Reader survey: She's Always a Woman

Up here at the office, we've become huge Billy Joel fans. We've all been listening to a lot of the Piano Man lately.

Sweet Ann was talking about one of the most beautiful love songs of all time -- "She's Always a Woman."

I think Sweet Ann's losing her Marble King marbles.

That is NOT a beautiful love song. Clearly, this guy is in love with a torturous woman. This song is about how she's a master of inflicting pain on this man who loves her, and no matter what anybody thinks about her, she's a woman, and she's his woman.

So, readers ... it's up to a vote.

Is "She's Always a Woman" a beautiful love ode, or is it a tragic, sad song about the woman you love that's eating your soul?

My newest obsession

Dear Santa,

Please get me a drum set for Christmas. My co-workers would much rather have me in my house beating on these than beating on my desk with chop sticks while I listen to the White Stripes or the Foo Fighters.

At night, Santa, I dream about having a drum set. In my dream, I'm wearing my Yoda t-shirt and ripped jeans and I'm part of a band. It's not a girl band ... it's a band with normal dudes but I'm their drummer.

When I was in Morgantown a few weeks ago, I met someone who said he was (among other things) a drummer, too. In a drunken state, he asked me to play some sort of pattern on his arm. I failed. Of course, my hands aren't sticks and his forearms aren't snares or toms and a lot of vodka had been spent between the two of us.

But, Santa, I think I'm ready to show the world my drumming prowess. You remember back in fifth grade when I wanted to join the band? I wanted to play drums, but my Mom and Dad weren't too key on having that kind of noise in the house. They directed me toward the clarinet. I pushed for the saxophone.

I still love my saxophone. I love the saxophone, the flute, the trumpet and the trombone I have in my basement. I could have a one man band ... I'm just missing the drums.

So, if you could see fit, I'd love a drum set for Christmas. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I've been good this year, so if you could award me honesty points, I'd be grateful. I've not been good, just good at it. Whatever "it" is.

Thanks, Santa. You're pretty kick-ass.

Love,

Jacque Jo

Just when you think you're in control

AT&T smacks you with a $300 cell phone bill.

I really thought it was a joke. Like, "Hahaha! Jacque! Look at that! We took bets in accounts receivable as to whether this would be what caused you to stroke out."

I almost stroked out, but sure enough, it's all mine. Since I moved out on my own, the cell phone's the only means of telephonic communication I have. Which means if you're calling me, and you're not an AT&T customer, and you're calling be before 9 p.m. eastern, I'm paying for it.

Like $300 paying for it.

GAH.

So I called to check, and sure enough, I'm guilty. I kept hoping it really was just some sort of funny little mixup I could laugh at later while, naturally, calling someone who isn't an AT&T customer during the day.

Happy Halloweenis

Just a couple of pictures to get everybody in the "scaring the crap out of people" spirit! The picture above shows the pumpkins we carved prior to Danny's murder mystery party. Michelle (Danny's fiance) did the very intricate on the far left. She had a pattern and definitely put more work into this than most of us! The pirate ship is Danny's. The spider is Julie's. The pumpkin on the far right is one done by Michelle's 13-year-old daughter, Jordan. The extremely elementary happy pumpkin second from the right is mine. I'm not good at patience. Or pumpkin carving. But my pumpkin is happy.


In this picture, Sara, dressed as a gym teacher, and me, dressed as a Steelers cheerleader, ponder a clue in Danny's murder mystery. I'm more or less pondering where I put down my drink. But the clue was pretty tough. It's a shame that I knew beforehand who one of the killers was and I was just trying to not ruin it for everybody ... well, at least right away. Then I started being Little Miss Gamekiller.

Follow up file: I'd f-ing kill him.

In today's edition of the best newspaper ever -- the New York Post -- they ran a follow up article to yesterday's Amy Fisher news.

In this latest article, Lou ... Remember Lou?
You know.

Lou.

And you shouldn't trust Lou because:

1. His name is Lou.

2. Hair!

3. Sunglasses.

Anyway ...

Lou says he regrets hawking their bedroom vids in anger. He was just mad that Amy was seeing Joey again (which, OK, I'm FOR you on that, Lou, I really am!) so he acted out in anger and decided that the only thing that would make him feel better during a divorce from a notorious woman would be cash and fringe fame.

Here's where I get real pissed ...

It's bad enough he sold it to a distributor. It's even worse that they got back together shortly thereafter and he didn't tell her about it UNTIL A MONTH OR SO AGO.

"I did it out of the heat of anger and passion," Bellera told The Post.

"We were estranged. She was seeing Joey. I was seething about the whole thing. It just came to a point where I was hurt and embarrassed by it . . . and it pressed the wrong button. I just used that as a vehicle to strike back at her."

You know what I'd use as my vehicle to strike back at you, Lou? A Sherman tank. With a big, giant, sharp, pointy knife on the end.

Fisher said she was willing to forgive her husband.

"We've been together for so many years and have had so many ups and downs," she said. ". . . I don't want to see it. It's better for me if I just don't think about it. I'm just going to hide in my house."

Amy, you're a better woman than I am. That man would be bleeding in the front yard in a few hundred pieces if I would have been on the receiving end of that. But, I'm hoping you take away a few lessons from this.

1. Videotape nothing ever, ever again. Lou hoses you once, Lou will hose you again.

2. Never underestimate guilt as a weapon.

3. You are totally in the clear to be as bad as you want for pretty much the rest of your life. If you're called out on it, you clearly have the response of, "Yeah, well, at least I didn't sell our sex tape."

Siiiiigh.

OK, Jesus. You win.

My co-workers were going out for lunch, so I asked them to bring me back some wings, celery and ranch. One of them suggested I get the wings plain, and the sauce on the side so they don't get soggy.

When they got here, my wings were here. My celery was here. My ranch was here.

There was no wing sauce in a separate container. Nothing.

Plain wings. No sauce.

Siiiigh.

Jesus is boldfaced. Period. End of story.

I couldn't work anywhere else

My paper does this thing (that I don't love) that involves bolding proper names. People, businesses, etc. It's supposed to be done to enhance readability and because people who love themselves love not only seeing their names, but seeing their names in bold print.

This, however, has led to a continual debate over what gets bolded and what doesn't. Beth did a great job trying to come up with a styleguide for it, but questions still pop up.

Today:

"Do we bold Jesus?"

I came back into the room in the middle of the discussion, so they decided to ask me.

"Jacque!! Do we bold Jesus?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"You won't bold Punxsutawney Phil, you're not bolding Jesus."

At which point Stirewalt jumps in and says, "But Jesus was a real person. He walked the earth. That can't be disputed."

Nobody seemed to buy into my belief that Punxsutawney Phil is real.

I eventually had to rule that in light of supporting evidence, Jesus is boldfaced.

I'm hopeful this prevents me from getting hit and killed by a piece of falling blue ice from a plane landing at Yeager today.

Also, today at work I learned that caffeine can mess up your prostate.

(Note to self: Be thankful you don't have a prostate!)

The results are in: We're children of the '80s

In last week's blog poll, I asked:

If you could live in any time period, what would it be?

Here's how you voted:

Like, omigod, the '80s. — 58 percent (7 votes)
I'd kick it in the '90s. — 33 percent (4 votes)
Peace, man. I'm a '60s kid. — (GOOSE EGG!!)
Break out the disco! It's 'the 70s. — 8 percent (1 vote)

It almost makes me want to get my leg warmers out! That and the fact that it's 10 degrees in my office. God!!!

7 p.m. update: I'm still at work.

As the God clock ticks well past my eleventh hour here today, I'm comforted by these words of wisdom from this wise, wise man:


"Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar."

Sleeping with the enemy

OK, my love of Amy Fisher is both mocked and legendary. If Amy Fisher would call me tonight, I'd hang out with her this weekend. We could go to the strip mall, get our nails did, have some Italian food and polish off a bottle or two of pinot noir ... I really think we could be friends.

Meet my new enemy. This is Lou. Lou is Amy's husband.

Reasons to not trust Lou:


1. His name is Lou.

2. Look at that hair.

3. Those sunglasses.

But I digress.

Lou and Amy were in the midst of a fun divorce. Granted, it probably didn't help Amy much when she and Joey rekindled their Long Island love story for about 38 minutes this past summer, but after cooler heads and sobriety prevailed, Amy and Joey both went back to their respective spouses.

But according to today's edition of the New York Post, Lou took matters into his own hands. He was going to do divorce the American way. And as we all know, in America the one thing that can ease all pain and suffering is ...

Money!! Lots of it.

Lou and Amy, as wacky, in love, married couples tend to do, made themselves a video memento of their passion. Lou, scorned man that he was, decided to take revenge against his then-estranged wife by ... selling it.

But Lou didn't really think it through ... they got back together. And this company owns the tape.

That's gonna make the holidays a little awkward around the Bellara house.

That's right, kids. Now you, too, can own the Amy Fisher sex tape.

Here's the story from the Post:

October 29, 2007 -- The world soon could be seeing more of the Long Island Lolita - a lot more.
A sex tape of Amy Fisher and her husband, Lou Bellera, is in the hands of a Los Angeles porn distributor, and the onetime teen temptress isn't happy about it, her former business partner said yesterday.
Fisher and her husband apparently made the tape earlier this year, before they filed for divorce, according to David Krieff, a TV executive who has produced reunion specials with Fisher, her ex-lover Joey Buttafuoco and Buttafuoco's ex-wife, Mary Jo Buttafuoco.
But in the time Fisher and her hubby were in Splitsville, Bellera hawked the tape to L.A. smut peddler Red Light District Video, which is expected to start selling their steamy footage next month.
"I was told she was a willing participant at the time it was made, as a private video with her husband," Krieff said.
It wasn't until August that Fisher, who has since reconciled with Bellera, learned of the Red Light deal and wants to stop the video's release.
"She's disgusted," Krieff said. "I'm disgusted by it, too, the whole genre. I can't believe in the United States of America things like this can be released.
"I feel bad for Amy and Lou," Krieff added. "I think they were having a fight and he made a bad decision that's coming back to haunt them now."

A bad decision? To me, a bad decision is eating Chinese food from a place called "Wok and Roll." A bad decision is seeing any movie with Christian Slater. A bad decision was the third "Major League" movie.

I'm not sure I could forgive him for this. If I were hanging out with Amy tonight, I'd tell her to send his goldbricking ass packing. I'd buy her some chianti and we'd rent DVDs and paint our toenails. She doesn't need Lou. She doesn't need any guy who'd do that.

But the lessons to be learned?

1. Videotape NOTHING. It's not a good idea. It's never a good idea. There is not a single shred of good in anything like that being videotaped.

2. Write nothing down.

3. Deny. Deny. Deny.

And don't date dudes named Lou with hair like that.

Monday Morning Shoutouts

Here are a few blogs I recommend you check out this week:

WVU Blog by Mike Casazza (Sports commentary that's intelligent)

Ninja of the Mundane (Jim's blog ... this guy puts it all together like a tasty sandwich)

This Side of Patty O (Congratulate the Sox fan on his sweet World Series!!)

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks (Plain hilarious ... especially for journo-geeks.)


(If you've got a suggestion, send them my way. I'm happy to love all, serve all ... just like those kids at the Hard Rock Cafe.)

This morning's entry is brough to you by Erinn

And the words:

Manscaping

Man tan

And:

"I just snorted like a pig."

Thank you, head cold from hell.

The last 12 hours of my life I just lost are brought to you by NyQuil, the nighttime sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, YOU ARE SO GOING INTO A COMA so you can rest medicine.

I fell asleep last night watching "Fatal Attraction" on HBO 2 for the millionth time. I was chatting online with babes (Julie, as she toiled away on her masters, and Jim, as he was working away as the editing badass he is) and when I wrapped up I just sort of lay back on the couch, covered up and the next thing I remember is 7:23 when Inky decided to engage the boxes by the stairs in battle. Of course, after that woke me up and she noticed I was disturubed, she curled up by the couch and started purring. F-ing cat. She's staring at me now as I write this because she knows I'm talking about her.

My friend Ben and I are planning a vacation for December. Somewhere tropical. I think we both are due. We've both had a lot of changes this year. He's buying his first home in the Miami, Fla., area and I've just kind of had a rough year. Traveling's expensive. I'm going to be on the "plain spaghetti and water" meal plan after it's over to pay off the credit card I put this trip on.

He made the offhand comment, "I need to get into beach shape." Yeah, pal. Me too. It isn't so much that I'm getting fat, I just need to get it under control. I've been "adjusting" for a month now, and now it's over. I'm adjusted. I need to get my ass to the grocery store and buy food I should be eating, not food I want because it's tasty and I'm lazy.

Maybe that's what I'll do today when I get off the couch. I'm NyQuil hungover and Food Network's on. I may not move until I start getting ready for the show at 8. I'm going to "perimeter shop" when I go -- I will avoid at most costs the center aisles of the store where delicious things like salt and vinegar chips live.

It's 40 minutes until the Steelers and Jeff hasn't called yet to hang out. He must be more hung over than I am. And at least he had a good time doing it.

It's happened. I'm old.

I've spent most of the day building furniture from Wal-Mart and listening to the adult contemporary station.

Well, except for the few hours of Mountaineer domination.

When did I get old? I used to be young. Now I'm old. I want to wear sweatpants and read rather than go out.

Weird. Things like that hit you quickly. But at least I've got some Holland Oates on the radio. Hahaha ... :)

It's funny 'cause it's true

Julie sent me this video this morning, and it cracked me up. The cat in this cartoon is totally Miss Cleo, my cat who lives in my old house. I miss her a whole lot. She's always kind of ill-tempered, but I love that about her.

My friend Philip just got a cat. He should get ready for this.

First Song Friday (10-26-07)

Another week where "best" is a theme ... this one comes to us courtesy of Styx, and Mix 100.9 Charleston.

(... sigh. Styx.)

The Best Of Times

Tonight's the night we'll make history
Honey
you and I.
'Cos I'll take any risk
To tie back the hands of time
And stay with you here tonight.

I know you feel these are the worst of times
I do believe it's true.
When people lock their doors and hide inside
Rumor has it
it's the end of Paradise.
But I know if the world just passed us by

Baby
I know
I wouldn't have to cry. No
no.

The best of times are when I'm alone with you
Some rain
some shine
We'll make this a world for two.
Our memories of yesterday
Will last a lifetime.
We'll take the best
forget the rest
And someday we'll find
These are the best of times.
These are the best of times.

The headlines read:
These are the worst of times

I do believe it's true.
I feel so helpless like a boat against the tide

I wish the summer wind could bring back Paradise
But I know
If the world turned upside down

Baby
I know
You'd always be around. My
my.

The best of times are when I'm alone with you
When I'm alone with you
Everything's alright.
When I'm alone with you
You brighten up the night.


Well, it's not "Come Sail Away" ... and the song that followed it up was "My Life" by Billy Joel, which is far better.

Am I the only one who thinks this song kind of sounds like "Night Man" from "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"? :)

I'll take "Self-fulfilling" for $500, Alex

I went out to lunch today with Julie. When I got back to my office's parking lot, the box with my remaining peanut noodles popped open and went everywhere. Not only did I lose my leftovers, the Camry is going to reek of peanut for the rest of its life.

I'm also sure I'm getting a cold. I've done nothing but sneeze today.

Damn you, Bon Jovi. Damn you.

I'm in for it ...

When the song that wakes you up is "I'll Be There For You" by Bon Jovi, I think that's God's special way of telling you that you're about to have a really, really bad day.

I want this girl to get run over

I saw this on FARK.com and immediately wished something really, really bad would happen to her:

Guest Column: Sorry, but this bikini stays on

By: Stacy Jacobson
Posted: 10/18/07

The Playboy Big Ten edition has come to Evanston. I'm sure by now you've read the news story about the NU casting calls, or you've heard your friends talking about it over lunch. They might say how "no one at Northwestern would ever do that," or how Playboy is insulting the integrity of NU students.

In the past, I've been asked if I ever would do Playboy (I've also been asked if I'd ever get a breast reduction). My answer will always be a firm "no." I believe in the sanctity of nudity and the idea that it's between only you and another - not any pre-pubescent boy locked in a bathroom looking through his father's stash. But I couldn't turn a chance at journalism down, just to get a taste of the other side (without that side being full frontal).

When I told my mother, she shrieked, "What?!" I assured her my morals were intact, and that it was only for a newspaper commentary. She said, "OK, but I'm not telling your father."

After registering online, the producer, Cynthia, called me. I was to come to the Hilton Garden Inn on Maple Avenue bearing a bikini and heels (classy, huh?). Later, her innocent Chicago accent and eagerness to meet me would reveal a maternal instinct as she sweet-talked me into taking provocative photos. Nice.

In preparation, I decided on a turquoise bohemian print two-piece I'd ordered from Victoria's Secret. My mind filled with questions. Do I want drastic hair and make-up? Will I look tacky? Is it even possible to be Playboy chic?

On the morning of the interview, I faced the mirror. To match my suit and to emphasize the overdone vibe, I lined my eyes with a blue-green pencil. I applied navy and green eye shadows that looked surprisingly natural (I'm not used to this va-va-voom stuff). To finish, I put on long, dangling silver earrings.

Down Sheridan Road I went, in my terry-cloth sweats, gray T-shirt and made-up face. While carrying my school bag with my four-subject notebook and a globalization case study on one arm, I lugged a plastic CVS bag holding my bikini and taupe sling backs on the other.

Once there, I realized the room Cynthia so calmly offered me was a private suite rather than a banquet room. Things just got creepier.

I filled out forms and changed in the bedroom before Rudi, the photographer, entered. The usual boy-on-the-beach gawk I often get - it starts at my boobs and sometimes makes its way to my eyes - was absent. Instead, he mentioned my interest in sports. So, as I stood there in a triangle bikini and near-five inch heels, I gushed to him about my love for the Baltimore Ravens.

We shot about 10 poses. Rudi told me to place my hand on my hip, or lean against the wall and continuously chanted "smile big." Transferring to the bed seemed risqué, but I first just sat on my knees with my hands on my hips. The next pose, though, involved my body facing the wall as my head peered around at the camera. That one hit me. I wasn't just smiling at a camera. I was twisted into an unnatural position to try to tempt someone with my body. That's not me.

Yesterday, Cynthia called. Apparently, the Chicago offices "love" me and are offering me $1,500 for a full shoot Saturday. In her recurrent maternal tone, she told me how "cute" I am and how excited the head photographer sounded.

Each time I listened to her praises, I couldn't help but giggle. It all seemed funny to me! I'm just a 19-year-old girl, and I don't feel different than thousands of others at NU. In a college environment, we face sexuality issues everyday.

Long ago, I drew my line before pornography. But what about modeling in general? Does a seductive pose in a bra catalogue demean women in the same way? Is it solely the male reaction to different photos that determines acceptability?

I liked my body before the shoot, and I like my body now. I don't need Playboy to tell me they like it to make me like it. I could never use Playboy as the basis of my self-esteem.

So I guess this delves into the mind set of somebody who does pose for Playboy. Maybe she wants fame. Maybe she has likes having an international audience for her body. Maybe it gives her confidence. That's fine, and I respect her. Who am I to judge?

Yes, there are girls among us, just like at other schools, who would pose for Playboy. They'll also graduate from NU with degrees. Females can do what they want with their bodies. So if I wanted to be the next Playboy star, I guess I could consider NU my launching pad. I plan, however, to go elsewhere. I still need to call Cynthia to deliver the news. NU is launching me into a world of clothed, professional journalism.

... I really am speechless. I think I'll just let it go for itself.

Hangin' (out) in the gallows

A nearly 1o-year career in news will do that to you -- you develop a fantastic gallows sense of humor.

Amber's phone rings and she answers it. It's her husband Sam asking her a question about something he'd heard over at his job at University of Charleston.

She looks up at me and says, "Have you heard anything about somebody jumping off a bridge and getting hit by a car?"

My response?

"No, but that's a shitty way to start your Wednesday."

I'm going to hell ...