Saturday, September 24, 2005

Whatever Did We, As a Nation, Do Before Oprah?

Writers didn't feel relevant, for one.

Praise God, Oprah has come to rescue the entirety of American literature by re-instituting contemporary
authors into her galactically important book club at the behest of a petition circulated by female authors.
Quoth the
New York Slimes:

"Meg Wolitzer, a novelist who was one of the early signers of the petition, said Ms. Winfrey's
effect on authors, particularly novelists, 'was to make us feel relevant,' whether they were chosen
for the club or not."

I wish I could be more like Meg, and hang the entirety of my self-esteem upon Oprah's say-so. It would take a
lot of pressure off of actually, you know, doing stuff. I initially formed a tendril of worry of what will
happen to Meg when Oprah steps down in 2007, but then I realized that her departure from the airwaves
will cause the Earth to hurl from its orbit and crash into the sun anyway, so she's covered.

What is this national obsessing with "feeling relevant"? The best things in life are irrelevant. Consider the
little pile of dark chocolate M&M's currently sitting at my elbow--they're irrelevant, I suppose, but I feel
great love for them and their delightful, happy candy shells. I should be perfectly content to be considered
irrelevant, as long as I looked good doing it.

pick me, Oprah, pick me at:

Friday, September 23, 2005

Just asking

I've had a couple emails over the past few days asking if I was thinking (NEVER) of collecting some of these here posts into a self-published book. I have never really considered this a viable option, as 1) the only people who would buy it would be you and my mother 2) you can already read everything for free by clicking on the archives. I mean, I would provide footnotes and introductions for everything to jazz it up a little, but still. If you're THAT interested, you've read everything already.

Anyway. How many of you, if I did this, would actually pay $10.95 to have me in carryable form? Just asking.

no, really at:

Thursday, September 22, 2005

More Wheels

I did that thing tonight. You know? That thing? Where you fall asleep? And you wake up? And it's 7:58? And you shoot out of bed in a panic? And start running around to get in the shower since you're late for work? And then suddenly stop and wonder why it's so dark? And then you realize that it is in fact 7:58 PM, and you are a gigantic douche? That's what I did.

I'm still having a better day than the JetBlue PR department. Oh, this was quite The Event here at the University of Airplanes last night. The students all glommed around the campus TV sets, and it was all anybody was talking about today, because a plane landing? PARTY!!

Reports are trickling out that the passengers were watching Fox News onboard while the landing was taking place, which... yeah. Because the passenger jet experience isn't enjoyable enough in and of itself, JetBlue sees to it that you have the capability to experience your own demise in widescreen format.

I want to believe this was a total coincidence, but one of my students wore a tshirt trumpeting JetBlue's incredibly awesome accident record to class today. "We've got your back," it said. But, apparently, not your nose gear.

Off to check the weather now. I have free passes to a water park over the weekend, and we've been getting RitaRain all day. Since it's all about me, it's very important that the hurricane move on to Texas and commence the destruction so's I can go down the twisty slide.

priorities at:

Wednesday, September 21, 2005


All three major cable news networks dumped Hurricane Rita (and she is PISSED) for about an hour to follow the emergency landing of a JetBlue plane with its landing gear swung 90 degrees in the wrong direction. There's only one thing worse than actually being on a plane that's circling endlessly, and that is Larry King narrating it.

Haven't mocked Larry for a while at:

I been busy


Part I

We decided to go swimming the night we arrived, and trotted over to the pool to check things out ahead of time, because our hosts live in an apartment and there were weird red-headed mutant ducks hanging around the complex pond that scared me. So Josh The Pilot and I verified that the pool was open—there was another couple hanging around-- and duck-free, and, best of all, marked by fountain spigots shaped like the heads of lions. Water poured from the mouths of the lions into the pool and the hot tub, and I thought it was very fine, this idea of swimming in recirculated lion spit.

There are worse things in which to swim. For example, when we returned after changing into our swimsuits, the other couple we had seen there was now having intercourse against the edge of the hot tub. You’d think this would wave us off, but no, I didn’t want to feel stupider than I already did by admitting that I’d seen what I’d seen, so I stuck with my original level of uncomfortableness and marched to the pool, dragging Josh The Pilot with me. Perhaps this could become a teachable moment.

And then: The teenagers. A great swarm of them rose up from behind the hedges, and their idea of a good time on a Saturday night was to sit in a large pack in front of the complex clubhouse, sheathed in scraps of denim and calling one another from two feet away on their cell phones. Flip-flops were thrown. I aged.

The young hormones departed; we edged towards the hot tub. The other couple asked permission to smoke. I told them I didn’t mind, seeing as sex in public wasn’t much good without a nice Kool to top it off. If you want a classy evening, you have to go the whole nine.

Eventually the other couple drifted off too, and the water got cold. So we stood up, which must have activated some sort of silent alarm, because that is when the cops appeared.

I mean, it was the county sheriff. “Pool’s closed,” he announced.

“Well, that’s quite the coincidence,” I said brightly. “We were just leaving.”

“It closed at sundown,” he said. “The owners are very serious about it.” And you could really tell they were very serious, judging by the non-padlocked pool gates and the lack of posted hours and the roaring hum of the hot tub heater.

“You live here?”

We shook our heads, and, because we were very very legitimate people, I said, “Yes, we’re the guests of Mr. and Mrs… um… um…I don’t know the last name” which was mitigated by Josh The Pilot’s helpful addition of, “They live right over… I can’t remember the number, but yeah, it’s right over there.” He then made a grand sweeping gesture that encompassed maybe eight buildings’ worth of apartments.

Then the notebook came out. “You have ID?”

Yes, because the first thing I pick up on my way out the door to the pool is my library card and proof of insurance.

“Full name and date of birth?”

We told him, and I aged some more, and then he actually got on the little radio and called our names in. He actually did the whole last-name-first thing, and for the first time in front of my back I was refered to as “white female,” which was actually a melanin upgrade, because if you are going to arrest me, you are also going to have to impound the sunblock I brought along at 10:30 at night.

Well, Josh the Pilot wasn’t on the grid, and I guess my parole officer took care of the most recent narcotics trafficking charges, because he asked us if anybody else had been around. We then described the teenagers and the other couple, who, I swear, were totally here like ten seconds ago. It was absolutely the most perjurous-sounding thing I have ever heard, and it was coming out of my mouth, to a person with the keys to a squad car.

Then the backup showed up. He’d called backup. Because nothing spells “homicidal crime spree” like a freelance writer and a former male cheerleader whose combined height is maybe eleven feet.

They let us go. Whether it was The Rack, or the testimony of the lions, they let us go.

But the ducks were watching. They... know things.

on probation at:


How are we doing on our weekend plans, everyone? Consider courting arrest.

This is what Josh The Pilot and I did over Labor Day. He took me downstate to meet his cousins for the very first time over the weekend, and let us begin with the announcement that what you need to do when you’re trying to impress your SO’s family when you meet them for the very first time over a three-day weekend is to not bring any bras.

I wore a built-in-bra tank top for the drive down, so I had nothing else for support, nothing at all, except a bikini top, which was jet black and tied at the back and the neck. Josh The Pilot suggested that I wear this in place of an actual bra when I pulled him into the bathroom for a sidebar.

“With a white t-shirt?” I hissed. To church?”

As it happened, we spent the day by the pool, so I got away with it, but what if we had been in, like, Green Bay? Another really good bra-related thing to do is substitute a bikini top which ties at the back and the neck and press this up against a car seat for two and a half hours. That is just magical.

I need to go to class and warp the young some more, but I’ll be back to finish things up on my office hours. You see how well their tuition money is used.

YES I’m wearing a bra at:

*double blink*

Many thanks to Amy the Reader, as well as the ever-generous Anonymous. Wow. You guys rock with the rocking out there.

awesome readers, aw yeah! at:

Monday, September 19, 2005

Complete and Total Inability To Cook UPDATE

One of my students wrote a process description on making spaghetti, and he suggested that the cook not break the spaghetti in half. I’ve always broken the spaghetti in half, because that’s the way my mommy makes spaghetti, and as every girl knows, the way your mommy does anything kitchen-related is beyond dispute. But I figured, hey, we’re German, perhaps our spaghetti techniques could use some fine-tuning. So I tried not breaking the spaghetti, and while it wasn’t nearly as much fun, nobody died, much, so I kept doing it, and now I’ve made the pasta burst into flames.

Turns out not breaking the pasta in half doesn’t work so well if you don’t take it out of the box first. You pretty much have to take it out of the box and carefully place it in the pot, avoiding all MGM musical–style flourishes, because if you don’t, the pasta will stick to the burner and exit the earth in a tall orange flame of goodbye. It’s impressive, but not delicious.

Also, a certain campus very nearby the Blonde Bachelorette Pad, Northern Edition, which shall remain nameless is sponsoring “Domestic Violence Awareness Week,” which culminates in… a game of dodgeball.


right then at:


Many MANY thanks to Janet the Reader and Robert the Reader, who as far as I know are not related other than the fact that they just very kindly hit the BlondeChampagne Tip Jar. You'll be happy to know you're helping to finance my bridesmaid's dress for Carah the BFFE's wedding in October. The hilarity ensuing from me attempting to navigate a strapless dress will, I'm sure, will more than get you your money's worth.

Oh, you guys rock.

you can rock too! at:

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