I'm not sure whether this is good or bad...

Bow down before me heathens. I am very rare. No, not like steak. Like that elusive perfect diamond. Only 4% of us have my personality...

And I'm rated R, based on the fact that I've said whore and shit...

I'm a dirty mouthed ho I am. Excuse me while I go wash out my mouth with soap, or look up four letter words in the dictionary.

Mingle² - Online Dating

Your Personality is Very Rare (INTP)

Your personality type is goofy, imaginative, relaxed, and brilliant. Only about 4% of all people have your personality, including 2% of all women and 6% of all menYou are Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Perceiving.

How'>http://www.blogthings.com/howrareisyourpersonalityquiz/">How Rare Is Your Personality?

See? I think. Wow. Impressive ain't I?

PS: I am very very annoyed with blogger who will never let me publish a draft. They say it's published but it doesn't show up, so I have to copy/paste and all that.

Actually Blogger won't let me post at all this morning. Three strikes so far. Very very annoyed.

Cottage Moments #3

The Saga Continues.

We found the well. We were even lucky in finding the well. It was in the most logical place it could be and we found it on our first try. We dug four feet down and behold there it was.

Much jubilation ensued.

Then Monday the engineer came for a preliminary visit in order to see where a new septic system could be installed.

The news was not good.

You see, when you’re and idiot from the city you don’t tend to think in terms of the evacuation of crap. At least not in this context.

You see the cool cottage clinging to the side of a mountain. You see the trees, the nature, the five acres of land behind the house. You see the view, you see the fireplace… In short you see everything but the crap.

And a house clinging to the side of a mountain is not conducive to the installation of a drainfield with a septic system (you need a maximum 30% grade or less). And the only place that could have a drainfield is a problem because a) it’s too close to the well and b) it doesn’t belong to us, and somehow I don’t think the next city over (which is our neighbour) would be willing to let us use their land to drain our septic system.

Y’all are learning way more about septic tank installation than you ever wanted to, eh?

A closed tank seems to be the “best” option in a world of nasty options. Not terribly expensive, but it has to be emptied very very often for much much money. And it pretty much kills any possibility of living there full time.

At this point, I’m kicking myself for not having thought of this when we bought. And I want to take a slingblade to the idiot who built the house. Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on your point of view) he’s dead.



I know, eventually some solution will rear it’s head, and, yes Ian, I know, this too will pass.

Useless technology

It’s the latest craze, it’s all the rage and it’s called a slingbox (“Some people may call it a Kaiser box, but I call it a slingbox, mmmmmhmmmmmmm”*).

So, apparently you plug this gizmo to your TV. From there you plug it to your modem or router or whatever the hell it is. And then! TA! DA! You can log on from a computer, laptop, cellphone, blackberry, ipod, and watch your TV shows.

This I learned because I told a colleague, “I’m gonna miss The Amazing Race while I’m at the show on Sunday” (yep, this was drafted a long time ago, before the end of the TV viewing season, before, mercifully I was liberated from the slavery of TV watching).

My question is, why in the name of god would you want to watch TV remotely in real time? What exactly is the point? If you love your TV shows so much that you will go through all this trouble and expense, you don’t need a slingbox, you need a shrink. Plus, there's this really prehistoric invention called a VCR and its young cousin called a TiVo or however the hell that's spelled.

And what, exactly, would be the point of watching TV on a phone? The screen is as big as my thumbnail. And yet every day I see people watching videos on their phones…

I take this to mean that I’ve totally become an old broad who’s complete behind the times.

* Couldn’t resist, Thank you Billy Bob Thornton

More Petty Annoyances

After last Friday's scary happy happy joy joy meltdown, I thought this could serve as an antidote for myself and others. Here then, without further delay are the petty annoyances of the week.

• Awesome. The word awesome implies that something fills you will awe. Your t-shirt is not awesome. Your nail colour is not awesome. The Grand Canyon is awesome, as is the pyramid of Kheops. The misuse of this particular word drives me to distraction. The next time I hear it, I might have to rip off the offender's arm and beat him or her to death with the bloody end. It's the grammar/vocabulary whore in me.


• Cutesy blogs written from the point of view of a pet. I have no problem with an entry written by the family pet every so often, they tend to be hilarious and I've been trying to get Mr. Jazz to write one for some time now... But all the time? No. I'm all for anthropomorphizing animals, but give it a break already.


• And for the record, they're animals, not Furbabies!!! Or Furboys or Furgirls... ANIMALS!


• The fact that for the past few weeks, half the time Blogger insists it has posted my entry when, in fact, it hasn't. And along with that, the fact that I most often have to copy and paste a draft as a new entry in order to post it. If it works. Which it often doesn't. I see a conspiracy. They'll soon tell me, "Well it wouldn't be a problem with a paid subscription."


• Angelina Jolie. I am heartily sick of the woman and the saintly image the media have bestowed upon her. Can we please have a break from Angelina, Paris, Lindsey and other assorted "stars"? I long for the days of Audrey Hepburn and other classy stars.


• People who act like martyrs and seem very happy wallowing in their misery. Don't get me wrong, I can wallow with the best of them. Ask Mr. Jazz. But at one point (hopefully sooner rather than later) you have to pick yourself up and give yourself a good swift kick in the butt. Like the "awesome" people, those who whine and moan and bitch without ever taking any steps to actually fix what is wrong drive me to distraction. If you're not going to at least try do do something about it, shut the hell up, stop with the heavy sighs, and let the rest of us get on with our lives . I know, I'm being harsh, but there you go.


• And always and forever, rude cellphone pod people.

Cottage moments #2

As y’all know, we have a cottage. Which implies, if not quite the back of beyond, at least outside the beaten path, sort of… More importantly, it also implies no citywide sewer system.

Yeah, you see where I’m going here: septic tanks.

The fainthearted might want to go visit some other blog, there are several good ones listed just there to the left. Choose one now and go.

Anyone left? Alrighty then. Septic tanks.

Act 1, Scene 1

They have a lifespan you know, just like we do. Eventually they die. In May I checked ours and it was full. Full. Even though usually we only empty it once a year (it is a small tank) and the last time was October. Full. Full of water rather than “mud”. For anyone new to the system, this is not a good sign. Actually this is a very bad sign. Full of portents of doom and such.

Indeed.

So we had it emptied. Last weekend (three whole weeks later) it was pretty much 60% full again. We only go on weekends. Shit (no pun intended)

Act 1, Scene 2

Enter stage left: The well.

We also don’t get municipal water up in cottage country, so we have a well. It’s an old well. Back then they used to bury them, and hopefully mark the spot. A beacon would be really cool. Even a skull and crossbones would have been nice.

But nothing at all? Much much less fun. Because the well? It has to be found before anything can be done about the septic system. You don’t really want your septic tank sitting three feet away from your well. Unless you’re insane or are some kind of mutant who thrives on tainted water. I may be a mutant, but I'm a clean water drinking mutant.

How do you go about finding a well that was dug 30 years ago? You rent a metal detector. You call a friend. You supply beer. And you dig. And dig, and dig some more. And pee the beer in the woods because you don’t want to flush the toilet unless you absolutely must. People, you don’t realize how wonderful a city sewer system is until you don’t have one.

So that’s where we are now. This weekend we’re looking for the well… and trying to get our heads around the fact that this is going to cost us between $10,000 and $15,000. That hurts.

I guess we can thank our lucky stars that ours decided to die in the summer. It would’ve been hell in winter.

Act 2 to come eventually. *sigh*

Cottage moments #1

Saturday morning, 4:30. I woke to the sound of birds babbling (yes, I know it's brooks that babble, but we have no brook at the cottage and believe me, they were babbling). Then I noticed a scratching sound. At first I thought that a squirrel or a mouse had gotten into the house (it happens and for the record, if you read the linked post he never came back, intelligent creature that he is).

But then I realized it was outside. Being the curious fool tht I am - though how I can be curious at that ungodly hour is beyond me - I got up, wandered outside nekkid as the day I was born (it was a hot night) and realized the noise was coming from the BBQ.

I shook the plastic BBQ cover and it stopped, so I wandered back to bed thinking that shaking a BBQ cover nekkid in the middle of the night when you don't know what's in there might not be the most intelligent of moves.

In the morning the sound woke up Mr. Jazz. So, being the good wife that I am, I go outside, take off the plastic cover and opened the lid.

There, tucked away into the corner was a nest.

In the nest was a little brown mouse and her three little mouslings (is that even a word?) They were about as big as my thumbnail. Wee little things. Blind and hairless wee little things. Blind and hairless remarkably ugly wee little things - like most brand new babies I suppose.

Now, I usually have no problem killing the mice that get into the house, otherwise we'd be overrun. I am our family's official mouse killer. Mr. Jazz is just too damn nice. Though to his credit, he is turning into a decent disposer of already dead rodents.

But her?

Sitting there with her little babies?

I shut the BBQ and told Mr. Jazz he simply couldn't use the gas grill for a couple of weeks. After all, he also has a charcoal grill.

It seems that was not an option. If the official family cook tells the offical family rodent terminator that something to do with food is not an option, it is definitly not an option. No discussion. The problem must be fixed.

So I got a box, made a hole and tried to get her the hell out of the grill, cept she went under the pumice stones (it's an antique grill, we need a new one, and a future "Cottage Moment" will explain why we probably won't get it just yet. Not a pretty story, but I digress). She still had one baby stuck on her teat, and she was running around dragging him (her? it?) along behind her. Ouch.

Let your mom go you idiot! Must've been a boy. 'Cause boys and boobs, ya know.... Brand new wee baby mice are definintely not the most intelligent of creatures.

I almost caught her. Almost. But it's amazing how quickly such a tiny thing can move, and off she ran under the outdoor fireplace. Since I didn't have her, I picked up the nest and the three babies and put them in the box which I tucked under the fireplace with a few sunflower seeds cause all that excitement must have made her hungry and I figured we sort of owed her one. I'm such a freaking bleeding heart.

Next morning, the seeds were eaten and the babies had been taken away.

Either she came to get them (and they're now living in the fireplace and might be inadvertently roasted) or some squirrel came and had a snack.

I prefer to believe the first option. Though I’m probably wrong…

PS: Why does Blogger insist on adding multiple spaces between my paragraphs if I add a picture to a blog? I know Blogger, like God works in mysterious ways, but this is ridiculous. I usually have to edit 4-5 times in order for it to be ok. Grrrrrrr

Saccharine alert!

Have you ever had one of those perfect hours?

Friday’s lunch hour was one such….

The sun was shining, it was hot, but not too hot because of the breeze they had going. Not that it can be too hot. The Jazzer loves hot, even hot and humid. All work and no play might make Jack a dull boy, but anything that’s not cold makes Jazz a happy girl.

I went for lunch at Westmount Square. There was no one in line ahead of me for my Chicken Pad Thai, and since the cook wasn't busy, he got extra bean sprouts because he knows I love my sprouts in Pad Thai…

The table I like best, the one under the skylight was empty.

I started reading a book that I pulled me in from the first page, Our Lady of the Lost and Found. I love when that happens.

There were a couple of over-lifted Westmount ladies to marvel at. And another lady who actually had kept her wrinkles and whose face looked lovely and lived in.

After lunch I went to Nicholas Hoare to browse the books. On the way over, I stopped at a clothes shop, but didn’t go in because I knew trying anything on would totally break the spell of lusciousness I was under. Yay for me.

Nic’s was, as usual, sublime – I love small bookstores because they actually smell of books. And this one? They have such good books. Only the cream of the crop.

On the way back to work I talked with a dog, I watched some pidgeons puttering around looking busy busy busy. I smelled new mown grass and noticed how the blue of the sky and the green of the leaves matches ever so well.

Mr. Jazz emailed me compliments for the collage I made for his birthday from three of his colleagues. Embarrassing but nice.

It was one of those moments of pure and perfect happiness. I love that it takes so little to keep me happy.

Luckily this doesn’t happen to me too often, it would make for a totally saccharine, boring blog. Maybe I can blame hormones. Yep, that's what it was, hormones.

Bloggy goodness

I'm feeling lazy today, way to lazy to do the eight things meme...

Instead I'm sending you to Miss Doxie's latest post, which had me howling with laughter. Bo, for the record, is her daschund.

=====================================================

Is a picture really worth 1000 words? You be the judge here.

Thanks to Mr. Jazz for his continual efforts in finding blog food for me. I loves me mah boy.

More drivel and an introduction:

Just sayin'

The perfect bureaucrat everywhere is the man who manages to make no decisions and escape all responsibility. - Brooks Atkinson

Things to ponder

Isn't Disneyland a people trap operated by a mouse?

If fire fighters fight fires and crime fighters fight crime, what do freedom fighters fight?

Why isn't phonic spelled the way it sounds?

Introduction

You might remember a while back, I came clean about my obsession with Potato Heads, and presented Darth Tater. Since then, more Potato Heads have been added, among them another Darth Tater, R2 Potatoo

And a Spudtrooper (you can't see it too well, but his weapon is a potato masher).

Drumroll please! (again!)

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the latest addition to the collection (with many many thanks to the wonderful JazzSis): Spider Spud!!!

Shopping woes

I’ve been browsing through stores on my lunch hours recently. Looking at all the new summer fashions.

I was even tempted, recently, to write an Ode to this season’s clothes, entitled “How do I loathe thee, let me count the ways”, but I only got a couple of lines in until I figured that this season’s clothes do not merit the energy I would expend finding the words that rhyme.

But being the pig-headed fool that I am, here is, despite there being no rhymes, a list of the things I hate the most about this year’s clothes…

• I hate the length of tops. Until a year or so ago tops were waaaay too short. Now they’re waay too long. They stretch out over the butt, they exist to make my butt look bigger than it already is. Take my work for it, this butt does not need to look any bigger.


• I loathe those damn empire waisted tops, you know, the ones that make anyone over 15 and a size 0 look pregnant. I’m 45, I already look pregnant, I don’t need clothes that rub that in.


• I abhor those jersey dresses. They are totally unforgiving, plus, if a dress fits the bottom it’s way to big on top and if it fits the top there is no way in hell it will cover my butt. Oh the woes of being shaped like a pear. If I had boobs, I’d be voluptuous, as it is, I look like a piece of damn fruit.


• And the leggings. I’m not even going to touch on the spawns of evil that are leggings.


• Pants are doing it too. Getting narrower and narrower, like some sort of denim paint. Again, totally unforgiving and, well, you don’t want to see a normal 40 year old in these things. Trust me. Look at those! Imagine a body with an ass and belly. And thighs. Most of us aren’t Michelle Pfeiffer.

LISTEN TO US GODDAMNIT!!!

What’s the solution? Stores for “women” (aka the old-lady-in-orthopedic-shoes store)? I think not. I will kill myself before I wear a t-shit (oops Freudian slip) with kittens on it, or some weird-ass boxy dirndl skirt.

This season is obviously geared to 13 year olds with size 2 bodies (actualy size 2 seems to be considered rather fat now). Every season is geared to them.

You’d think with the population aging, they’d realize that there are lots of grown women out there with lots of money to spend. And some of us don’t want to look like idiots. Some of us, but apparently not enough of us.

When I shop this season, I’ll buy books. At least I don't look stupid with a book.

Milestones

Today is my mom's birthday. 80 she is and in fine form (milestone #1). So, to celebrate - and knowing full well it wouldn't cause a heart attack - we threw her a surprise party at JazzSis's place on Saturday. It was fun having the family together at the same time. Except for BB's daughter, who had to go to a wedding; she's at that age now when you have a wedding practically every weekend over the summer. Damn, that summer is expensive! But I digress.

So we ate, we drank, we played in the pool...

I've never posted a picture of myself here, because as you know, I'm one of those rare holdouts who haven't quite made it into the late 20th century, let alone the 21st - no cell, no computer, no digital camera, hell, no microwave! - and scanning paper pics and stuff sort of sucks.

Big Brother, however is firmly rooted in the 21st century. Name a toy, BB has it, being a boy and all. And he had his camera...

So, ladies and gentlemen, for the first time ever (*aside*... drumroll please, c'mon, louder, this is a momentous milestone), I bring you BB and Jazz and two windows of JazzSis's house in the background...


Milestone #3: I don't look like a complete fool on this pic. Amazing indeed.

Friday Statistics

It's Friday, almost the weekend, so I thought I'd leave you with some interesting statistics to ponder:*

• It takes 3,985 U.S. quarters does to outweigh unstable celebrity Tom Cruise
• One human small intestine is as long as approximately 3.3 giraffe necks
• One Right Whale testicle weighs in at 17,636.98 human eyeballs (big testicles they have them whales)
• Tom Cruise weighs the same as 133.33 placentas (him again!)
• There are 16,896 flaccid penises in a mile. Or 13,440 for the length of the Golden Gate Bridge.
• Of course NBA star Shaquille O’Neill is as high as 1.22 giraffe’s necks.... but y'all knew that.
• As well as the fact that the small intestine is as long as 58.5 human tongues.

* From Weird Converter and many thanks to Mr. Jazz for sending me this “blog food”, as he calls it.

Art Thou A Grammar Whore?

I’m reading a book right now. That’s par for the course; anyone who knows me knows that I read copiously, all the time, non-stop. I read in lines, I read in public transport, I read walking down the street. I don’t even leave the house to go to the corner store without a book. You never know when you’ll need it. Seriously, there might be a hold up, and the cops will need you as a witness and they make you wait and wait... what would you do without a book, huh? I rest my case.

Right now I’m reading Olympos, by Dan Simmons*, one of my irregular forays into Sci-Fi. I’m loving it. It’s based on Homer’s Iliad, with some of the Odessey, a touch of Virgil (the Aeneid) and to top it off Shakespeare’s The Tempest (you have Caliban, Prospero, Setebos and Ariel as characters).

Enough with the background, lets get to today’s gripe. Grammar. More precisely, Ariel speaking Elizabethan English.

“When your lover’s condition changeth, thee shall know it now.”

You have before you a very annoyed grammar whore. That sentence is so very wrong grammatically. It's not as if this was the only screwed up sentence. Every time Ariel says something it's wrong! If you’re going to use old English, use it right for God sake.

It should read: “When thy lover’s condition changeth, thou shalt know it now.” (though I'll admit to not being quite certain if it should read changes or changeth - anyone know?)

I can’t believe this book was published without someone actually checking the verb tenses in the Elizabethan parts. Granted, not many people will know the difference, but throwing in a thee or a thou somewhere does not Elizabethan English make. And I expect better of Simmons, he must have read Shakespeare, damn it. It’s not that difficult to write it right!

How can no one have picked up on it? Why?! These people WORK with the English language, dammit!

I'm such a nerd. *sigh*






*because my sister schlepped its 900 pages to Montreal the other day after I had forgotten it at her place, thanks JazzSis

Observatons and Blatherings

In probably the most misguided case of corporate sponsorship ever, Montreal's Paramount cinema has become the Scotia Bank Cinema. Yes indeedy, the Scotia Bank Cinema.

Guy 1 - How about we catch the 9:00 showing at the Scotia Bank?
Guy 2 - ???

Kinda kills any mystique that was left in going to the movies. As far as I'm concerned, most of that died off when they started installing coffee shops and restaurants and bumper cars at the movies, but then I'm a curmudgeonly old broad.

=========================================================

In the wide world of TV commercials meanwhile:

How utterly stupid is that Special K commercial where the girl has been dumped and her girlfriends come by for moral support and comfort food and they bring: Special K! With strawberries in it! Comfort and low calories!

May I just insert here: Bull-f**king-shit. I don't care how "good" those dried out pieces of fake strawberry** are, that ain't comfort food. Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia? Yep. Haagen Daazs Mayan Chocolate? Hell yeah. But Special K? I think not.

And Special K with chocolate pieces in it? Isn't Special K supposed to be an adult cereal?

Then you have that new series of Viagra commercials. With the people speaking in tongues. If you haven't had sex in so long that it has you speaking in tongues, maybe you should forget about having sex at all; it's just making you look like an idiot...


However the Oscar for my most hated lines from TV commercials goes ex-aequo to:

Immodium for "Because there's never a good time for diahrrea" Really? And here I always thought Friday afternoons between 2:30 and 3:45 was a wonderful time for it...

and

Always for "Have a happy period" As if!

======================================================

T-shits are getting bizarre. I'm not sure I'm understaning the imagery anymore. Maybe because I'm morphing into the above mentioned curmudgeonly old broad .

Recent contenders for the wierdest T-shirt award:

- A picture of Che Guevara (been there, done that) with crossbones floating beneath his face on a baby pink t-shirt. I don't understand the symbolism of this one. Che, no problem. A skull and crossbones no problem, but a mix of the two??? And I'm willing to bet the girl wearing it has no idea who Che was. ("Oh, I think, like, he was this dude? And, like, he was against, like, Cuba or something?")

- A black t-shirt with a skull printed on it. Makes sense. Nihilistic teen and all. The skull, however was surrounded in rhinestones... lots of them. Bling galore. Hmmmm.

======================================================

Lastly: Facebook.

I received an invitation to join Facebook last week. I have no idea who this person is, I have basically no idea what Facebook is. OK, that's not quite right, it's a place you go to stalk people from high school isn't it? (So not gonna happen). I've never even been there, and yet, people I don't know from Adam (or maybe I don't remember I know, which somehow scares me much more as possibilities go) are asking me to join.

Is it like My Space? And what exactly is MySpace?

Damn, I'm so hopelessly 20th century...





** Reminds me of a story my mom told me when I saw her recently. There's this nutjob who lives in her appartment complex. She was telling her that she buys Special K with strawberries in it, takes out the strawberries, saves them in a jar, and when she has enough she makes strawberry jam. I kid you not! Seems the concept of buying fresh berries, or even frozen ones in winter to make her jam is just a little too over the top for this lady.

Penis Envy?

Once upon a time (sometime in Apri I thinkl), Ian said something in his blog about peeing standing up. You are responsible for inspiring this post Ian. It's all your fault, just so you know.


Men and women differ in so many ways. In oh, so many ways. Shoes for instance. I don't know many male shoe whores. And the lipstick thing... not so much with the men. Peircing body parts? Scratch that, they're catching up, not so much with the ears but pretty much everywhere else. The thing I really envy about men is their ability to pee standing up.

You’re in the woods with a man, he needs to pee, he stands next to a tree, does his business, shakes his doodad and that’s all there is to it. Me? I have to step off the trail and find a bush suitably large to hide my crouching, blindingly white butt. I have to make sure I don’t pee all over myself and my clothes and then proceed to wipe with a few leaves of poison oak. ‘Cause regular leaves would just take all the fun out of the proceedings.

Or you’re snowshoeing in -20 degree weather, wearing a snowsuit comprised of overalls and a ski jacket. You’re a woman and gotta pee? Yep, you guessed it. Take off the coat, pull down the overalls, pee. Having been in this situation, believe me when I tell you that -20 degree weather has an annoying tendency to not only freeze that blindingly white butt (which, luckily is somewhat camouflaged by the whiteness of the snow), but also to cut any inspiration you might have had to pee. Freezing one’s nether parts will do that to a girl.

In such circumstances, I can assure you Freud was right. Penis envy does indeed exist. Oh, how it exists!

However, penis envy dies a miserable death when one lives with a man. In a house. With indoor plumbing. Because the penis, useful as it is for many many purposes, (peeing standing up being the least of them) has a huge deficiency; it lacks the ability to hit a large target. Thus, unleash a penis in an urban (or suburban) bathroom and mayhem ensues.

Now, I fully understand the toilet seat issue men whine about. It’s no harder for me to put it down after you’re done than it is for you to pull it up in order to pee. I’m quite open to putting the seat down myself. Though when I forget and sit in the toilet at 3:00 am, blindingly white butt awash in frigid toilet water I have a tendancy to scream. If you don't want to be awakend by a blood curdling shriek at 3:00 am, take the necessary steps. Just sayin'.

What I have major problems understanding is how a male older than 10 can not have had enough practice peeing in a toilet to actually hit the target. Seriously boys, the hole is huge, but I have yet to meet a man who is able to pee without splatter on the bowl, on the floor, every where*… The mind boggles.

(The next sentence contains graphic descriptions and technical words which might offend some readers. Viewer discretion is advised)

Especially when one realises that most adult males are not virgins and are able to aim their penis at a tiny target (i.e. a vagina) the entrance of which is much smaller than a toilet bowl without ever missing. It zips right on in. Every. Time. Go figure.

have no idea how to finish this blog, no witty ending, so instead I am appealing to your sense of civic duty. Give me some input boys... what is the problem? Enquiring minds wanna know.


* This explains the lack of those little carpets around the base of toilet in our home. I'd rather the pee dry on the floor than macerate in a carpet...

A hoax and a trip...

Well it seems the new reality show Big Brother was talking about in his last post, the "Win a Kidney!" show was an elaborate hoax to gain attention for the plight of people waiting for donors.

The "donor" was an actress, although the people "chosen" to win her kidney were really patients - who were in on the hoax.

I suppose the passions raised by the whole thing - if comments on Big Brother's blog are any indication - might make people think about the issue. And lets face it, rational appeals have never worked.

However, cynic that I am, I'm really not certain many more people will sign donor cards, whether through pure laziness or the fact that they want to be buried with all their pieces, who knows.

I think the whole God-how-low-can-you-sink furor might, at best, draw attention to the total takiness of most, if not all, reality shows... for a few days at least.

The transplant patients will just have to go on waiting.

====================================================

In other news... it seems likely that the Jazzer and Mr. Jazz will be off to Texas in the fall. I drove through Texas once, and all I remember about it was cotton fields, some cars planted upright in a field (or did I dream that?), and a billboard for a restaurant where you could get a 5lb steak.... and if you ate it all, they gave you another one! Is it just me, or is a that really strange? Who could eat two 5 lb steaks? Or maybe I'm underestimating the capacity of a human stomach to contend with 10lbs of steak....

I'm off to brush up on my Texas culture, gonna go watch those King of the Hill DVDs again.

Friday Drivel

Wanna know why I love Mr. Jazz (one reason among many).

Last night's dinner: Tilapia cooked with a lemon confit (sort of a lemon pesto), steamed green beans, greek style potato chunks, a bottle of Riesling, candles. This on a Thursday evening.

Not only does the boy cook, he loves to do it. He's a keeper he is.

===================================================

For the Britneys of this world:



Anything too stupid to be said is sung. - Voltaire

He said it. He should know.

Obviously this doesn't apply to "good" music. Bwah!

==================================================

'Tis the season. The weather is warming up, the clothes is coming off and we're seeing things that no one should have to see. Leggings and a belly T on someone who weighs in at about 250. Super low rise jeans with stomachs hanging over the "waist"band. Cootchie baring micro minis with tops so low cut boobies are desperately hanging on for dear life, 'cause the laws of physics state they must tumble out eventually.

It's always women. I'm not saying men always look good, not by a long shot, but at least they're mostly covered up. Are women incapable of gauging their dress size? Does someone force them to buy clothes 3 sizes too small?

It's about time the pendulum swung back. There should be a trend back to BIG clothes. I'm open minded but I really don't want to see your buttcrack unless you're a plumber - not even then actually. I don't want to see your boobs haning out (but then I'm a woman), I don't want to see the detail of your cellulite and I really don't want to see your stomach hanging over your pants.

==================================================

Blogger is screwing with my head. Not only have I edited this 4 times to try to get the formatting right (which it always screws up), but yesterday I was unable to post. And some of this had been saved as a draft, and I definitely can't seem to post drafts. I had to copy it to a new post. Am I the only one having problems?

==================================================

Update: A new reality show. This one is just nasty as explained on Big Brother's blog.