your call will be answered in the order in which it was received

Dear loyal fan,

We here at It's All About Me, Anyway are fully aware of the non-update situation, and we apologize for the inconvenience. It's just that our time has been diverted into other avenues lately.

For instance, we had a brief case of Olympic Fever, contracted during the craptastic Opening Ceremonies and later cured when we realized the biathlon consisted of skiing and shooting...at the same time. We attempted to manifest our inner gay man and get all up into the figure skating, but we just couldn't get past the outfits. And frankly, when we were promised that Bode Miller would drunkenly ski his way to Olympic glory and it didn't happen, a little part of us died. We now look forward to the Summer Olympics in 2008, when the gymnastics competition will reaffirm our belief that tiny people can indeed fly.

Additionally, our DVR situation has gotten critical. We now fully grasp the joys of watching American Idol without commercials, and therefore save up all episodes until the weekend, when we watch them back-to-back while eating Doritos and yelling at the screen. For the record, we are entirely thrilled that Hot Twin Who Couldn't Sing For Shit was voted off. It's not that we don't appreciate fame whores, we just don't want to listen to them butcher Patti Smith.

We have also been experiencing technical difficulties, as we have recently become loathe to post from work. Although we are careful never to post about work itself, (and we do appreciate your cooperation in not letting slip our CIA codename), it is entirely conceivable that this could "look bad," and we want to be universally liked and not fired, so we'll just leave it at that.

So, between television shows live and recorded, and the reluctance to use our day jobs inappropriately, It's All About Me, Anyway has regrettably suffered. But we have not forgotten about you, loyal reader. No, we have you in mind every time pimply boy from class says something stupid, or Flavor Flav tongues a trannie. We care about you, and do not want to post on just any old thing, but only on topics of interest and amusement, and those don't pop up all the time.

So just remember, it's not you -- it's us.

Keep the faith.

I'll have the Rooty Tooty Fresh-n-Fruity

Did you ever go to a restaurant at an off-peak time, when it was only you, your eating companion and perhaps one old man sitting at a booth by himself drinking watery coffee? And you walk in and think you're going to get a nice, quick meal because they're not busy so the waiter can pay extra attention to you? And instead it turns out to be the longest meal of your life because they're not busy and therefore not running around, seeing if your food is ready or if you need more Diet Pepsi? And the inverted logic of it all just pisses you off?

My brain is currently an IHOP at 4 p.m.

I didn't even have my one stupid class this week, because the grad student instructor cancelled it so she could go on job interviews. Which is her right and I ain't mad at the bitch, but I need some stimulation. I'm going to start banging my head against the wall like those children in Eastern European orphanages. Wait, that's not funny and I'm a bad person. Sigh.

The one thing I do have to do is a short paper for next week. Am I doing it? No, I'm watching Oprah, and I don't even like Oprah. If I was too busy to watch Oprah, I'd be doing my paper. It makes perfect sense so shut up.

Speaking of watching things on TV I don't even like, have I mentioned my new best friend, the DVR? Oh, the DVR! How I love and adore and would kill for the DVR! If you don't know, a DVR is a generic TiVo. If you don't know what TiVo is...Mom, stop reading my blog. Anyway, I got it about 2 weeks ago, and it is awesomer that the most awesome thing on Planet Awesome. You can record shit and then watch it back while fast-forwarding through the commercials! You can rewind live TV! You can freeze-frame during American Idol just when Ryan Seacrest is looking his douche-iest (see above) and therefore prolong the mocking indefinitely! Seriously, I don't know how I lived without it.

Of course, looking at the list of programs I've gone out of my way to record, it becomes quickly apparent that my television taste is decidedly lowbrow. The DVR is going to run out of memory from multiple episodes of Flavor of Love alone, and I'm not too proud of that. I could watch nature shows and CNN and be all cerebral and shit, but I believe that TV is an escape, and I don't really want to think about the world and its problems while I watch it. I think about the world's problems at work, and that's plenty.

Besides, Flavor of Love is a riot. A nervous laughter, stomach-churning riot. Really, if you ever wanted to know where women who can't get hired as strippers go, watch the show and find out. And I think at least two of them are/were men, so it's fun to look for clues.

So, yeah, my DVR is filled with F of L, American Idol, Judge Judy and The Simpsons, but at least the latter two shows offer sharp social insight and I'll debate anyone who says otherwise. Seriously. Judge Judy is the voice of reason in a world of moral decline. In fact, I have to go watch her berate a teenage mother right now.

Nina out!

Dear Jon,

Baby, you know I love you.

You know I'll do anything for you. I'll watch Playing By Heart (repeatedly). I won't tell anyone (else) about that whole "Jon Stewart Liebowitz" thing. I'll make sure your wife continues to think I'm your personal, on-call dental hygienist (ahem). Anything.

And you know that when I criticize, it's born of genuine affection and concern for your well-being, right? Okay then:

Please, for the love of God and my libido, don't ever, ever, EVER let them do this to your hair again...

Stay strong, my little matzoh ball.

Love,

Nina

I have to disagree with that

Remember how, a couple of posts ago, one of the reasons I was upset about prematurely dropping the writing class was that I thought the people in it were more interesting than the people in my other classes? Turns out that isn't really going to be a problem.

There is a battle a-brewin' in my literature class, and I'm just happy to be there to watch.

Remember the kid I mentioned before, the tool who speaks even when he clearly has nothing to say? Well, he is in fine form. For example, just today the subject of "gender" versus "sex" came up, and the instructor asked us to define what we thought the different implications of using either term were. Well, Larry, (you know how much I like to give them names), raised his acne-covered hand and declared, post-nasally, "To put it in really crude and basic terms, 'gender' refers to between your ears and 'sex' refers to between your legs." This was followed by complete silence, which is notable because, as a small literature class led by a grad student, the room is usually pretty animated. And, Grad Student earned her paycheck/stipend/cafeteria voucher by moving us past this little comment with a scholarly and measured, "Oooookay...anyone else?"

Anyway, suffice it to say, Larry is getting on everyone's nerves, but no one more than Bruce, the chatty, effeminate best friend of Bumper Sticker Girl. Now, Bruce indeed has valuable comments to make, and at first I thought I'd like him. But just as a yin needs its yang to fully realize itself, Bruce's true colors didn't fly until he was faced with Larry. And it's really a shame that they're at odds, because they're actually so very much alike -- each completely preoccupied with proving how smart he is. But while Larry would lecture to a brick wall just to hear himself speak, Bruce has made it his mission in life, (or at least his mission in class), to disagree with everything Larry says, and it's excruciatingly entertaining.

See, #14 on the list of 59 things I've learned in life so far is this: Even complete tools are right sometimes, and arguing with them when that happens is like holding up a mirror to your own douchebagginess so that you are twice the asshole. But Bruce clearly hasn't yet had this realization.

I don't blame the guy for trying, honestly. I mean, this Larry kid is seriously horrible, and should rightfully be taken down a peg. But the thing is, if you just let the schmuck talk, he'll destroy himself -- he's a self-fulfilling prophesy of moronicity. And to pick "intellectual" fights with him just draws it out more. Today, it might as well have gone like this:

LARRY: It's really raining out there.

BRUCE: I have to disagree with that.

TEACHER/PATSY: Why's that, Bruce?

BRUCE: Well, "really" is a relative term. To the people of India, the summer monsoon season surely encompasses the term "really raining" far more accurately and graphically than this mid-winter Philadelphia drizzle.

And that's the point where I stab myself in the eye with my pen.

But at least it's a show. The only real problem is that I've clearly put myself on the anti-Larry team with my not-so-subtle facial expressions when he says something stupid, (can your eyebrows be judgmental? Because if they can, mine are going straight to hell), and so now Bruce looks to me for reassurance when he argues with him. And as much as I can't stand pimply, phlegmy Larry, I do have to give him credit when it's due. After all, I've been that kid in class who everyone laughed at because they were too damn happy with their own vocabulary, and I guess some part of me identifies with Larry's "struggle."

Well, whatever. Bruce doesn't really need me on his side, anyway...he has Bumper Sticker Girl. They can just sit there and be wrong together. Which means that, again, I'm right and alone. Which is exactly where I like to be.

one day, bumper stickers shall no longer divide us

I believe I've mentioned my interest in bumper stickers before. At times, the back of my car has been positively covered in them, but I find that bumper stickers tap into one of my great internal conflicts: The Desire to Piss Off Republicans vs. The Desire to Avoid Disapproval. Therefore, the most inflammatory statements that I've slapped on my fender have only remained there for short periods of time, as constantly looking in the rearview mirror to see if your fellow drivers are sneering at you because you tell them "If You're Against Abortion, Have a Vasectomy" is kind of distracting. And the police don't really buy "political persecution" as an acceptable excuse for running into a tree. Believe me.

Of course, this quasi-reluctance to agitate was back in my misspent youth, in a pre-9/11, pre-G.W. Bush, pre-Iraq disaster world, when my righteous liberal anger often had nothing real to anchor itself to. Now, though, I wouldn't have any problem proclaiming "Regime Change Begins At Home" or "I Love My Country, But I Fear My Government", because these thing are pretty hard to dispute in 2006 America, and I've also gained a wee bit of self-confidence since I was 17. So I would put these sentiments on my bumper now, except that these days I have a much nicer car. It's really a shame when your ideals clash with your ride.

Anyway, political statements aside, I'm always on the lookout for funny or thought-provoking bumper statements. And I will never cease to be confused by those stickers which people have gone out of their way to place on their cars -- risking paint damage and an altered fender-aesthetic -- but don't really seem have a point to them. That's why I just can't get the sticker I saw yesterday out of my head.

On an otherwise un-sloganed car, driven by a very normal looking young lady, was a simple sticker stating "Someone I Love Was Murdered."

Um, okay. That's a shame, I'm really sorry to hear it. But, uh, why is it on your car? Is it supposed to make me think twice about murder? Am I supposed to look at it and say, "Well, I was about to bash some guy's head in just for the hell of it, but then I thought about that bumper sticker and I decided not to, as it appears that murder is actually wrong and hurtful."

Do you think it was a cheaper, ready-made version of those window decal dedications people put up in honor of someone who's died? I don't really understand those things, either, but at least they're thought-out and personalized. Maybe this woman wants people to tap on her window and ask her about the sticker, so she can tell the story of her deceased loved one and therefore honor their memory. I don't know, but it did get me thinking and I suppose that was the whole point.

Anyway, yesterday morning I got to my class a little early and was talking with a couple of other students, and I mentioned the sticker to them. This one girl, who seems perfectly nice and intelligent and everything, responded by saying of the person driving the car, (who I hadn't described at all), "Were they also wearing colors?"

Colors. As in gang colors. Yeah.

Clearly, she assumed I had seen this car in the city (which I hadn't) and therefore the driver must have been in a gang, because who else gets murdered? I was really annoyed. I mean, I get it, little girl -- you're young and white and go to Penn, which probably means that you come from something of a privileged background. And I get that, while attending this school, you are likely living in West Philadelphia, (albeit the safest, most cloistered part of West Philadelphia), and that probably scares the WASP-y shit out of you on a daily basis. But I kind of think that assuming someone's a Crip because they know a murdered person just reinforces why the people who live in the rest of West Philly think Penn students are stuck-up assholes, which in turn makes you feel uncomfortable when you walk down the street in your $200 jeans and people look at you funny.

But I didn't call her on it. Why? Well, for the same reason I don't put provocative bumper stickers on my car anymore -- I just don't want to fight. I want to hate you in my head, so you can't say anything mean back to me. Some may call this cowardice...I prefer to think of it as "choosing my battles." It's all about self-preservation people, and if I could find a bumper sticker that said "Ask Me About my Inner Loathing...Or Rather, Don't" I'd slap that puppy on the back of my car in a second.

reason #46 why my life is okay

You know, there are a lot of things you can do to cheer to yourself up when you're feeling like a loser.

• You can eat a big bowl of ice cream while watching Judge Judy, (admittedly this seems like something a loser might do, but it's not).
• You can take a walk around the neighborhood, pausing to giggle at the children, pet the puppies and literally smell the flowers, (which the puppies have probably just peed on, but go with it).
• If you have the right kind of mom, you can call her and listen while she rattles off the reasons why you are not, in fact, a loser, (these may or may not include Magnificent Hair and Good Taste in Movies).
• You can compare yourself to someone who is -- objectively, inarguably, empirically proven to be -- a loooooooooooooooser.

With that in mind, please join me in bolstering my self-esteem and validating the choices I've made in life by watching this video of Kevin Federline rocking out to his new single, PopoZao, (which is, I believe, Portuguese for "compared to me, you're a genius with clearly defined goals and intrinsic value as a human being.")

And yes, Kevin Federline is putting out an album. And no, that is not unfair. If we didn't get to make fun of him it would be unfair, but there are cameras with film in them, so there is justice after all.

Now watch the video already.

Slowly, yet surely, the dream is dying

My enrollment in Music Theory has gone the way of the dodo and my ability to see my feet. She's gone, ladies and gentlemen, and there ain't no bringing her back.

I knew it was going to be hard. I knew that my lack of a musical background was going to count against me, but I didn't think it would be a disqualifier, (especially since they tell you on the first day of class that you need no prior knowledge). The first few readings and assignments were difficult, but I can count to 8 so they weren't impossible, and besides, most of this crap boils down to memorization, right?

Wrong.

See, when I got to the part where I had to identify notes by ear, that's when the harmonious shit hit the melodic fan. I kind of have this rule for myself: If you spend the entire class period desperately trying not to cry/shake/vomit, and then you go home and become physically distraught over your lack of faculty with the subject, and then this in turn not only finally does make you cry but also causes you to scream new and improved combination curse words like "shitdamnfucker" and "motherdickass" and pound on your computer hard enough for it to shut itself off in fear, well, then, it's time to drop the class.

As you know, though, I also dropped the Creative Writing class and I can't add it back. So now I'm down to one class, too much free time, and a familiar and devastating sense of failure. I suppose I could look on the bright side, as in: "Now I have the time to...
... write that novel!"
...lose dozens of pounds!"
...put a new roof on my house!"

In reality, though, what it most likely means is: "Now I have the time to...
...watch General Hospital!"
...watch Days of Our Lives!"
...watch my life pass me by!"

Ouch.

So, this is just the way it worked out. I should have kept the writing class until I had figured out that I just wasn't going to be able to cut it in Music Theory, but as a result of poor planning and unrealistic optimism that the latter would surely get easier, I didn't.

And yes, I understand that, objectively speaking, one class is still better than taking none at all, but my brain is hard-wired to think in all-or-nothing terms so I'm feeling like this is pointless.

But don't worry -- you're all still invited to my graduation party on June 10, 2011. It's a Friday. Save the date.

written off

Right now, I am "supposed" to be reading my Music Theory assignment, but I just popped a blood vessel so I though I'd better take a break.

Well, my friends, the class count has gone down by one. I have dropped one of my English classes -- the Creative Writing. I know, I know, it's the only one I really liked, but taking three classes, plus working, plus my abundant extra-curricular activities, (horseback riding, Hebrew school), was just too much for my easily-frazzled ass to handle. And, for reasons too boring to go into detail on, dropping the writing class made the most sense.

I am sad about it, though, as it had the most interesting cast of characters, (no pun intended...okay, it was totally intended), and the teacher was amazing, (check out her website -- she's like a legitimately literary Oprah). And I can't say I don't feel a little defeated. But, I suppose the old adage is true: Better to Succeed at Two Classes Than Be Driven to Murder-Suicide By Three.

Anyway, at least American Idol is back on. Thank God for small blessings in the form of square-headed, man-boobed British "judges." And this girl, too.

Okay, back to harmonic intervals. Low-down, dirty harmonic intervals.

Theoretically, I'm screwed

I think my lifetime of academic bullshitting may be catching up with me.

First of all, I realize that I never updated my school plan since the first post I wrote about it, so just to let you know, (and I think most of you already do), I ultimately decided to remain at work part-time and attend school part-time. Which leaves me with three classes; two are English classes, (my major), and the third is Music Theory, which actually satisfies the math-like "Formal Reasoning and Analysis" requirement I must meet in order to get a degree.

I chose Music Theory because I suck at math like no one has ever sucked at math in the history of math-sucking time. The other choices for "Formal Reasoning and Analysis" were, essentially, Calculus and Statistics, and they weren't really an option. Thus, after some informal reasoning and analysis of my own (hardy har har) I concluded that, based on the fact that I sing along to the radio while driving, I was totally qualified to breeze through Music Theory.

Well, I've been to two classes so far, and read the first chapter of the textbook, and, um...I'm going to die.

There is a damn good reason this class satisfies the math-y requirement. Actually, it should also satisfy the Foreign Language and Rocket Science requirements, since when I look at the page, it appears to be written in Hukkabrip-9, which, as we all know, is the dialect of southwestern Pluto. (And yes, Penn does have a Rocket Science requirement. They're very committed to the idea of a well-rounded education).

Anyway, I have decided that if I can get a C in this class, it will be a hard-won victory, (and I'm not the kind of nerd usually satisfied with a C). But it just makes me realize how much I've fudged in my life so far.

See, at various points throughout my childhood and early adolescence, I took lessons in the following instruments: Piano, clarinet (shut up), guitar and voice. And yet, I have no idea how to read music. None. I never bothered to learn. I just hobbled along over the years, never committed to the idea of learning to play music as much as I was committed to the idea of one day being a rock star. Seems like neither angle really panned out, and now here I am, sweating through Music Theory.

There are plenty of other things I never bothered to learn, either, and they haven't really been a problem. For instance, I honestly don't know my multiplication tables, but when do I not have a calculator? I mean, there's even one in my cell phone. Also, I don't really know too much about proper grammar and punctuation -- I've always just fallen back on my writing ability to pull me through. The sad thing is, these methods work. It's a Spell Check world, my friends, and I am purfektly happee to live in it.

So, as for Music Theory, I still say it's better than Calculus. I'll just have to study my ass off, complain a lot and never forget that Paul McCartney can't read music, either, so that rock star thing might just work out after all.

Oh, Dover Post, what would we do without you?

Do click to enlarge -- you won't be sorry. Well, actually, you probably will. I've taken the liberty of underlining my favorite parts.

Also, here's a little gift from another glorious local paper, The Leader and State Register, (which was clearly formed when the time-honored Leader merged with the acclaimed State Register). I find the combination of poop, Wal-Mart and grass-roots community activism irresistible:

Day One

Oh.




My.




Fucking.




God.




It has begun. School, that is, in all its pounding-the-unforgiving-West-Philly-pavement glory. It was a long-ass day, people, begun with over an hour of sitting in rush-hour traffic to get to campus, and then parking in a commuter lot located in some godforsaken back alley behind the Underwater Basketweaving/Eastern Philosophy building, and then attending classes, and in between, running to the three different bookstores where my texts were allegedly located, only to find out half of them were on backorder. And then, of course, coming home and weeping for my very soul.

Yes, it was a long-ass day, indeed.

But I did realize a few things that I've learned in my 8-plus years of sporadic, often half-assed college attendance that may possibly help me get through it this time around:

1. I know I'm smart, and I don't give a shit if anyone else knows it. I do not need to make useless comments every time there's a pause in the lecture just so everyone remembers I'm there, and that I have functioning vocal chords, and that I got into Penn for a reason, motherfucker. This kid in my lit class? He hasn't quite figured any of that out yet. And perhaps I'm just projecting my own virtually instant hatred of him onto others, but I think everyone else thinks he's a tool, too. He must be destroyed.

2. I also know I'm crazy, but I would prefer to keep it to myself. That woman from my creative writing class? She didn't get the memo. As an "older" student myself, I understand the desire to explain one's presence to the youngins when the professor does that obligatory "go around the room and tell everyone your major and something interesting about you" crap. I get that she feels preemptively alienated because she is clearly not 19 years old. But the thing is, Crazy Lady, you may actually be alienating yourself by doing the following:
A: Painting your nails in the hallway before class
B: Eating corn chips throughout the three-hour class period
C: Freely offering that not only are you in your mid-thirties, (no big deal), and that you already have a Master's degree, (interesting), but that you're also out of work due to a chronic illness, (I'm sorry to hear that), and that you just recently went through a divorce that you're having a hard time accepting, (uh...er...ha?), and that your writing interests tend to spring from Bible-readings and focus around a spiritual/mental illness theme, (actually, I have some pills that might help you).

3. I know I have a goal. At the end of this shit-smeared rainbow is the pot of gold that is a college degree from a great school. And yes, I do believe my bitterness is useful, so stop telling me to look on the bright side and enjoy myself, you perky bastard. I made it through Day One, and that's the best we can do for the moment.

More to come, dear readers. (Unless, of course, I get nostalgic for the old days and drop all my classes, deciding instead to devote the rest of the semester to my independent study project, "How Much Daytime TV Can One Person Watch Without Turning into Jell-O?")

I know, I know...

...I haven't posted in ten years. I know. I'm sorry. I love that you keep asking me to, and I realize that I'd have more 'fans' if I posted more often, but these goddamn holidays really did throw me for a loop this year, and I didn't want to write daily "fuck the world" posts. See, anger is funny when it's at least a little bit rational, but my anger lately was kind of hard to explain. Let's just say that about a week ago, I was ready to burn Santa in effigy. But I'm fine now. A little drowsy from the meds, but fine.

Not that there weren't amusing things that happened over the last few weeks. My best accomplishment? I fell on the dishwasher. You may be wondering how that is possible. I'll leave it to your imagination, but will tell you that after an ice pack and a $79 service call, everything's back to normal. The silverware basket's a little bent, but you can't turn back time.

I did come across a beautiful little nugget in the Middletown Transcript last week that I'm pleased as punch to share with you. The scan might be a little hard to read, but you can click on it to enlarge. Nevertheless, enjoy:

It's the crap-crappiest time of the year!

I realize that some of you may be expecting me to dispel the "rumors" about Mr. Nina, a.k.a. Colin Farrell, being in rehab. Well, I'm not going to dispel anything. The rumors are true. Collsy, unfortunately, has hit a rough patch. But before you go denouncing him and his lack of willpower, you should know right now that it's all my fault. See, Colin is a sensitive soul. When I'm in pain, he's in pain. And right now, we're both in a lot of pain, and Colin is self-medicating.

So Colin is off at rehab, and really, it's good we're having this time apart. We both have some shit to slog through. Colin has to tear apart his psyche, stripping his emotional makeup down to its very foundation in order to find out why he turns to drugs and alcohol to numb his pain. Whereas I have to get through Christmas.

See, one day, after I've sold the movie rights to the Great American Novel that I wrote and I have my kickass mountain home staffed with deaf-mutes who I don't actually have to talk to, I won't have to deal with this holiday bullshit. But right now, I am on the edge of sanity, baby. I say this not as a Jew but as a Social Phobic: If you people don't stop shoving, driving like idiots and wearing those fucking sweaters, I am going to lose it. I don't care if you want to wish me a Merry Christmas, just STOP SINGING ABOUT IT.

I live behind a shopping center. I am unable to travel between the outside world and my safe little home without going in and out of this shopping center and navigating my way through its Traffic Light of Death. Honestly, something must happen to one's brain chemistry upon the purchase of drastically-reduced Gap denim that causes one to think making a left turn from the right lane is perfectly acceptable. Because you know what? It's not.

And if you know me personally, I would like to apologize right now for not getting you a gift. I leave the house with good intentions. I will park far away from the store entrance. I say to myself. I will not jockey for a parking spot with that lady in the minivan who is quite possibly armed. I will enter the store with a good idea of what I'm going to buy my family member/friend/co-worker/bookie, so as not to wander around aimlessly. I will expect that the cashier will have the I.Q. of a small farm animal, and I will not become impatient with him/her/it. I will not become annoyed at the background music, instead remarking, "Gosh! That Kenny G really knows his way around an alto sax!" I will accomplish what I came to do with Zen-like calm and a loving Christmas spirit. I will not, under any circumstances, disintegrate into a ball of irrational anger and vow to remain indoors until February. But it doesn't quite work out that way, and I wind up getting so overwhelmed in the parking lot that I don't even make it into the store.

No, this year, I will celebrate the holidays the best way I know how: Alone and bitter. I'd invite you over, but, you know, I'm kind of at the height of my misanthropy right now.

As for Colin and I, don't worry, we'll be fine. We've weathered a few storms in our time together, like that whole sex tape fiasco, and the eBay debacle, and the reckless persecution of the media. We're going to come out on the other side of this stronger than ever. Right now, though, I have to figure out what to do with those 13 cases of "emergency" whiskey Colin stashed in the basement before he gets home.

Honesty is the Best (Way To Increase the Premium on Your Insurance) Policy

While not the official transcript, here's what happened in court today:

I'll begin by saying that I again find myself disappointed that life is not the TV show I desperately want it to be. Instead, as it consistently does, mundane reality has bitten me in the ass. I am not sure exactly which episode of Law and Order I thought I was walking into, but this experience was a bit less...well, let's just say it was a bit less.

First, I got lost on the way to the courthouse...excuse me, the industrial strip mall in which JP Court #15 is located, because my request to appear had the WRONG FREAKING ADDRESS on it. When I finally got there, dressed nattily in my best custom-tailored polyester suit, (okay, my only custom-tailored polyester suit), I found that instead of lawyers, the JP court is peopled mostly with ladies named Diane seeking no-contact orders from weird guys who keep showing up at her job. In the conference room/courtroom, there was just the police officer representing the state, the guy who I got in the accident with representing himself, and a judge who really thought he'd be somewhere else in his life by now.

What I didn't explain in my previous post about this matter was that there was a third car "involved" in the accident, driven by Evel Knievel's crackhead cousin Darryl Knievel, whose shitty driving set the stage for the accident, and who promptly sped away before the dust had settled. I won't rehash the tedious details of what happened, but a pretty good argument could be made that Darryl was the only one at fault -- not me, and not the guy who I wound up hitting, even though he got the ticket, which is again what he was contesting today in court. Yup, apparently, and running contrary to both my deepest-held beliefs and the title of this here blog, it wasn't about me at all. No one was even entertaining the idea that this was my fault. So I took it personally for nothing. Well, at least now I can feel bad about overreacting.

Not that I don't have an interest in this case -- if the other guy is found not guilty of improper driving, his insurance company has a pretty good shot of getting my insurance company to pay for half the damages. Because in the absence of the guy who really caused the accident, (the third car), we two innocent babes must shoulder the burden. And that's exactly what happened because my stupid ass told the truth.

I backed up the other's guy's claim that this third car cut him off and caused him to veer into my path. I know it was the right thing to do. After all, I did put my hand upon the Bible and swear to tell the truth in front of God and the Delaware State Police, and let no man put that asunder. But I must say that I felt like an ass afterward, like I could have been savvier. Like I could have used my superhuman intelligence and years of legal experience-by-proxy to outwit them all and wind up not only without any financial responsibility for the accident, but with a citation for bravery issued by the emotionally overwhelmed judge.

But no.

Instead, I just went home and changed out of that goddamn suit.

WWJJD?*

* What Would Judge Judy Do?

On Thursday, I have to go to court and I’m terrified. Not because you narc’d on my stash, silly, but to actually testify for the cops in response to a guy I got into an accident with in July.

It’s actually pretty stupid of me to be worried about going to court, given the amount of secondhand legal knowledge I have under my belt. This stems both from years of careful Judge Judy viewing and the fact that about one out of every three people I know – from family to friends to co-workers – is a dirty stinking lawyer. (It’s actually even a profession I reserve the right to possibly attempt for myself one day, and I think I’d be really good at it given my love of both arguing and money).

Besides, I’m not sure there are even going to be lawyers at this proceeding – there’s not enough at stake. What happened was that I was in a relatively minor accident where, while it was in fact my car that hit the other guy’s car, the police gave him a ticket for improper driving and not me, (he had turned right in front of me through an intersection when I had the right-of-way, and I had nowhere to go but to hit him). Anyway, his insurance company, because it’s their job, (don’t hate the player, hate the game), is contesting the ruling because they don’t want to pay for all the damage, (my faithful car, it of over 100,000 miles and countless close shaves on my part, was totaled). At first, I took the actions of the insurance company really personally. It was the first accident I had ever been in that was substantial enough to warrant the police even showing up, and I was pissed off that it happened in the first place, only to feel vindicated when the police officer gave the other guy a ticket and not me. Plus, it was a really aggravating and tense situation, as the police officer was kind of a dick, (again, it’s his job), and, up until the point where he told me he’d be ticketing the other guy, treated me like I had just run over a basket of puppies.

Anyway, my role in the whole proceeding is to be a witness for this cop, and I’m all kinds of paranoid about the whole deal. At first, it was scheduled to take place on Yom Kippur, so I asked them to move it. Not that I spent the day in temple, remorseful and starving like I should have been, but it was a question of propriety. Anyway, I started thinking that when I finally made it in to the courtroom, the opposing party would be extra mean to be because I was a Jew. You know, because my people are so underrepresented in the legal world and everything.

But the truth is that I did hit the other guy and not the other way around, and on the surface, that makes it look like I was at least partially to blame. If you look at the facts, of course, it wasn’t my fault – and that’s the police officer’s position which I am there to support – but I’m internalizing the whole issue as an attack on my character. Yup – leave it to me to make this a reason to step into a downward emotional spiral.

So, I will let you all know how it goes on Thursday. If I feel really threatened, I’ll just pretend I am Judge Judy…“On my worst day I’m smarter than you’ll ever be, Mister Slick.”

(By the way, I’ve been writing this while watching VH1’s “Big in ’05 Awards.” I mean, I’m all for pop culture self-aggrandization in the form of awards shows, but I’m having a really hard time seeing the point of this one. Although I’ve got to say, it’s pretty awesome to watch Lindsay Lohan being rightfully made fun of while she’s sitting in the audience wearing a stupid bedazzled dress. I suppose VH1 is going to really pat itself on the back for getting B-, C- and D-list celebrities to show up and not take themselves seriously, but that self-importance is one of things I actually really like about the Oscars, Emmys, etc. [I’m not saying there haven’t been films that made an impact in the world, but Jerry Maguire wasn’t one of them.] Also, doesn’t MTV already host like 14 awards shows where celebrities don’t take themselves seriously? VH1 is really grasping at straws with this one, but that’s kind of their m.o., and they also just ran a commercial for their new show, “Flavor of Love,” in which actual human women compete to win the affections of Flava Flav. I really wish I had made that up, but I in fact did not.)

Of Turkey, Windex and Hottie Potter

Happy post-Thanksgiving, people! I must say that I am thankful for you fine people, as you generously stroke my ego and tell me to post more often, which I shall attempt to do. But I'm warning you -- they can't all be gold ;)

Here's the three-step holiday wrap up:

1. Cook Thanksgiving dinner with Mother. Agree with Mother that the addition of four more people at dinner this year necessitates the preparation of four times more food, (ah, math). Food breakdown = 2 types of meat the combination of which roughly equals the weight of the dog, 2 types of potato, 4 types of vegetable, assorted bread products including stuffing, 2 varieties of cranberry sauce, EIGHT FREAKING DESSERTS, unlimited quantities of Maalox. Re-confirm source of personal obesity.

2. Assist Mother with OCD holiday cleanup. Realize that the air doesn't smell quite right until it's tinged with Pine Sol. Stop cleaning occasionally to make a turkey-and-carrot-cake sandwich. Really.

3a. Go see the new Harry Potter with Emily and Chris, one or both of whom you have seen each HP movie with so far. Fully expect that seeing a kids movie on Black Friday will be a full-fledged nightmare. Become pleasantly surprised at both the relative silence of the theater, (not counting Emily), and the disturbing increased hotness of the underage star of the movie. Although, to be fair to your non-pedophile self, realize that the director filmed the manchild in a bathtub for a reason, and at this rate we'll be seeing his wand by the end of the series. Be totally enchanted (yeah, I said it) by the movie in general, declare it the best of the HPs so far, and resolve to kick the ass of anyone who disagrees.

3b. Also, for a radical change of pace, go see Good Night and Good Luck on Saturday night with Father. Observe that old people talk waaaaaaay more than kids do in the theater. Especially when the movie is about actual events that happened in their lifetimes. For instance (spoiler alert), Movie Character expresses sadness; Father Time, who is sitting two seats down from me, says to his wife in a stage whisper "I THINK HE KILLS HIMSELF"; then, when Movie Character does indeed commit suicide, Father Time triumphantly exclaims, "SEE, I TOLD YOU!" But in all seriousness, a very good movie which makes a very good point about the the potential for the media to call politicians on their nation-damaging bullshit. And the fact that in the 50's, even babies smoked.

So now I am back at work on this Monday, and still feeling the gastro-hangover. Honestly, if I never eat stuffing again...who the hell am I kidding? I love stuffing. And turkey. And mashed potatoes. And carrot cake. And Maalox. Definitely Maalox. Deliciously creamy Maalox.

Dag!

I finally got my bloated butt back into Curves this week after a bit of an absence, which was due partly to having the flu and mostly to a fundamental distrust of movement, which itself stems directly from years under the "guidance" of the brides of Satan who taught me in elementary school gym class, (but that's a whole other story, and besides, the lawsuits are still pending so I'm not really at liberty to discuss it).

At any rate, I was richly rewarded upon my return to Curves with the opportunity to overhear what is quite possibly the best conversation yet carried out in my presence: Heather and Mary Pat discussing strippers.

See, Heather went to a bachelorette party last weekend which was co-ed, (yeah, I don't get it either), and they went to a strip club. A female strip club. You know, the kind with boobies? Why? Well, I suppose that, even though the bachelorette party is supposed to be for the ladies, the guys in the group just couldn't deal with seeing male strippers. Because, you know, seeing other men naked in anything other than a totally hetero locker-room situation might make them feel funny and then they'd be forced to confront certain feelings...but more on that in a moment.

By the way, and just so you know where I stand on the whole stripper topic, I have absolutely no problem with it. I think male strippers are hilarious, (the outfits! the shaved chests!), and as for the women....well, when I was 14 and all "I'm so serious about saving the world that you're gonna want to smack my self-righteous ass within 5 minutes of meeting it" I would have sung a different song, all about the shameful exploitation of women who are trapped in a cycle of self-abuse and blah blah blah. The older I get, though, the more I abide by a live-and-let-live policy. I truly believe that life is tough and most people are doing the best they can to get by in this cruel world, and if "getting by" involves running your ass crack up and down a pole for wadded-up dollar bills from greasy strangers, well, at least you're paying your own rent, sister.

Anyway, true to form, Mary Pat's fountain of opinions was not running dry on the topic of the strip club. But what was truly, fantastically, there-is-justice-in-this-world wonderful was when Heather started talking about this one stripper who attempted to give her a lap dance, (I say 'attempted' because Heather apparently hasn't tapped into that end of her Kinsey Scale yet and didn't accept the offer), and upon hearing this, Mary Pat's eyes widened and she wanted details, people! What was Heather wearing that night? Was she showing a lot of skin? What was the stripper wearing? What was her name? How, precisely, did she try to initiate the lap dance? What did Heather do? Did they have a conversation? What did they say? Why did the stripper single-out Heather? Oh, the stripper said Heather was sexy? Really?

And then Mary Pat ended the conversation by exclaiming "Dag! My life sure is boring!"

So, are you thinking what I'm thinking? Because I'm thinking that I've finally figured out why Mary Pat is such a negative, agitated bitch: The poor woman is nothing more than an unrealized, frustrated lesbian. No wonder she's so judgmental -- it's just a subconscious defense against others reading into her bland and outdated hairstyle and discovering the truth about her -- that she's not just some suburban mom who knows a thing or two about a thing or two, she's as queer as a two-headed goat, (which is also the name of a very popular lesbian sex toy).

Wow.

I've got to tell you, this realization has kind of rocked my world. It turns everything I've been thinking about Mary Pat on its head, and I think there's a lesson in this for us all, and that is: Don't be so quick to dislike opinionated, hateful, racist, Republican busybodies -- they're probably just gay.

Now if we could all take that into our hearts, imagine what a beautiful place our world would be.

The Miseducation of Nina

As a few of you know, I have recently made the decision to leave my job at the end of the year and return to school in order to finish my undergraduate degree. Again.

Here is the nutshell version of my higher education, in list form.

• Drop of out of high school and get a G.E.D.
• Apply to the University of Delaware for shits and giggles. Swallow foot when accepted.
• Spend 5 years at UD cycling through a variety of majors from Political Science to Psychology, eventually settling on Marijuana.
• Quit school disillusioned and really, really fat.
• Work as a clerical peon. See your life unfold before your eyes.
• Apply to the University of Pennsylvania. Through the gross incompetence of an employee in the admissions office, get accepted.
• Attend classes at Penn. Move to Philly. Pretend you are just like everyone else, except that they're younger and far better dressed. Act like you enjoy living in the city and befriending spoiled assholes. Forget everything you've learned about yourself and life in general.
• Have your 67th nervous breakdown.
• Drop your classes, move back to the suburbs and eat large quantities of dairy products.
• Return to work.
• Get everything you can possibly get out of your job, which is a great one that actually pays you to write and gives you more credit and responsibility than any dropout deserves, but can only be taken so far.
• Have 68th nervous breakdown and consider your options.
• Realize that no one's going to hand anything to you.
• Grow up. (Just a little.)

So, yeah, the end result is that I need to get this college thing done already. I am not happy about it. I hate school. I really, very much, sincerely, for very legitimate and hard to explain reasons, hate school. I know it's difficult for many people to understand that. Most people tend to say "Oh I wish I could go back to college! College was the best time of my life!" Well, those people can bite my ass. Hating school is just part of the fabric of me.

While I may hate school, I do like earning money. And, based on the tingle that goes up and down my spine when I get to ask an intern to do something at work, I really, really want some employees one day. And a cleaning service. Oh, and a Beemer. A sweet ass Beemer. But I need some degrees to accomplish this, and they won't let me into grad school on charm alone, so I have to get the B.A. first.

So that's where things stand now -- I am returning to school for entirely capitalist reasons. This has very little to do with bettering myself in the Oprah sense. I think the blogging will be pretty good when I return to school, though, since -- although I'll ironically have less free time than I do at work -- I'll have a hell of a lot more to be annoyed about which is, you know, funny.

I'll leave you for now with something I've recently learned. A little nugget of hard-earned wisdom passed from me to you...

Let's say you have to take a Spanish placement test to determine if your skill level meets your university's requirement for the degree and, if not, how much Spanish you need to take in order to accomplish that requirement. Let's say that you're a little cavalier about this placement test, based on the fact that you won an award in 8th grade for your proficiency, and that you already met the first university you attended's language requirement. Let's also say that, because of meeting that requirement and having been out of school for a couple of years, (and the fact that you haven't spoken to your friend Jimena in a really, really long time), you haven't uttered a word of Spanish in mucho tiempo. Let's say all of that is true...You might want to crack open a book before you take the placement test. At least watch a few hours of Telemundo. Order a burrito in the language of its origin. Do something. Do not, under any circumstances, just sit down on your couch, put the TV on in the background, and breeze through the fucker like there's no possibility that you'll score so low your ass will get bumped down to ELEMENTARY MOTHERFUCKING SPANISH and that you'll have to take three courses to reach the requirement. Seriously, write this down. Es muy importante.

But do I care? Yes. Yes I do.

This is the third time I'm writing this post. The first two attempts were, of course, brilliantly hilarious, (hilariously brilliant?), but I've been having some router issues and keep losing my internet connection, resulting in those posts being lost forever to the cyber graveyard. It's a shame, really, because it was some of my best work. Ah, delusion.

At any rate, I just got off the phone with another one of my Verizon boyfriends, and hopefully, everything's hunky dory now.

Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should tell you that my brain isn't really functioning right now due to excessive consumption of refined sugar. This is due to two factors:

1. A gross miscalculation in the number of trick-or-treaters I'd get last night for Halloween and the resulting mountain of leftover candy it is now my duty as an American to eat by myself
2. I have a mild case of the flu, and my doctor told me it's dehydrating my intestines (yum!) and that I need to drink nothing but Gatorade for the next 48 hours in order to restore the delicate balance of electrolytes and bile to my system

Okay, so this post was originally about But Can They Sing?, a personal favor to me by VH1. See, some executive over at the network crawled inside my dreams and found out that I would very much welcome a show where a group of "celebrities" so obscure that even a pop-culture junkie such as myself hadn't heard of half of them would be given microphones and instructed to sing and compete with each other for the votes of the television audience, (kind of like American Idol with more cosmetic surgery, not counting Paula Abdul).

The first episode aired on Sunday, and I was very much looking forward to it. See, being sick, I have been watching far more than the recommended daily allowance of shitty television. (For instance, while I am normally a fierce Judge Judy loyalist, I have lately been faced with so few daytime viewing options that I have been forced to sit in the courtrooms of the obnoxious Judge Mathis, the affable Judge Larry Joe, the shrill Judge Mayblean and the sassy Judge Milian). Anyway, VH1 has also been playing its latest installment of their I Love the 80's series on a loop, and while I do love me some Hal Sparks, enough is enough. So I was excited when But Can They Sing? came along.

But I was faced with a dilemma. At 10pm on Sunday, at the same time that BCTS? was airing, a new episode of Intervention was up over on A & E. Now, I love that show for a very different reason than I love shows like BCTS? I love Intervention because it is actually good television. It's the best of reality TV, I think, because instead of trying to create artificial drama, (by, say, putting a bunch of stupid and attractive twentysomethings in a house and liquoring them up), it merely observes the inherent drama of substance abuse and its repercussions, which are quite moving and truly can't-look-away compelling. So, I flipped back and forth between Intervention and BCTS? and definitely spent more time watching the former.

I was really only interested in two of the "singers," though. The first was Bai Ling. Now, those of us who read the Fug know La Ling as an alleged "actress" who wears the most hideously comical, occasionally genital-revealing outfits to every red carpet event her agent manages to get her invited to. I must say that Bai didn't disappoint, in that she was both a phenomenally bad singer, (her voice is freakishly low which only furthers my theory that she's a Chinese trannie), and her outfit was glorious. She sang "Like a Virgin" in a huge poufy red dress, writhing around on the floor and revealing at the end of her performance that the skirt was detachable! And, truly, what could be more redundant than Bai Ling in a detachable skirt?

The other person on the show I was interested in was Carmine Gotti...excuse me, Carmine Gotti Agnello. I don't know why he now wants to be associated with his less-famously-named father, (who is barely mentioned on Growing Up Gotti), especially since Carmine's bio on the VH1 site sees fit to tell us that his father is "a made member of the Gambino crime family who is currently doing time for arson and racketeering." HOT!! Anyway, I love to hate the Gotti boys, with their plastic hair and unintelligible diction. They're like all those asshole kids who hang out at the mall except, you know, connected. Anyway, I'm sorry to say that I only caught the last few seconds of Carmine's rendition of "Ride With Me," but it was enough to reaffirm my faith in humanity in that he sucked. Believe me, if that kid wound up having some sort of discernible talent, I'd have to reevaluate my entire worldview.

At the VH1 site, you can vote for your favorite. I'm voting for Bai, because I need to see her clothes every week. I hope this Sunday she does "I Believe I Can Fly" in a pair of breakaway pants. I don't know why that makes sense, but it does.

You must respect my authoritah! Please?

So, I kind of reached a personal milestone this week and I wanted to share it with you.

I received my very first speeding ticket! Thank you very much!

I know what you're thinking. If you've ever been in a car with me, you're thinking, "How the hell did that Menace to Pedestrians and Small Animals ever go ten years on the road without a moving violation?" And the answer to that question, my friends, is Dumb Luck. Speed-wise, I drive like a maniac and I'm proud of it. People who drive slower than me are idiots. People who drive faster than me are reckless. I am perfect.

I knew, though, that the crazy mixed-up rules of the road were in conflict with my driving philosophy, and that it was only a matter of time before Johnny Law caught up with me. I always imagined it -- like I imagine so much else in my life -- like a shitty, hacky movie, with a tall police officer in a giant hat and aviator sunglasses slowly ambling up to my car and asking me, in a thick Southern accent, if I had any idea why he'd pulled me over?

But it was not to be. I was caught in the most shameful way a Proud Speeder such as myself could get caught: In a speed trap.

There is no glory in a speed trap. Getting caught in a speed trap doesn't mean you're some sexy Rebel Without a Cause, throwing caution to the wind, driving fast with no place to go and no one to answer to. No, getting caught in a speed trap just means you're unlucky. It means you weren't even necessarily going any faster than anyone else, you just failed to notice that unmarked Crown Victoria parked on the median of I-95. It means you don't even get pulled over by yourself, so that those who pass you by on the side of the road can remark, "Fucking pigs!" at the injustice of such a hot chick in such a hotter car getting nabbed by the popo. No, instead you're pulled over in a group, so that those who pass you by can remark, "Ooh, I better slow down the next time I drive this stretch of road, as they set up speed traps here." Yawn.

And things did not get any better when Officer Mild-n-Polite walked up to my window and informed me that I'd been going 73 in a 55, but he'd only write me up for going 64, because the penalty was less, and please be careful when pulling back out onto the road, and have a nice day. That's so nice! Damnit! I don't want to like you, Mr. Policeman, I want to righteously hate you for cramping my wild and crazy style! I want to tell you that you may have clocked me at 73, but that must have been before I accelerated because I go 73 in my driveway, motherfucker! But no.

So yeah, that was my first speeding ticket. It was boring. It's not even really a story. But I told it to you anyway, because I'm still a little bit proud of getting the ticket, even though I didn't spend the night in the slammer, like I'd always dreamed. Oh well.