BPW's foray into edutainment

I think it's safe to say that I have a fair amount of time to kill. I do work what seems like all the freaking time, but after work, well, there's not a whole lot going on for BPW. A year ago, I was the only person I knew with a significant otro; now, I'm the only single person I know. It's not as much fun as it sounds. I keep trying to figure out if this is some kind of karmic thing: was I too happy when I was with BISL? Did I severely annoy those around me? I really don't remember gushing about our happy, it's-never-going-to-end-because-we're-meant-to-be-together relationship all that much. It's no matter now; all I know is that I kayak whenever I can, read all the time, and then dread the times when it's too dark/rainy/hurricaney to kayak or when my contacts are too dry for reading. When those times come, it usually means that I have not a damn thing to do.

This boredom can only lead to one horrific end: another blog. I've not shared much regarding one of my prime interests -- bugs, namely moths and butterflies -- since I started little ol' Malachite here (which, by the way, is in reference to my favorite butterfly, not the mineral, lest you think I have a passing interest in earth science. In fact, Geology was the only class in college that I outright forgot to go to. I would be sitting at dinner and think,"I feel like I should be somewhere right now," and then the next day I would vaguely recall a giant lecture hall on the other side of campus that I had been to once or twice. This happened most weeks of that semester.). I've feared that dropping a butterfly post in would cause me to veer hopelessly off track and this blog would devolve into one discussing the minutiae of brush-footed butterflies (oooh! One is sitting next to me on my porch as I write this! Must...stop...looking...at...it, if I want to finish this post...). I like having this area to write about topics other than arthropods, but it has become very clear to me that I need an area for the small and spineless in my life.

So, if you have time, journey on over to Lepidoptera Lady (yeah, I'm not the biggest fan of that name, either. I created it on the fly. Har, har, I'm funny.). It's also a place for me to stick my oodles of butterfly and moth pictures, which currently reside on CDs around my office. If you stop by, you might accidentally learn something (completely useless).

In other news, I restored order to the universe today. One of my interns gave me a thank you note this week with a gift card to Barnes & Noble (we know how I feel about books; really, a very sweet thing for her to do). This intern is a young female who works in the environmental field. On her pretty little Acura, she has a "Conserve Wildlife" license plate...and a Dubya 2004 sticker. That she's a young female voting for Bush is distressing enough, but that she's a Bush voter who calls herself an evironmentalist upsets me. Yes, fossil fuel reliance, drilling in national wildlife refuges, and ignoring global warming are all hallmarks of the conservation movement.

So, to undo this madness, I used her gift card to buy Al Franken's LIES and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right. If she knew her hard-earned cash were going to support something so sinister, her knickers would most definitely be in a twist. But something had to be done -- there can't be people running around willy nilly making a career out of something they don't remotely believe in! I'm sure she's using the rest of her salary from the nature center to buy Ann Coulter books and "W Stands for Women" bumper stickers and mugs. This absurdity has to end somewhere, and today it did, with me and the Barnes & Noble check-out clerk. We can all sleep a little easier tonight -- and you have me to thank.

For your entertainment

If you're into femoribilia as much as I am (glamour guides from the 50s, etc.), you've got to read Pink Think by Lynn Peril. I read 40 pages in a crowded bar on margarita pitcher night on Wednesday, not only because I'm extremely cool, but also because the book is that good. A fun sidebar -- a nugget, if you will -- from the book, offering actual definitions of terms from sex education books of the 1940s - 1960s:

According to the Experts: A Glossary

hermaphrodite "A female bisexual" (Lois Pemberton, The Stork Didn't Bring You, 1948)

homosexual "A bad boy or bad man who wants to play with the penis of another boy just to get the pleasure out of doing it" (Father Francis Filas, audio recording, Sex Education of Children, 1964)

masturbation "A tyrant that robs its [female] victims of the incentives and radiant energy for worthy accomplishments. ... Oftentimes the remedy for this situation consists of a minor surgical operation spoken of as circumcision." (Harold Shyrock, M.D., On Becoming Sweethearts, 1951)

orgasm (male) "Takes place shortly after the penis enters the vagina" (Pemberton)

orgasm (female) "No more essential for conception than a mink coat or a lipstick" (Maxine Davis, Sex and the Adolescent, 1958)

penis "The muscular organ through which [boys] urinate" (Pemberton)

sex "Works only in marriage" (Fr. Filas)

testicles "Hang in a pouchy sac ... one slightly above the other for your comfort and convenience" (Pemberton)

vagina "The female receptacle" (Fr. Filas)

Roughin' it

It's been a weird week. To summarize:

Sunday Near-death experience while kayaking on the Estero River. I was out on the Calusa Blueway Paddling "Trail." To me "trail" implies that a path is designated as such, you know, with markers, signs, or the like. I did my duty -- I had two maps, one of the "trail" and one of the river, provided by the park ranger at Koreshan (to be fair, he did tell me that Gilligan and the Skipper used the same map. If that's the case, why not, oh, I don't know -- make a new map?). Both of these maps got me lost twice; the fact that there was not a single marker on the trail didn't help. Once I finally reached the bay, I was spit out into a busy boat channel. So, I paddled along the mangroves, stalked some pelicans (which are easily startled, as my photo demonstrates), and followed a group (a pod? a school? a gang?) of dolphins. Lovely day, right? It was lovely until I headed back up river and encountered a gang (a group? a pod? a school?) of jet skiers. There were no fewer than 20 of them and they did not slow down at all, for anyone. Oh god, it was like getting stuck on one of those water rides at an amusement park -- you know, it's fun for the first minute or two, but then you wonder whether you're going to get out alive. After I got past them, a raging thunderstormed popped out of the clear blue. I was paddling straight into the rain; not only was it filling my boat, but it was washing sunblock into my eyes, which, in turn, decided that they didn't want to hold onto my contact lenses any more. Great fun. I did get a sweet workout, though, and wasn't at all sweaty afterward. Shivering and concerned about hypothermia, yes -- but sweat-free.

Monday Beloved naturalist, The Bird Nerd, announces that she's moving to Ohio. This is a major bummer because she's a cool chick and we're breaking up the best naturalist staff we've ever had. Plus, of all places to move, why, god, why Ohio? People leave Ohio for Florida; they don't go there by choice. I bought a laptop to console myself.

Tuesday K., the other naturalist who is my best friend here, is in a foul mood, as she often is on Tuesday mornings (these are her Mondays). Today the mood is so foul that I cannot say or do anything right, at least not without getting some serious edge from her. Argh, it's a rough thing working in an office full of women; not only are we intimately familiar with each other's cycles (for example, "K. must be on her period because I'm seriously starting to break out"), but there's also a fair amount of chatter that goes on. I got to hear today,"oh, she's nice as pie to me, but she gets nasty when you're in the room." Isn't that sweet? And the thing is -- the thing that has frustrated me with every female friend I've ever had -- is that I don't know what happened. Today, I said "good morning" as I always do, like everything is normal, which as far as I know, it is, and I get a frosty "yeah," in return. And it goes downhill from there.

In other news, today my computer decided it wanted to go on early vacation without me; however, I did get to spend some time on the roof of the Planetarium looking for the space shuttle, so the day wasn't a total loss. I don't spend nearly enough time on the roof at work.

Wednesday I avoided K. because she was so unpleasant Tuesday and I was honestly afraid to be around her. She came into my office and apologized for being weird, saying that she just feels like she's living the same day over and over again. Welcome to the next 40 years before retirement. And it's still no reason to be a bitch. I have tried to so hard to make her happy because she is so good at her job and I don't want to lose her, but nothing works. She refuses to be happy or to even try. It's wearing me out. Now I understand why she has had so many jobs. What sucks is that I feel like a bad friend because I am so worn out from her.

Giant African dust cloud floated across the Atlantic and settled on my car. Let's hear for it scratched windshields!

Foxy peed on my bed in the middle of the night while I was in it. I woke up at 3:30 when I rolled through it. Ernie would never do such a thing.

Thursday Ernie's acting a little weird. I hope he's okay. Foxy's still in trouble.

Had to ask a child not to return to camp, the first time in two years. This five-year-old was overly violent, even for a little boy; he pretty much tackled anyone who walked by and made them cry. When I talked to his mom on the phone, she broke down in tears. She can't bring him to work and doesn't know anyone who could watch him, plus she's extremely worried about what he'll be like in Kindergarten next week. It was rough. It's things like that that make me not want to have kids; I don't want to think about being responsible for a child that hurts other children. At least he didn't kill any frogs -- as one camper did last week, at nature camp. I've said it before -- this job is the best freaking birth control.

~~~~~

I can't end this post on thoughts of animal cruelty (though the subject has been on my mind this week, what with the horrible alligator story that surfaced this week).

Next week I get to take out my ring for the first time. I'm a little worried and really hope that I don't need to call in any backup. The whole concept is bizarre. That dude in The Graduate was right -- the future is "plastics."

Ode to my fur kids: Ernie

Oh, you and your little love bites.

You were the last to join my herd, last September. You were born during Hurricane Charley and you were found shortly after the storm, motherless, hairless, and covered with fleas, along with your two sisters.

You were featured on the news in a story asking people to be foster parents to the homeless pets left in Charley's wake. A Nature Center volunteer saw the story and took in you and your sisters. When you were three weeks old, she brought you all to the Nature Center to visit and hopefully find permanent homes for you all.

Since I was moving at the time and already had Foxy and Hef, I really wasn't looking for any more roommates. But I couldn't say no when I saw you because you looked completely ridiculous. You were the runt -- born prematurely and half the size of your sisters. Plus, you had the oversized forehead that all newborns -- kittens, puppies, people, aliens -- have.

When I finally got to take you home, you weighed a staggering one pound and fit into my measuring cups -- my little cup o' cat. You were so small that I used to lose you on the couch all the time; you blended in with the afghan and just looked like a little mohair lump.

I named you Ernie because you were fuzzy like a sweater. I thought, "Who wears a lot of sweaters?" The first person I thought of was, of course, Bill Cosby. However, I really didn't want a "Cos" running around the house. The next sweater-wearers I thought of were the pioneering alternative-lifestyle puppets Bert and Ernie.

I really like the name 'Ernie' -- I can call you Ernest when you are in trouble, plus some people think you're so named for another Ernest, one cat-loving, Florida-living, Mr. Hemingway. Although I detest most of his writings, people tend to think I'm more erudite than I am when they hear my precious furball's name. Little do they know you're named for a piece of talking felt.

You're a good kid, Ernie, and not just because you're the only small mammal in the house never to pee on my belongings. When BISL and I were breaking up (okay ... when he was dumping me), you attacked him out of the clear blue while I was sobbing uncontrollably. You casually strolled into the room, jumped up on the bed with us, looked at BISL square in the eye, and sank your teeth and claws into his shoulder. And you used to adore him! It would have been a little inappropriate for me to do that, so I glad you took matters into your own paws.

Although I'll never understand why you like chewing on my hair when I get out of the shower, I do like that we have this morning ritual together. On the other hand, I really wish you would stop trying to eat the bunny.

And even though you single-pawedly destroyed my beloved pink velour couch, I do still love you. You have finally warmed to me cleaning your ears and I believe that we do have a special bond now. If only they made ear candles for felines, then we could sit together on my tattered couch with flaming sticks protruding from our ears, both of us purring from the cerumen-free serenity.

An unsatisfying quickie

I have the uncontrollable urge to post today although I don't have anything in particular that I want to say. The four of you may as well stop reading now.

What's that you say? You're going to be a trooper and stick this one out? Geez, I really appreciate it. If I knew where you were, I'd send you some Rolo cookies or vegetable curry. My cooking skills are somewhat limited.

So, I'm at the library, as I often am. I just ran off to the bathroom and left my gigantor purse near my computer. As I was in the bathroom, I thought about what the little old ladies here on this fine Saturday morning could learn about me should one of them wander over to my computer when WebMD loses their interest.

First, of course, they would notice my embarassing fondness for pink. When I was little, my mom saw to it that nothing -- nothing -- I owned was pink. This pink prohibition was only a tiny part of her liberal feminist child-rearing ways, which of course led to my god-awful hyphenated name. Now that I'm older, I buy a lot of pink, just because I can. Today, I have my smallish pink purse inside my larger pink/purple/sequined-monstrosity-with-fairies-on-it bag (or is it a tote? I'm not good with accessory names.). I'm such a rebel.

Some items inside my sparkly corduroy fairy-land:

1. My notepad I take everywhere with me. The picture on the cover is a '50s housewife doting on an empty armchair with the words "she liked imaginary men best of all" next to her.
Old lady thoughts on this item: "This Pink Lady has had a rough time of it with the fellas."

2. Two books: Pink Think: Becoming a Woman in Many Uneasy Lessons and Bachelor Girl: 100 Years of Breaking the Rules -- A Social History of Living Single.
Old lady thoughts on these items: "Make that a really rough time with the fellas. She may perhaps spend a bit too much time in the Women's Studies section, too. She needs to get out of the stacks and put herself out there if she wants to catch herself a man!"

3. My knitting.
Old lady thoughts on this item: "Damn, she's closer to spinsterhood than me. I should invite her to the next Stitch-and-Bitch meeting."

How did it ever come to this?

Rather than feel sorry for myself this weekend -- as I would love to do with a bad movie (Gigli? Glitter?), Ben & Jerry's, and a bottle of wine -- I'm going to attempt to fix my garden (the lantana has quietly taken over; I fear that it may creep into my apartment and hold my pets hostage), until it gets too unbearably hot. So, I'll probably be out there for about 8 minutes. I walked Foxy at 7:30 this morning in my bikini because it was already too humid for real clothes. Tomorrow, I intend to kayak to Mound Key, provided I can get my boat on top of my van. Last weekend's kayak outing almost didn't happen because I dropped my boat four times while trying to strap it to the van. The humidity is such that there's an inpenetrable layer of slippery dew covering my vehicle every morning. Given my (lack of) height, loading the boat by myself (as we learned above, I am, in fact, all alone) is usually tricky, but I always get it up there. The dew, though, is kayak repellant; the boat just slides right off. It's like someone covered my van in Crisco.

God -- that would be a great story, wouldn't it? "Dude, I just woke up this morning and there was lard all over my car. I don't know how it got there. But I do know I suddenly have a craving for fried chicken."

~~~~~

On a completely unrelated note, thank you JB for kind words. You made my day.

This one's for all the little chilluns

Sometimes kids are cute enough to make me want to get my own, but then I encounter a hyperactive, disobedient, moronic child who gets his foot so severely stuck in a planetarium seat that the seat must be dismantled in order to disengage his foot. At that point, I am ever so happy to be celibate (however unwillingly that may be) and pleased with my new birth control.

This week, though, I've encountered a few more of the hideously cute kids than I have of the sticky space cadet kids (do you remember the Mike Myers SNL skit, the Hyper Hypo, where he was a hyperactive kid bungeed to the jungle gym? Sometimes I feel like the jungle gym.). When the camp counselors have a sick child, they bring them to my office. Rarely are these children legitimately sick -- they're in a fight with their friends; they don't like their counselors, they don't want to go outside; or they just want to hang out with me because I'm so freaking cool. I really am. I mean, I do have a big comfy chair and every Dr. Seuss book, so I could see why kids would want to chill with me. Plus, I rarely make them do my work or take my phone calls.

The first cute kid of the week was Alice. I've known Alice for two years and now she's a big bad 7-year-old. I know I shouldn't say it, but she's always been one of my favorites. Her parents are big hippies and the whole family is just hilarious. Alice was in my office for a "stomach ache," but I think she just wanted to go home early because she was having a sleepover. Alice and I chatted for a solid hour. How often can you talk to a 7-year-old for that long? I have yet to accomplish the same feat with my own grandmother. The highlight of our conversation:

"So, Alice, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

(Seriously pondering this question.) "A masseuse. Definitely a masseuse."

"Really? A masseuse. Why do you want to be a mass--"

(She cuts me off.) "Or a lawyer. I want to be a lawyer, too."

"Wow, you're going to be really busy. How are you going to find time to--"

(She cuts me off again.) "I also want to be a gymnastics coach. I want to be a masseuse, a lawyer, and a gymnastics coach. But when I'm a teenager, I want to be a waitress."

I envy Alice. She has it all figured out.

The other really cute kid this week was another 7-year-old, Sabrina, who "hurt all over." We couldn't call her mom, though, because her mom's an anchor on the news and was, well, doing the news. Her parents are getting separated, and the poor kid has been having some issues. Plus, the A/C crashed in their classroom, sending the indoor temperature to 87 degrees, so I can see why she didn't want to hang out in there longer than she had to.

Sabrina is one of those kids who is full of questions. My phone would ring and Sabrina would be asking in the background,"Who are you talking to? Did they find a turtle with no mom? What's their favorite color?". She was loads of fun. She started giving me all sorts of tips on running the Nature Center. She thought that we should be open all the time, and not just for summer camp (which we are); she thought we should bring back the Halloween walk because her birthday is in late October (that walk was hell on earth; it will never happen again, no matter how cute she is); and she thought we were way better than our "rival" nature center (which we are).

She then took me out to the Museum to give me some tips on our exhibits. I was pretty impressed that, though, she had only been at the Nature Center for a few days of camp, she already grasped that the vast majority of our animals live there because they have a permanent injury. We have a massive aquarium that has nothing in it yet. Sabrina's thoughts on our newest exhibit:

"You could fill it with water, and then if someone finds a lobster without a claw, you could put it in there. Then if someone else finds a snail that doesn't have a shell, you could put it in the tank with the lobster, then the lobster wouldn't be lonely any more!"

I like that. The thought of a claw-less lobster making friends with a shell-less snail makes me warm inside. Raffi could write a song about them.

When Sabrina left my office to go to lunch with the kids in her camp, she told me she had fun with me, which was totally not the point. I don't want word spreading around the campers that I'm actually a nice person, then they'll have no reason to fear getting sent to my office when they misbehave. I also don't want the counselors thinking I'm not an uber-bitch because if anyone needs to fear me, it's them. But it still made me feel good. I'd much rather hang out with Alice and Sabrina than try to think of ways to make up the up-coming $70,000 budget shortfall.

But then some kid has to go and get his leg stuck in a chair, and all my happy kid thoughts are just puked on, just like the picnic tables were caught in the line of vomitory fire yesterday by some other snotnosed brat (I really believe he was hurling for fun and to make us clean up after him.). The only good part of kids like that is that you get to give them back at the end of the day. I don't need kids; my life with Foxy, Ernie, and Hef, isn't so sad and pathetic after all. Well, maybe a little sad and pathetic, but having a kid would make it even more sad. And we can't have that.

Too Much Information, Vol. II: The Ring

Before I start this post, I have to apologize in advance for possibly not finishing this post. Why? Because of the man sitting near me at the library. I don't think that I've ever heard so many noises come out of one person...ever. We're not talking about your average repeatedly-clearing-your-throat-and-snorting-up-phlegm-in-a-quiet-library noises; he has serious digestion issues. The cacophany of sound coming from this man's body is so distracting that I've been forced to don some headphones and listen to streaming radio...and yet I can still hear him. I truly fear that I am going to vomit all over my keyboard (ha ha -- top that Bodily Function Man!). Damn, I have got to get my own computer. No one makes gross body noises at home. Well, no one except for Ernie when he does that hairball thing. But that's okay because he's cute; Bodily Function Man not so much.

Moving along...

So, it's time again for some personal information, and you only wish I were talking about the movie The Ring. Although making a movie about my ring might be just as thrilling. Doubt I could get Naomi Watts for it, though. She is, afterall, a blonde.

No, for me, The Ring has two meanings. To enlighten you:

A few months ago my boyfriend dumped me for no good reason (he acknowledges the stupidity of his actions); he's the one I'm still in love with. In fact, I think I shall refer to him as Boyfriend I Still Love, or BISL, pronounced like Bissell (which is a good name for him given his fondness for vacuuming). Good times. In May I started dating his best friend, who is the dude that introduced us. Yes, you're right: what a great way to win back BISL -- start sleeping with his friend. It was a short-lived thing that started out innocently enough and then ended with me screaming obscenities at the Ringed One in a parking lot late at night. That's the best friend -- the Ringed One. I've known this guy for quite some time. In December he was dumped by his longtime girlfriend (who was my idol, not just because she's extremely tall...she's a freelance copy editor, my dorky dream job) because he couldn't "commit." A month after they broke up, he went on a bender (which for him is three beers; big dude, but a lightweight) and got his penis pierced, hence the name, the Ringed One. Wow, he sounds like a winner -- goes after his buddy's girl, can't be in a serious relationship at 35 years old, takes drastic body-altering measures, acknowledges that he's "emotionally unavailable." I know how to pick 'em.

If I'm going to be completely honest, though, I have to say that I firmly believe every man should pierce his penis. That's all I'm going to say about that.

So, anyway, the first and only time the Ringed One and I had actual intercourse we didn't use any protection. I know, I know -- I must really want to be with BISL again. The next day I marched myself down to Planned Parenthood to get some good ol' Plan B and to make an appointment for an exam so that I, once and for all, could get some freaking birth control already.

Not taking contraceptive issues into my own hands goes against many things I believe in, namely, not getting pregnant. However, after I watched my freshman year roommate go crazy while on Ortho-Tricyclen, I just couldn't do that to myself. Then the girl who sat next to me in math grew a beard after getting Norplant. The Ortho-Evra patch was just too trendy for me ("Wee! Everyone look at my patch! I'm sexually freeee!"), plus it left behind all that adhesive goo. If there's one thing that I'm not about, it's goo.

Plus, it really pissed me off that I would have to spend upwards of $30/month to protect myself, when a dude had to, do what...fork out a quarter for a rubber? Did that condom require him to get a simultaneous prescription for Prozac, or cause him to gain weight, or make his acne go away? (no, wait, that's a good side effect...). I didn't want to blow all my hard-earned plasma money on contraception; that money was for beer, dammit. I also believed (and still do) that if I start paying for birth control, that means I will never have sex again. Ever. That's just the way things work.

I didn't give much thought about my decision until the incident with the Ringed One. Then I just felt like an idiot. I'm 24, for crying out loud, and after working with children for the last 7 years, I really, really don't want to have my own.

While reviewing the brochure on birth control from Planned Parenthood, I came across an intriguing method: The Ring, or more precisely, the NuvaRing. Maybe I am just birth control ignorant, but this one was new to me. IUDs, implants, norplants, pills, patches, shots...I thought I'd heard them all, but I was wrong.

A month later, when I told the clinician I was considering the Ring, she gave me a(nother) pamphlet to review (they just really love their handouts at Planned Parenthood, don't they?). The instructions seemed easy enough; I would only have to remove it once a month. How awesome is that? I always knew the pill wouldn't be for me (aside from the psychosis part) because I would have to remember to take it every day. I'm lucky I remember to go to work every day.

The sketch on the instructions showed a woman's delicate hands squeezing the sides of this ring-sized ring to insert it, and -- voila! -- that was that. A small, petite ring that I could perhaps wear on my hand, should I decide to make a bold fashion statement (ha, I could really show those patch girls!). "Sign me up!" I said to the clinician. I finished off my super-fun pap smear, knowing that I made the right decision.

At the prescriptions desk, I picked up a three-month supply of very large foil packets. Once I got home, I took a better look at my purchase. I was alarmed. Very alarmed. I could wear this so-called "ring" as a braclet. It was huge. How on earth would I jam that thing up there?

According to the instructions, I was to insert the Ring on the first day of my period. This was June 16; my last period was May 19. According to the math, I just had a few days to stew over this dilemma before all the anxiety of fitting this giant carnival ring in my nether regions would eventually pass.

Oh, how wrong I was.

No, no, gentle reader, I didn't start my period until last Thursday. July 14. What the hell happened there? I've been regular for 14 years and now -- NOW -- I'm irregular??? I actually had a dream last week before my period that I was finally able to insert the ring, but it fell out in the middle of the night and was all tangled around my feet -- that's how big it was. Every morning for the past month, I've opened the medicine cabinet, taken out a foil packet, and shed a few tears over the thought of putting it's massive contents inside me, all so that I would be guaranteed never to have sex again. It was sad.

But when the day finally came, I held my breath, pinched the sides of the ring, and -- POP! -- it was in just like that. I can't even tell it's there, and I haven't grown a beard or a third boob, yet, or anything. All of that fretting for nothing, except...

... in a few weeks, I have to take it out. I might need to invest in my own forceps.

Watch where you stick that wand, Dumbledore

I was held hostage last night. As I innocently sipped my chai and read about Martha Stewart's house arrest in Vanity Fair (hi, I'm a magazine junkie), my captors swarmed around me, wielding wands, Coke bottle glasses, and long striped scarves. I heard a loud voice near the exit announce, "If you leave now, you may not be able to get back in." You see, this was a different sort of hostage situation -- people wanted to be kept inside, locked away from the outside world. I had entertained thoughts of leaving to shop for a laptop and buy dog biscuits (don't tell me I don't know how to have fun on a Friday night), but as soon as I heard that if I leave, I can't come back, by golly, I had to stay. Perhaps I was suffering from Stockholm syndrome. My captors were creating such a spectacle -- someone had to stay and watch them all unravel. Really, how could I say no to being trapped inside Barnes & Noble on the night of the Harry Potter release?

As far as temporary prisons go, I could do a lot worse than Barnes & Noble. I spend lots of time and $$$ there, as there is nary an independent bookstore in Fort Myers. Plus -- and this is a big plus -- I get moist around so many books. Getting my books out of storage is my primary motivation for going to Montana in a few weeks. Right before I moved here (from there) 32 months ago (not that I'm keeping track), I was in my sub-Saharan African economics phase and I purchased several books on said topic at an auction. I think about these books on a daily basis, sitting unloved in a cold storage unit in Western Montana. It makes me sad.

Some may say my tastes have been dumbed down since moving here. Why? Take my latest phase: porn. Not watching it, but reading it, right down to Jenna Jameson's autobiography. A particulary riveting read was Legs McNeil's The Other Hollywood: An Oral History of the Adult Film Industry. Was John Holmes involved in the Wonderland murders? Was Traci Lords a government mole? Is Ron Jeremy as greasy and hirsute in person? These and many other topics are exhaustively probed (ha! Probed...). But I digress.

So, there I was, trapped at Barnes & Noble with little kids, tweens, moms and dads, the blue-haired set all decked out in Potter garb, when I thought, this is pretty cool. All of these people are so jazzed...about a book. That makes me feel better about the state of affairs: people really do turn off their televisions every once in awhile and families really do interact with and share interests with each other. Americans may not be as dumb as I thought.

But then I sat down across from an endcap on one of the aisles. He was looking straight at me -- Zell "Are you going to shut up after you ask the question" Miller. Aaah, avert eye contact. He seemed so normal when he was governor of Georgia (inexplicably, I lived there for seven years). Then he up and spoke at the RNC and challenged Chris Matthews to a duel. Nowadays, besides publishing A Defecit of Deceny, I think he's coaching Tom Cruise on how to behave absurdly in public.

I checked out Zell's shelf neighbors. The book on the left caught my eye (ha, the left, that's a funny place for it to be). The title was in big red letters: PORN GENERATION. Hooray! My favorite topic! Something told me, though, that this book wasn't like the happy fun porn books I've been reading. Perhaps -- perhaps -- it was the subtitle: "How social liberalism is corrupting our future." Or perhaps it was the source of the jacket quotes that rained on my parade, most notably "Dr." Laura Schlessinger and one -- I gag on her name -- Ann Coulter. Ooh, chills run down my spine thinking about that unholy duo. I'm surprised the book didn't burst into flames when I picked it up. The most shocking thing about this book is its author. His bio begins,"Ben Shapiro was born in 1984 in Burbank, California...". Excuse me? 1984? How is this smarmy kid an author of a book without pictures and a nationally syndicated columnist and against porn? And, yes, I can call him a kid because he's a full four years younger than me and we probably weren't even in high school at the same time. Ick.

Don't get me wrong -- I fully intend to read this book. However, I don't want to send any sale royalties his way by buying it and, thereby, endorsing his smarminess. Nor do I want to be seen buying it. I'm so glad this new library opened near my house. Here they have self-check-out kiosks, so none of the librarians I see on a nearly daily basis will know which books I'm taking home with me. It's not so much a fear of being judged as it is a fear of them thinking that we have some sort of liberal-hating bond. I don't want to be engaged in a conversation about the virtues of Pat Buchanan or Tucker Carlson's tie.

Other than staring at conservative propaganda for a little while, the book release was pretty neat. Magicians, face painters, and fortune tellers kept everyone entertained. Barnes & Noble approached me about bringing an owl from the Nature Center for a presentation during the release. It didn't work out because they -- the Corporate Giants -- refused to pay us -- the private non-profit who would have had to make an already underpaid and overworked naturalist work late on a Friday night -- the $40 fee for the progam. They also found our 7-inch tall screech owl less than impressive. Screw the kids -- I was quite pleased to see that they couldn't get anyone else to bring out an owl for free.

What helped keep the mood elevated for the whole night was the rainless thunderstorm raging outside; that really was the perfect setting for these Hogwarts-loving folks. Folks, not freaks.

I have come to the conclusion that all kids under the age of 12 should wear neckties and capes. It's a damn fine look.

I have come to the separate conclusion that I should only pay for books on pornography authored by people who may have actually had sex before.

Civic Duty: Avoided

My number didn't get called for jury duty tomorrow! Hooray! I'm off the hook until I get another summons...hooray? I was shocked a few weeks ago when I opened my mailbox and saw it, the Jury Summons, sitting there. My first thought was, "Well, I guess that's it. I'm a grown-up now." However, I have since learned that to be false ( see Earwax post). Thank god, I'm not ready for being a real adult, yet; it's bad enough I have to pay bills, let alone go to court and judge my peers. I was surprised, though, to get called for jury duty. My parents have a combined voting history of 60 years and neither one of them has ever been called. Me, I'm not even old enough to rent a car, but I get called. How did the government find me so quickly?

In other news, Dennis blew right past us; we just got the outer bands with "squally weather" (ah, The Outer Band. They will be the cover band that plays in my bar in the Keys that I do not yet own because I'm a poor nature center employee with ten dollars in her bank account. But one day...). However, I learned today that tropical depression #5 was named. For those living in a more sensible climate, storms get named when they strengthen. This one was given the bad-ass name Emily, as in Emily Dickinson, the baddest-ass (or the bad-assiest) of all Emilys. Check out these fighting words:

On this wondrous sea
Sailing silently,
Ho! Pilot, ho!
Knowest thou the shore
Where no breakers roar --
Where the storm is o'er?

In the peaceful west
Many the sails at rest --
The anchors fast --
Thither I pilot thee --
Land Ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last!

Oh yeah?!? So, are you saying you're coming to get us? Are you, Emily? If that's even your real name. Yeah, I got my eye on you, bee-atch.

Whoa, sorry about that. I'm getting a little loopy; I attribute it to the frequent drops in barometric pressure when storms roll in.

I'm very distracted by this cute librarian re-shelving books near me. He's tall and skinny and wears glasses, not at all what you'd imagine a young librarian to look like, I'm sure. And I bet he's not well-read or sensitive, either.

Embarassing things I would like to share today with people I will probably never meet in person:

1. I like the new Mariah Carey song ("We Belong Together"). There I said it...and it's still embarassing. Ah well, I think I'm going to rewrite it to "We Blog Together," which, really, is what it would sound like if she were singing it with a cold.

2. The ring tone on my cell phone is "Faithfully" by Journey. I'm tired of being a closet Journey fan. I'm out and proud!

3. I have a post I've been sitting on for a few days. It's a political-ish piece. I used to debate in high school and I coached debate in college; however, ever since I quit, I have avoided political clashes at all costs. Don't get me wrong, I will tear you a new one in a political disagreement, but I won't enjoy it; it just wears me out now. Anyway, I haven't posted for fear of people coming out of the woodwork to get in a row with me, and I'm not in the mood, nor do I want to offend anyone. I might as well publish it; really, I only have confirmed documentation of three people ever actually reading this blog (and, again, thank you for reading!). I'll save it for a rainy day.

Oh, there will be more embarassment to come, I'm sure. You just wait.

Too Much Information, Vol. I: Ceruminous Ruminations

This post is the first in, what I anticipate to be, a series of posts of what some would call "personal information." These are items that are easy to share in this format because, well, I can't see your looks of disgust. I'll talk to my friends about some of these things, but it's usually against their will. Read on, if you can; it's a happy fun post, I promise!

A little bit of background: A few years ago there was a particulary funny sketch on MadTV. That I even caught this episode is remarkable given that (1) I only watch Fox for The Simpsons and (2) how often am I awake/sober/conscious past 11pm?

The sketch was a PSA spoof. The narrator intoned seriously about a craze sweeping the nation, enveloping teens in its seedy grip. Kids all across America were shown meeting in dark alleys and sneaking into their stash boxes for ... Q-tips with which to clean their ears. Yep, ear-swabbing as the next crack cocaine: it's dangerous; it's dirty; it's deeply satisfying.

That sketch has stuck with me because it was so hilarious and so true (meanwhile, I have a hard time remembering my parents' phone number; the knowledge the mind holds onto...). Cleaning out your ears is like a good sneeze; sometimes it just feels so good and, sometimes, interesting stuff comes out of your head.

Since the 4th of July, I've been battling a cold, and when I'm ill, my ears get waxy (if that sentence doesn't turn you on, I don't know what will). The wax factor got to be more than I could bear the other day at work, so I sauntered over to the planetarium to borrow (ha, like she would want them back) some crazy long cotton swabs from the celestial goddess (she uses them to clean the star ball. Jealous that you don't have a star ball at work? I thought so.). As I walked back to my office, I announced, "Judge me if you will, but I am going to stick these Q-tips in my ears and it's going to feel good."

As I marched back to my desk with things in my ears, the admin assistant uttered the words that would change my life. She rolled her chair away from her desk toward my office and said in a hushed voice:

"Have you ever tried an ear candle?"

I'd heard of ear candles, but never really knew what they did. Administrative Wonder explained how you light these long candles, put one in your ear, and let the candle draw out all of your inner ear gunk. Intrigued, I asked if it was as satisfying as swabbing.

She smiled, nodded, and said,"It's addictive."

Well, that sold me. Better than swabbing? Must...find...ear candles, I thought. So, the next day I went to the whole foods store and searched high and low for the candles -- well, mostly low, as I'm only 5' 1". Since I only see things at eye level or lower, I had to ask a salesperson for the candles -- a top-shelf item, for some reason -- which was a little embarassing. Especially so given that she was with two other clerks who all loudly said the words "ear candle" at least 20 times after I asked.

I read the directions on the package, which, interestingly enough, state that the ear candles "are not to be used for fun or entertainment." Really? I organized my whole night around the candles -- was going to have some people over, maybe make a nice bean dip, and remove cerumen from my ear canal with my loved ones. I mean, the package does also say "never use Ear Candles without a second person with you." So why not make it a party?

I didn't have a second person with me, just my fur kids, but I went for it anyway. As I lay on the couch with a flaming stick poking out of my head, Ernie gave me a few funny looks. He really sat in front of me, head tilted, and with a look in his eyes that said,"I don't believe it. I am the only intelligent one in this apartment."

Well, Ernie be damned (shh, don't tell him I said that. He'll claw my toes off in my sleep.). Those candles were awesome. I barely felt a thing; my ear just got a little warm. The amount of junk removed from my ears was ... astonishing. I feel better knowing that it's not all still in there, and I can hear a little better, too. What's more is that the directions say that some people use three candles per ear per session.

I haven't seen it, but supposedly there is a demonstration video on the ear candle website, if you want to see what this is all about (watching the video may be even be a little too weird for me). If you, too, suffer from excess earwax, give the candle a try. You can use them as often as you would like; as the directions state, "Trust yourself. Use your intuition." (The instructions also say: "Do not use Ear Candles without consulting with your doctor beacause our beliefs are not consistent with the medical establishment (even though the doctors have only 60 years of experience and natural healing has thousands of years of experience)." Yeah, I had a lot of time to study these instructions as wax was sucked from my head and my cat silently judged me.).

So, that's my first TMI post. I already have a topic in mind for Volume II, but I don't want to overwhelm (or overly gross out, whatever) anyone with it yet. My clean ears and I are going to bed now.

PS -- Weather dude just said we're going to have "squally weather" all night. That's my kind of man, making up words when he can't think of the real ones.

Visitors to my front porch this week

I love living in Florida. You never know what's going to be waiting to greet you on your porch when you get home. The other night, I returned home and there was the little guy you see above, just waiting to say hi. I'm going to get all Naturalist-y for a moment, so bear with me.

Cuban treefrogs, like the one above, are actually quite destructive since they out-compete native treefrogs for food and they eat the eggs of native treefrogs. They are everywhere. It's just a good lesson about what happens when exotic animals -- like frogs, toads, lizards, people from Ohio -- are released in Florida: they thrive. The weather is great all the time (well, except for Hurricane Season, June 1 -- November 1) and food is plentiful, so when these animals start colonizing here, it's really hard to eradicate them. People from the Great Lakes states are especially difficult to eradicate.

Thursday afternoon I left my apartment to run some errands. As I was locking my door, I heard some movement in the grass and someone staring at me. I slowly turned around and saw these visitors:

A dozen ducks, just staring at me. It was as odd as it looks; they didn't move when I walked past them, just kind of nodded their heads to say "'sup?" I think Ernie, Foxy, and Hef (cat, dog, rabbit) had something planned for when I left and the ducks just showed up early. As I drove away, the ducks just walked closer to my door, confirming this theory.

Since the weather is so crappy (thanks, Dennis), I'll probably post again today because I have nothing to do and no visitors on the porch to hang out with. Good times.

Wedge of ambiguity

I'm happy to say that I've finally recuperated from 4th of July weekend...well, except for the sinus ache, nasal drip, and muscle soreness. Other than those things -- which are a joy, believe me -- I'm slightly reenergized since last weekend and completely ready for ... a hurricane?!? What the hell? It's only the beginning of July and we're on our 4th named storm? What a load of crap. It has a cliche-ready name, too, so it better not hit because I don't want to see headlines referring to Dennis the Menace. Last summer, I had to put up with people saying, "Sorry, Charley," or referencing "Ivan the Terrible" or "Mean Jeanne." "Frances" I could deal with because no one could think of anything cutesy to say about that name other than "ha ha, your name is Frances."

At any rate, lame name or not, I've already gone out and bought my first two gallons of water, just in case. Lest we forget, Charley was not supposed to come here until three hours before it hit, and in those three hours, the storm not only took a sharp jog east, but also went from a category 2 ("oh shit") to a category 4 ("holy shit"). I plan on cocooning this weekend (or since I'm into butterflies, perhaps I'll pupate).

That reminds me of the drinking game we played during Charley until we lost power: take a drink every time the weather dude says "hunker down" or "cone of possibility" (two drinks if they say "funnel of uncertainty"). At least it's times like these that give the Weather Channel the opportunity to send that hot Jim Cantore out on the front lines. Mmmm, I loves me a nice shiny bald head.

In completely unrelated news, I got a call the other night from my good friend that someone we knew fairly well in high school has changed her name to Bunny McIntosh, which is a funny name considering where we went to high school. Having some time to kill (or work I didn't want to do, but whatever), I googled her. And wouldn't you know, she's pretty well known out there. This girl (if she's not giving her real name, neither will I) was always really talented -- incredible singer, in a few movies, a Mormon...all kinds of stuff. I was totally surprised to see that this is what she's been up to, not that I expected her to do one thing or another. I guess it's just strange seeing where people are a few years down the road. I know no one would expect me to be at the Nature Center handling alligators and snakes, but I don't know where one would expect to find me. (The correct answer from my fellow classmates would be "why, BPW, we expected to find your name on a book spine and on the list of the latest Pulitzer winners!" not "BP-who?").

So, that's been my fun for the last day, hacking up pieces of my lungs and thinking of Dennis and Bunny McIntosh. What will tomorrow bring, I wonder...

No color any more, I want it painted black...no, wait, make that light gray

Since I had major problems posting last night and since I have proven myself to be technologically lame, it should come as no surprise that somehow part of last night's post printed in black, on this, the loveliest of black backgrounds.

After I viewed my blog, I noticed a big black gap under the orange text (the damn color feature foiled me). I didn't think much of it, so I logged off the library computer, hopped in my uber sexy and stylish minivan, and headed home. As I drove, though, I figured out the cause of the big black gap -- big black text.

My OCD told me to make a u-turn and race back to the library to fix my blog before closing. Why, I thought, my post doesn't make any sense without that text! I could alienate my fan (thank you Katie Burke) (and Jenna, too; I appreciate feedback.). Surprisingly, though, the OCD was silenced (by what? Maybe Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Ah, dueling disorders in each corner!). This from the girl who arranges her dinner silverware at perpendicular angles to each other.

A new kind of thought process took over; I think some call it common sense. Others may call it sanity. Whatever you call it, "it" caused me to keep driving home and reassured me that I can, indeed, rectify this most grievous of errors.

So, please read the altered June 29 text in all its light gray glory.

The best buddy and I are probably going to South Beach tomorrow, Marco Island on Sunday, and the beach here on Monday. We just can't get enough of grotesquely tan people with plastic surgery; it's so patriotic.

Speaking of patriotic, July 4 kicks off Nude Recreation Week. There's nothing like holding a bunch of lit sparklers near your unprotected nether regions. Be careful this weekend!