The Dead Neighbor Proxy

Seeing this post about the word "vajayjay" on my friend Jim's blog this morning reminded me of one of my life-governing principles.

Sure, I've got the life-governing principles on men.

1. Don't trust a man with two first names, or a man who has a first name for a last name.
2. Don't trust a man with a standalone mustache.
3. Don't trust a man who has, or had (and found it to be the pinnacle of fashion) a mullet.
4. Don't trust a man who wears douchebag sunglasses.
5. Don't trust a man who uses more styling products than you do.

But one of my other life-governing principles involves this woman. Oprah.

Maybe it's not JUST Oprah, but she is the most powerful vehicle for the proxy.

Oprah is a very, very powerful woman.

In token, most American women are sheep.

Oprah puts her "O" on a book, and millions of people run to the closest Barnes and Noble, Wal-Mart, Target, grocery store, flea market and what-have-you to buy a copy.

Oprah says, "Ham will make you lose weight! I love ham!" and no grocery store in suburbia has ham on the shelves.

Oprah says, "Stripes are the hot fashion this season" and every woman you pass who isn't in a velvet track suit is wearing stripes of various widths and colors.

Oprah says, "HEEEEEYYYYY! LAAAADIEEEES!! GO KILL YA' NAAAAAY-BOR!!" and I swear to GOD as I sit here, there would be dead neighbors all over the United States. Everywhere you went, there would be dead neighbors.

All because of the power she wields. Hence the "Dead Neighbor Proxy." This, naturally, leads me to label her as a terrorist. I have middle-aged women in my neighborhood. I'm a moving target.

Don't get me wrong, though. It's not just Oprah's fault. It's her legion of militant, sheep-like followers that are equally at fault. It's not going to be Oprah that kills me by poisoning my banana bread with strychnine. It's going to be the sweet older lady who lives two townhouses down from me. It could be my mother or my sister, who are both HUGE, HUGE Oprah devotees. I can't tell you how many times I've been handed a book because, "I saw it on Oprah," or had a story start out with, "I was watching Oprah today after work, and ..."

But I am wearing stripes today. Not because Oprah told me. Because I haven't worn this shirt yet and I got it for $1.99 at New York and Co.

Follow up file: You're suing the wrong guy, Amy.

Ah, friends. It's time for another visit from the Lou-meister. And now, it's getting even better.

You know how you ask yourself, "Could this get any better?"

It just has.

For those of you who are new, we've previously established that Lou Bellera, husband of Amy Fisher, shouldn't be trusted under any circumstances.

The reason?

1. His name is Lou.

2. That hair is a dead giveaway.

3. Those f-ing sunglasses.

I also learned that Lou used to be a cop. This may open up a whole new category of men that shouldn't be trusted (in addition to the universally accepted men with two first names, men with stand alone moustaches and men who have, or used to have, mullets), but more on that should the need arise.

Today, TMZ.com (a site to which I am hopelessly addicted) reports that Amy and her husband have filed suit in federal court in New York to stop the distribution of this tape.

Here's where I really wish I lived on Long Island and Amy and I could push our carts around at King Kullen and talk this through. I'd talk to her about what was bothering me that day, likely that I had to wait 35 minutes to get my acrylics filled at the strip mall that morning and that my Dolce and Gabbana velvet track suit was STILL at the cleaners after one of the twins threw up all over it ... again ... at the Catholic school fundraiser. Then I'd be quiet and listen to what was troubling her. In this case, she'd clearly be the winner.

I'd tell her that she's suing the wrong person.

I mean, I'm no lawyer, but I'd say the problem here far more rests with her douchewagon of a husband than the distributor. I mean, after all, he sold it to them fair and square as a way to get back at his estranged wife. He knew exactly what he was doing when he sold it.

In the lawsuit (which you can read at TMZ.com), it says that he didn't have the right to sell it without her permission, so when he did it, he wasn't cleared to do so, so the distributor can't legally distribute what they technically weren't able to legally buy in the first place.

Oh, COME ON.

I would tell Amy while we hung out at Starbucks that afternoon that I respect being through a lot with your man, and I understand wanting to keep your family in tact, but some things are unforgivable. His hair is unforgivable, but let's look past the physical for a minute. I stand by what I said earlier -- I'd f-ing kill him. I wouldn't need a lawyer to stop the tape, I'd need a lawyer to stop me from 20 to life at Albion for dismembering my husband in a way that people only write books about.

I would say, Amy, you said that you just wanted to hide out in your house and let this blow over (pardon the pun). Filing a lawsuit trying to block something that probably can't be stopped at this point isn't the way to have that happen.

You also may want to read my various writings on the specific types of men to NOT trust. You're lax in that department.

'Local Lawmaker Punished for Honesty'

So, my political leanings aren't what you'd call "run of the mill."

On paper, I'm Libertarian. Basically, I'm kind of like, "OK, government, build my roads and stuff, but I can take care of me. Really. Just back off."

Socially, I'm very liberal. Fiscally, I'm very conservative. This often provides great fire for debate.

However, liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat, you get my undying support if you're just honest.

Let's take my pal, beleaguered Republican Idaho Sen. Larry Craig for example.

Dude, it's cool. You were trolling for ass in an airport bathroom. I'm for you and your right to happiness. Just don't be a douche about it when you're caught. Nut up. Take responsibility. Move on. Don't go on TV and cry. Don't toss about the idea of rehab. For the love of God, don't say you've found Jesus. Just shrug your shoulders, smile sheepishly and say, "Eeesh, sorry 'bout that. It seemed like a great idea at the time."

That's why this story caught my eye:

OLYMPIA, Wash. (AP) - Minority House Republicans, already reeling from a sex scandal that prompted one member to quit, have severely disciplined a Vancouver lawmaker for inappropriate remarks to a female staffer.
Rep. Jim Dunn was stripped of all committee assignments on Monday, and will be required to attend sensitivity training, said House Minority Leader Richard DeBolt, R-Chehalis. Dunn had been the ranking Republican on the Housing Committee, and sat on the powerful House spending committee.
"We know that society has moved beyond off-color remarks between men and women," DeBolt said Monday evening. "We're big kids, so we need to act like that."
The strength of the discipline raised the possibility that Dunn could resign.
Dunn, reached at home Monday evening, said he had not read DeBolt's letter of reprimand. Dunn said he had no plans to resign.
Dunn said he already has apologized to the woman who was the target of his remark, which came at a gathering after a House Appropriations subcommittee meeting in the Tri-Cities last week.
Dunn also said he could not exactly recall what he said to the woman, but said he was "sure it was very inappropriate, because I do that kind of thing." He also acknowledged it could have been interpreted as sexual harassment.

Thank you, Jim Dunn. Thank you for your honesty. Rather than hemming and hawing and giving a bunch of "aww, jeez, I mean, Um ... well, I wouldn't say ... well, in that context, um, uhhh," you stood up and said (in some fashion), "Yeah, it's not UNlike me to call someone sugartits."

I salute you.

Today's poll is brought to you by ...

I fell asleep last night watching "When Harry Met Sally" because it was on one of the channels. I blame it for being top-of-mind when I was thinking of a poll question.

I'm curious about the results of this one. I know my vote. :) My vote is a resounding "hell yes." Some of my closest friends are men, and there's no "ooh, I could date them" undertone.

Or am I kidding myself 'cause I'm not a man? Maybe all men see women in the "I could date them" undertone.

The results are in: You hate 'em all!

In the ol' bloggeriffic poll this week, I asked:

Which of these celebutards are likely to die first? (Either by their own hand or an equally awesome circumstance.)

Here's how you voted:

Britney Spears -- 36 percent (4 votes)
Paris Hilton -- GOOSE EGG!
Lindsay Lohan -- 9 percent (1 vote ... I'm glad there's still hope!)
One of those adorable Olsen twins -- 9 percent (1 vote ... which one?)
Can we be lucky enough to have them all wiped out at once? -- 45 percent (5 votes)

It's comforting to know you're hoping to make the world a better place in one fell swoop!

... Oh NO she didn't

Me (at hair salon): Hi. Do you have time to fit in a color? Not highlights. Just single process?

Stylist: Are you looking for something different or just to cover up your gray?

Me: Um ... Uh ... Just darker.

I have visible gray and nobody told me?? My closest girls KNOW that gray at 28 is something I will not accept!

"... just to cover up your gray."

Screw you, aging. You aren't taking me that easily. I will fight you like we're in a trailer park and you're sleeping with my man. I don't want to break a Bud Light bottle across your face, but I will.

Hrmph.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Why! Why ... it's ... it's a MAJOR AWARD!

Oh, and you better believe it's cooler than that. Although that's still on my Top Five list of wants of all time.

Angela, the writer of a fanastic blog I read called "Blog It Like You Mean It" has bestowed upon little ol' me a "Best Kept Secret" award.

So, naturally, since it's a secret, the first thing I'm gonna do is tell YOU.

I'm excited. Of course, now, this means I've peaked at 28 and I'm opening the door wide open for continued disappointment from here forward. Unless I get that drum set for Christmas, and then ... GAME ON!

Born a 10-year-old, but still a kid

We've been talking love songs lately. Namely that Billy Joel song, "She's Always a Woman."

Beth brought in her copy of Madonna's compilation CD from the early '90s, "The Immaculate Collection."

I've been listening to it most of the afternoon. Much like other artists who allowed fame to ruin them, it's nice to remember a time when she actually produced fun things that didn't involve a bunch of pretentious studio artists putting their own unique touch on it.

But, anyway, on this CD, track six is "Crazy for You," which is a beautiful love song that I believe was on the "Mystic Pizza" soundtrack. That takes me back. Wow.

But I've listened to this song a dozen times today. I think it's beautiful. And it's like when I listen to the song, I can see pictures of what the song's talking about in my head. I think everybody can. I think everybody's been there.

The song "Open Your Heart" ... another classic. It's another one of those unrequited "just give me a chance" kind of love songs.

If you think about it, love songs all have about the same thread -- either come back to me, don't leave me or just notice me! I'm a huge fan of "just notice me." I mean, so much of this world would find love if they just noticed what was around them. There are entire Web sites dedicated to this concept -- chance meetings, random occurrences. I love reading them. They're both fascinating and sad all at the same time.

Of course, I'm not normal.

I've been listening to a lot of 1980s radio lately thanks to my pals at XM. It makes me realize how much I hate music today. That makes me old and crotchety, I know. I'm not even in my 30s and I think about how great life would be if we all still had banana clips and jelly sandals and the legal drinking age was 18.

If I had leg warmers, I'd be all over it right now. I've said this a hundred times ... I'm sure I was born a 10-year-old. Something got mixed up in shipping and receiving and I really should have been born in 1969, not 1979. I should have been going to high school in the mid-1980s, not the mid-1990s.

But then again, if that were true, I'd be kissing 40 rather than 30, and I'm not sure if that's any better.

What's puzzling you is the nature of my game

Today, I got a new watch at Target, because I can't find any of my watches from the move.

So, I got this really pretty stainless steel one because that's just how I roll. It's stylish, yet very grown up.

And it's about four sizes too big.

Oh, sure, they give you 'easy' directions on how to remove links. Easy if you're a freaking jeweler.

I also saw a Hello Kitty watch for about $3.99. I had it in my hand before I went the adult route and got the stainless one.

As I lamented to Paige about my huge watch with impossible-to-remove links, I made the observation that "no move toward adulthood goes unpunished." She agreed.

My family was here today, which was nice. I had my sister here overnight. My sister and I have an odd relationship, but a close one. I don't get her, she doesn't get me. We're OK with that. Last night we saw a friend of mine from Pilates class and she said we looked alike. It always seems that people who don't know us are the ones who say we look alike. My sister's a little taller than I am, she's got blonde hair, blue eyes and a little darker complected. I'm about as pale as they come, auburn hair, bright green eyes. Rarely, if ever, do I get "Oh, you look just alike."

But we had a good time. We went for dinner and ice cream and then came back here where both of us fell asleep almost immediately from full bellies. My parents joined us today and we all had dinner for Dad's birthday. He's a year away from retirement, but convinced he's not going to live that long. My Dad and I are alike in that way ... He says he won't make it to 62. He said he wouldn't make it to 60. I can remember when I was a kid him saying he didn't believe he'd make it to 40.

I always say that I won't make it past 30. And it's going to be in some amazing blaze of glory fashion that I go out. Hahaha ... Likely after saying, "Guys! Seriously! Check this out!"

But tonight, I've found myself giving up on getting the links out of the watch and watching "Kingpin" which combines two of my most favorite things -- bowling and the Amish. You could say I'm obsessed with both, along with drumming and Kiefer Sutherland. I mean, the bowling is something people laugh about. One morning, I actually was almost late for work because I was watching the end of a professional bowling match. I'll watch professional bowling almost every time it's on TV. That makes me ... ridiculous.

Most people find this movie to be really, really stupid. And it is. But there's also some comedic gold in that film, and some of the best one-liners ever. I started it last night, but my sister wanted to watch "Tommy Boy" instead. So, because it's just me and Inky holding down the fort tonight, we're watching the kind of crap we want to watch. Well, to be fair, Inky isn't watching anything. She's asleep in front of the heater vent where it's warm.

When I lived in my old apartment five years ago, I'd sleep on the couch on the weekends. It was my weekend ritual. I don't know why it felt so good to sleep on the couch after a week's worth of work, but it did. I'd sleep on the couch with the TV on channel that was showing infomercials. I figure that's to blame for 90 percent of my desire to own a Showtime Rotisserie Grill and a Juice Tiger.

But the last weekend I spent in my house, I tried to sleep on the couch and couldn't do it. I woke up around 2 and went up to my bed and crawled between the sheets and fell back into a really deep sleep. Tonight may be the next attempt at couch sleeping, because as I'm writing this, it's sucking me in and telling me to stay.

Ah, Saturday night on your own. It's a hell of a party. :)

I always miss the good stuff

I'm forced to ask ...

Why do I NEVER see anything like this?

From my hometown paper, The Intelligencer of Wheeling, W.Va.:

Monkey Truck Barrel Rolls

ST. CLAIRSVILLE — Fifty-three monkeys and two people were involved in a two-vehicle accident Thursday on Interstate 70.

Virginia resident Kyle MacDougall, 24, was cited for not assuring a clear distance ahead after his vehicle struck a van while traveling east on I-70 near exit 213. The accident occurred about 6 p.m.

MacDougall was not injured, and the driver of the van was transported to Wheeling Hospital to be checked out, officials said. The monkeys were believed to be uninjured.

The pickup truck and trailer MacDougall was driving jackknifed, causing him to lose control, travel off the interstate and end up in a grassy area along the exit 213 off ramp. The trailer remained upright, but the pickup overturned.

The trailer MacDougall was towing with his pickup truck contained 53 monkeys, mainly African Green and Rhesus monkeys, said Penny Miller, director of the Oglebay Good Zoo.

Miller initially was called to the scene to help transport the monkeys to her zoo temporarily. However, the owner of the monkeys, whose name was not available at press time, decided to retrieve the animals himself. The owner had a three-hour trip, as he was in Pennsylvania, possibly in the city of Hazelton, said Ohio State Highway Patrol Sgt. Jim Tracy.

Trooper Jeff Herink said the vehicle and trailer were listed as owned by Unique Carriers, based in Florida.

Miller noted the type of monkeys being transported typically are used for research, including by pharmaceutical companies. Troopers at the scene would not confirm whether the animals were heading for such a facility, but other officials at the scene said they believed the monkeys were being taken to a lab in Maryland.

“Right now we’re waiting for the owner to come with a trailer, load up the monkeys and move on,” said Trooper Dennis Wilcox.

While waiting for help to arrive, MacDougall periodically checked on the monkeys, which were in crates made of wood and metal. He entered the rear door of the trailer, but first placed a mask over his mouth and nose. Tracy said there was no danger of the monkeys passing any illness to humans, saying that the mask was being worn as a precaution.

“There are no health concerns whatsoever,” Tracy said.

A heater was placed inside the damaged trailer to keep the animals warm.

I'm only on that interstate at least ONCE a month and all I see are Ohio State Troopers and people driving too slow in the left lane. I never see overturned monkey trucks! Ever! AUGH!

First Song Friday (11-02-07)

Today's gem comes from Charleston's Mix 100.9 again, because who can't live with an Kennie Bass InfoBlast in the mornings?

It's "Running on Empty" by Jackson Browne.

Yeah. I am.

Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels
Looking back at the years gone by like so many summer fields
In '65 I was 17 and running up one-o-one
I dont know where I'm running now, I'm just running on

Running on -- running on empty
Running on -- running blind
Running on -- running into the sun
But I'm running behind

Gotta do what you can just to keep your love alive
Trying not to confuse it with what you do to survive
In '69 I was 21 and I called the road my own
I dont know when that road turned onto the road I'm on

Running on -- running on empty
Running on -- running blind
Running on -- running into the sun
But I'm running behind

Everyone I know, everywhere I go
People need some reason to believe
I dont know about anyone but me
If it takes all night, that'll be all right
If I can get you to smile before I leave

Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels
I dont know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels
I look around for the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through
Looking into their eyes I see them running too

Running on -- running on empty
Running on -- running blind
Running on -- running into the sun
But I'm running behind

Honey you really tempt me
You know the way you look so kind
I'd love to stick around but I'm running behind
You know I don't even know what I'm hoping to find
Running into the sun but I'm running behind


I can live with that. I find it far more pleasing that last week's Bon Jovi. *shudder*

The bane of my existence, still in its box

Lemme tell you a story about my living room furniture.

The first full day I was in my new place, the furniture store delivered a whole bunch of stuff. What I didn't buy at the furniture store was an entertainment center, coffee table or end table because I figured I could get them on the cheap somewhere.

I found what I wanted, but the store where I was looking only had two of the three pieces -- they didn't have the coffee table. I wasn't 100 percent sold on a coffee table anyway, but my Mom was really all about it. She said that it would tie the room together. I didn't want to buy two of the pieces from one store and run the risk that the other store locations wouldn't have the coffee table.

Finally, after two days of calling around, we found that the store in Huntington had them. So, Mom and I piled in the Explorer and went an hour west to get all three pieces.

That Sunday night, the entertainment center (which now supports my totally excellent Man TV) and the end table were put together.

The coffee table?

Not so much. It's still in its box. Still resting against the wall.

My parents will be here Saturday. My sister and I are going to have to put this thing together tomorrow night or I know my Mom's going to want to do it Saturday. And she'll be somewhat disappointed that the coffee table I made her drive an hour for isn't being used.

I'm like Josh in the movie, "Haiku Tunnel." Josh is a temp who finally lands himself in a permanent job. All Josh has to do is transcribe and mail 17 "very important" letters from his boss, Bob. Josh quickly transcribes them and puts them in the envelopes, gets them stamped and ... just ... can't ... get ... it ... in the mail.

Josh finds every reason in the world to NOT put these letters in the mail. There's even a scene in the movie where he says, "I went ahead and did the expense reports now in case I wanted something easier to do later."

That's me with this coffee table. I've cleaned. I've done laundry. I've put together book cases. I've folded clothes. I've organized clothes. I've done everything BUT put this coffee table together.

And now it's crunch time.

So, my sister is going to get bribed with dinner, and then she's going to help me put this thing together. Unless I can find some movie I want to see, or some DVDs to rent or some other task that will prevent it from happening.

Unless I decide to alphabetize my socks. I've always wondered how I could do that.

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!!!