirling water below, still cycling in mid-flush. You panic as you see the cap land in the toilet, flirt with going down the plumbing, and then settle into the bowl as the water refills, mocking you. The bottle in your hand, now useless without its top.

What's a girl to do?

All I'm saying is, don't use the air freshener.

I Can't See!

After today, Visions Bar Noir - the DC art movie theater - is closed for good.

Transportation Trois

Still on the public transportation kick... There's a piece in today's NYT that shows Mayor Michael Bloomberg's affection for the subway, even if it means being stuck underground for 45 minutes. According to the article, the mayor "sounded almost sanguine about the incident, saying that the car was clean and the air-conditioning working, though he ran out of things to read."

Well, Mr. Mayor, maybe that's because since you're the boss, nobody's gonna complain when YOU'RE late.

I stand by my earlier statement. Public transportation sucks.

Transportation Deux

Speaking of travelling, I'm going to get this fellow and put him in the passenger seat of my jeep.

Public transportation SUCKS

Can anyone tell me what is so fucking difficult about sticking to a posted bus schedule?

This morning, because my bus refuses to obey any sort of schedule, my commute took no less than one hour, 12 minutes. How completely and totally ridiculous and that? Angel and I were bitching this weekend about public transportation, and how the subway up in Gotham sometimes just won't come (much like the bus has been lately). And the sad thing is, there is no recourse for poor, stranded commuters like us.

You can't refuse to pay the fare. You can't demand your money back. All you can do is shoot the driver a nasty look, hop on board and try not to burn anyone with the steam still radiating from your body.

My poor roommate--who works at least 17 hours a day anyway--always has a 9 a.m. conference call, so he leaves with me, at 8. We only live a few miles outside of the city, so it shouldn't be a problem. The result? He is consistently late.

You would think the solution would be to leave earlier. But here's the thing: if I leave just 20 minutes earlier, and catch a bus before 8 a.m., I am in to work in 30 short minutes--WAY too early. Dragging through an entire workday is already hard enough, I don't need to add extra time for that.

Wish someone would hurry up and invent some kind of teleport thingamajig. That would make my life so much easier.

I am not a linebacker

Memo to fellow pick-up football players: I am not a big, linebacker type 'o' girl.

Everytime I play, somehow I end up in two roles. One, rushing the quarterback. Two, defending the quarterback from the blitz. The result is almost always some type of injury.

This week, I took an elbow to the chest that still hurts every time I take a deep breath.

Owwwwwwwwwwwwowowowwwwwwwww...

Hope this goes away before the weekend swim.

Animal friendly neighborhood too! See the third pic down.

And I thought I had metro rage

So the Jews for Jesus have been running a major recruitment drive lately. Most nights, as I head to the metro, there are two or three of them standing around outside, politely handing out literature and wearing their yellow Jews for Jesus T-shirts.

Well, this morning, as I came off the escalator to walk the rest of the way to work, I heard obnoxious shouting and looked over to find a morning commuter trying to completely shout down one of the Jews for Jesus. I didn't catch the substance of the discussion--frankly, all the yelling hurt my ears--but I did catch snippets of "it's people like you," "go to Hell," and "mother fucking." (In other words, I think it was a highly productive argument.)

Come on, people, don't you think 9 a.m. on a Friday morning is just too damn early for virulent religious debate? I mean, I'm still hungover, fer cryin out loud.

Broke-Ass, Part Deux

Man, the formatting is ALL fucked up, now. What the hell have you guys been doing over here?

Broke-Ass, Part Deux

Wow, the template is ALL fucked up today. Clicking on the comments field and it dumps a giant page break in between the header and the blog column... not to mention the fact that the links have all dropped off to the bottom of the page, below the first post.

What the hell have you guys been doing over here?

I missed Batman by a day, but the day before Spiderman climbed to the top of the huge ferris wheel overlooking the city in similar protest. Seriously.

Boy, i have a new line to try out at the bars. "Hey Baby, nice ass. No seriously, i mean it. Its smoking. Where are you going? Hey, what are you doing with that drink??? Man! This shirt is new!"

Ass Angel

This weekend I became acquainted with something that I think every girl should have--an ass angel. That is, someone who is dedicated to doing nothing but watching over your ass.

Most women I know--myself included--are less than enthralled with their posterior. Any time we spend thinking about our derrieres is limited to three things: 1) trying desperately to sculpt and change it; 2) looking for clothing that hides it; or 3) complaining and/or feeling insecure about it ("Does this make my butt look big?" the answer, ALWAYS "NO.")

Anyway, I've been blessed what the women in my family affectionately call the "Essman Ass." It's big and it's out there. I've never counted it among my best features.

So imagine my surprise when out Saturday night, a guy approached me specifically to tell me that I had a "smokin'" ass. He wasn't tryinng to pick me up--this wasn't a conversation starter; he came over to politely share his observation, then retreated back to his place at the bar.

From that perch, he continued to stare at my ass, examining it from every possible angle.

Now typically, this kind of attention to any body part of mine would make me squirm just a little bit. But for some reason--it didn't bother me at all. In fact, it made me feel kind of good to know that someone out there--my very own ass angel--was looking out for the welfare of my backside.

I'm Batman

YouTwo, why do I suspect you were somehow involved in this?!?

'Batman' protest at queen's palace

LONDON, England (CNN) -- A fathers' rights campaigner dressed as Batman has evaded tight security to protest on the balcony at Buckingham Palace, Queen Elizabeth's London residence...

If it weren't for the father's rights issue, I'd swear it must've been you.

Greetings from Dublin where i am several Murphy's in to my day. Sitting at an internet cafe looking at the Liffey river just a few doors down from the Edge/Bono owned Clarence Hotel.

Interesting fact of my time in London: I was hit on by more men than women.

Cheers.

Peek-A-Boo

I hate those mornings when you're halfway to work, happily reading your newspaper on the metro, when you look down and realize you have failed to button a highly strategic button on your blouse.

Is it time to go home yet?

Elevator Wars

Does anybody else fight with people in their building over the elevator, or am I the only one?

Here's a scene that plays over and over and over again in my building. A group of people board the up elevator. As the doors start to close, someone rushes in the front door, and a very nice person decides to hold to elevator. Then as it's holding, another person walks up to the elevator, but decides to wait for the next one. As the doors begin to close again, this person pushes the "UP" button, forcing the doors back open again.

At this point, wouldn't it just make sense to get on the damn elevator??? But alas, the person never does.

Man, I'm grouchy today.

My Favorite Curse

OK, I have something I'd like to get off my chest right away. Fuck is my favorite swear word. (Not that this is news to you reading the blog.) I love it, and I use it a lot. I use it when I'm walking the dog and she decides to roll around in a giant fucking mud puddle. I use it when I stand waiting for the bus for 20 minutes and realize as it pulls up that I don't have enough fucking change. I use it at work when the fucking copy machine jams over and over and over again. (Actually, that particular use got me in trouble--the receptionist heard me swearing at the copier and complained to the HR director, who then gave me a "stern talking-to" about my use of language. Guess how well that took.) I swear so much that when I forwarded a joke message (from my dad, no less) about swearing at work, my office mate picked out at least five phrases I use regularly.

What's the point? Just be prepared for f-bombs, that's all I'm sayin.

Broke-Ass

I am apparently not smart enough to make my favorite of the last GET YOUR WAR ON strips appear here without breaking the template.