Who are we kidding here? I had pet mice as a teenager, mostly because it made my mother insane. I had a little white hamster, too, and let me tell you, when Igor stuffed his little pouches full of violets, it was adorable. But he fit into my palm. He was an (ahem) domesticated little rodent, as were my little lab mice.

We are now watching as a new health epidemic sweeps our nation. Monkeypox, a "mild form of smallpox". And I for one would like to know if that's anything at all like a mild case of pregnancy... But I digress.

Where did monkeypox come from? From a batch of prairie dogs that caught it from a Giant African Pouched Rat, while they were all hanging around in Phil's Pocket Pets of Villa Park, Ill., waiting to be sold as pets. Which begs the question, who fucking keeps prairie dogs as pets? And why? They are large, cute rodents known to carry the plague. Hey! As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up. Prairie dogs carry the bubonic plague. Yeah, great fucking pet. For your ex-husband maybe, but do you really want to give one to the kids? And they have teeth. Big old rodent teeth. And they can, as they say so euphemistically on the exotic pet web site, "inflict a deep painful bite." Uh-huh. Right.

Which brings me to the Giant African Pouched Rat, a species of which I was blissfully unaware until this week. Here is what the R-zu-2-U web site has to say on the subject:

"Giant African Pouched Rats, also called Gambian Pouched Rats (Cricetomys gambianus) are HUGE! The body length can be as much as 10 - 17 inches long from head to base of tail! Their tail is about the same length again or longer. These rats weigh from 2 to 6+ lb. Is this big enough for you?

They have an absolutely adorable face, actually rather comical and whimsical in appearance. If you like rodents, they are sure to captivate you in a heartbeat!"

Or not. A six pound rat is my idea of a living urban legend nightmare, not a pet. I can understand a snake, even one of those ridiculously large boa constrictors, if you are so inclined, but a SIX-POUND rat?

Once again, I find myself asking the eternal question: What is wrong with you people? Am I the only sane person on the planet?

Jun 9, 9:40 am ET

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Add "The Shoe Murder" to the chronicles of New York's crimes of passion.
A stormy relationship ended up on a Brooklyn street in the early hours of Saturday when a 220 pound woman sat on her ex-boyfriend's chest and clubbed him to death with her size 12 high heeled shoe, police said.

Anna Rhinehart, 40, told authorities she attacked Roosevelt Bonds, 51, in self-defense after he punched her in the mouth, knocking out her two front teeth.

The passionate struggle to the death began at 3 a.m. Saturday when Bonds saw Rhinehart at a restaurant with another man, police said.

"There was a dispute between them and the man was struck in the head and body with a blunt instrument," police spokeswoman Det. Carolyn Chew said.

Rhinehart was charged with manslaughter and criminal possession of a weapon. "It was her shoe," Det. Chew said.


Man, I love the city.

My little corner of the web has been noticed. Shucks, gee, I'd like to thank the academy. Or for the movie buffs out there, "You like me, you really like me."

Yesterday I was the Day Trip du jour (is that redundant?) over at WomanChild's blog. I didn't even know until I received a fan e-mail. I just can't wait to see the web stats on Monday when the reports get run. Gosh, I might be up over 6 visitors a day!

Speaking of movie buffs, my husband, my father and I caught the last half of the AFI special, the 100 top villains and heroes. It says something about the family that between the three of us, we could A) Identify almost every clip before the title was announced and B) Deliver the line that was the "famous" line before or concurrent with the actor and C) Make some off the cuff, sarcastic, yet brilliantly humorous mot for each.

I went to film school (yeah, right. I minored in film at the liberal arts college I attended. But many famous filmmakers and actors also attended that same school, so in my book that makes it film school. In any event, I can still format a script correctly and I still remember the differences between pan, dolly, tilt, zoom.) but my father and husband have no excuse for this aberrant behavior. Needless to say, we had a wonderful time.

"I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody. Instead of a bum. Which is what I am."

He sure is, says dad. Amen, says I.

I don't know exactly what it is about the immediate future and/or minimal amounts of progress that so terrifies so many people, but there are more and more examples of this sort of Luddite behavior around me.

I have, in the recent past, written of my neighborhood and my neighbors' insistence that things remain the way they were 35 years ago when the area was just being developed. In this instance, that means my neighbors do not want city water and sewer lines coming through the neighborhood. They do not want any new housing to be built, except what looks like what's already there. They do not want to see so much as another family move in because they are already unhappy with the traffic in the surrounding 5 blocks.

They refuse to accept the fact that the neighborhood is bordered by two major roadways, which intersect, in fact, at the corner of our street. Nor do they wish to acknowledge that there will be a light rail system built along the north/south artery within the decade. They hounded the state to designate the east/west roadway an historic roadway, thereby preventing it ever being widened, and now they go to zoning hearings and bitch that the east/west road is always backed up at least three traffic lights because it can't handle the amount of traffic on it.

Today I heard from a friend about the dilemma at her sailing club. The city owns the property the club sits on. The city owns the building in which the club is housed. The city owns the basin in which the sailboats are moored. The lease is expiring on all of this and the city wants the club out. Period. The response by the sailors of the club? Let's go down to City Hall and show them the photos from our archives and talk about the past. Let's hire lawyers to fight city hall. (No, they really said that.) Let's force the city to renew our lease. Let's not even look at other possible moorings. Let's get up on our hind legs and complain that nobody respects middle class white people anymore.

Luddites or mere idiots, you decide.

I received this joke today, and it isn't funny, it is sad. So sad, that I thought about putting it up on my political blog. Then I decided that this is not political in nature, merely a take on corporate stupidity. That fits here. So without further ado, I present to you The Joke:

An American automobile company and a Japanese auto company decided to have a competitive boat race on the Detroit River. Both teams practiced hard and long to reach their peak performance. On the big day, they were as ready as they could be.

The Japanese team won by a mile.

Afterwards, the American team became discouraged by the loss and their morale sagged. Corporate management decided that the reason for the crushing defeat had to be found. A Continuous Measurable Improvement Team of "Executives" was set up to investigate the problem and to recommend appropriate corrective action.

Their conclusion: The problem was that the Japanese team had 8 people rowing and 1 person steering, whereas the American team had 1 person rowing and 8 people steering. The American Corporate Steering Committee immediately hired a consulting firm to do a study on the management structure.

After some time and billions of dollars, the consulting firm concluded that "too many people were steering and not enough rowing." To prevent losing to the Japanese again next year, the management structure was changed to "4 Steering Managers, 3 Area Steering Managers, and 1 Staff Steering Manager" and a new performance system for the person rowing the boat to give more incentive to work harder and become a six sigma performer. "We must give him empowerment and enrichment." That ought to do it.

The next year the Japanese team won by two miles.

The American Corporation laid off the rower for poor performance, sold all of the paddles, cancelled all capital investments for new equipment, halted development of a new canoe, awarded high performance awards to the consulting firm, and distributed the money saved as bonuses to the senior executives.

Last week I received 189 e-mails from concerned citizens. They were concerned about a story that was in the national news, and my hospital's web address and e-mail were aired on national right-wing, conservative and Christian radio stations. There was a young woman about to receive a court-sanctioned abortion at this institution and these people were most concerned with the fetus's right to life.

It was a form letter they sent (and many more were sent to other administrators and departments, I just received the 189 sent to the webmaster) so every e-mail was the same. This is a child that could be adopted. This is a life which is sacred. For the love of God, do not destroy this life.

One hundred and eighty-nine people said that SOMEONE would want to adopt this child. Not one offered to be that someone. Not one offered to pay the money to attempt to save a non-viable fetus in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for as long as it took. Not one person offered to pay to support this life, if, by chance, we were able to use our most expensive medical means to get this life out of the NICU.

And not one of those 189 people offered up a single opinion about the value of the life of the mother in question. She is a severely mentally disabled, physically disabled young woman who was raped while in a group home for people with those sorts of disabilities. Probably by one of her caregivers. The pregnancy caused her to have multiple, painful brain seizures. Her doctors all testified as to the danger of her carrying the child to term. She was able to understand that and make her wishes about this known. "My baby no more," were her exact words.

So if life begins at conception, and is valuable enough to protect prior to birth, at what point does life become expendable? When it starts to breathe on its own, outside the womb? (In my religion, we are taught that that's when life begins: when one takes one's first breath... because Adam wasn't alive until God gave him breath.) When it turns out to be a female life? If it turns out to be a less-than-perfect person? Because what those 189 people were saying was that the mother's life wasn't worth saving, only the potential life she held within her.

Maybe it's because the weather outside is frightful, but I've had Bob in my head for the last couple of days.

"Buckets of rain, buckets of tears
Got all these buckets coming out of my ears....

Life is sad, life is a bust,
all you can do, is do what you must
you do what you must do, and you do it well,
I'd do it for you
Honeybaby can't you tell."

McCartney's Wife Heather Mills Pregnant
May 28, 11:33 AM (ET)

LONDON (AP) - Heather Mills, wife of former Beatle Paul McCartney, is pregnant with the couple's first child, their spokesman said Wednesday.

In a brief statement, the couple said "we are delighted with this happy news."

Mills, a 34-year-old former model who lost a leg in a motorcycle accident and raises money for children disabled in war, married McCartney at an Irish castle in June 2002.

The spokesman, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the baby is due later this year. He did not say what month.

The child will be the first for Mills, who was married briefly in 1989. McCartney, 60, has three adult children, Stella, Mary and James, and a stepdaughter, Heather, from his marriage to his first wife, Linda McCartney, who died in 1998 from breast cancer.

Three months ago, Mills said in a television interview she feared she would never have a child because of a series of health problems, including cancer and two ectopic pregnancies.

"The chances of me getting pregnant are about that much," she said, holding up her thumb and finger an inch apart.

Which is, after all, as much as I am willing to do: a little. A very little.

First, big shout out to those of you who signed the guest book. It made me happy. You see, despite what the critics say, it does take so very, very little to make me happy. And if you haven't signed yet, why not?

Next, a big ole happy birthday to Bob Dylan, who turned 62 on Saturday. Bob, what's up with you? You never call, you never write, and after all the years we've been together, if only in my dreams... Bob, you'll be back here in July, don't let a little thing like we've never actually met stop you from coming to dinner this time.

And then, to the lovely folks from Emily's List, I told you if you'd stop calling me to ask for money, I'd give you a link on my personal web site. You said you'd take it. Here it is. Over there. In the blogrolling section, even though you are a leftie-pinko-feminist-liberal organization (just my sort, dontchaknow) and not, to be pedantic about it, strictly speaking, a blog.

And finally, to my cousin Barry, a huge thank you for enabling me, through your connection to the film industry, to have a Bacon rating of 3 degrees of separation.

Oh, come on, people, I know you're out there. I know you're reading this blog: I can read the WebTrends reports as well as anybody. Some of you even make comments. So why won't you sign my cheesy guest map? Please? It'll make me happy. You want me to be happy, don't you?

Right. Didn't think so. How could I be this bitter, sarcastic and generally snarky if I were happy? Well, there's only one way to find out. Sign the freakin' map.

Thanks, and have a nice day. (Insert wretched little smiley face icon here)

I had this dream last night where I was preparing dinner at someone's house: a dinner party. And I was roasting meat, or trying to. But the woman's husband had reset their oven to baud rate instead of degrees farenheit. So whereas I thought I was roasting at a certain temp, I was, instead only working at about 140 degrees.

Maybe I'm having these kinds of dreams because Marc and I have been listening to an audio book of Steven Hawking's "The Universe in a Nutshell."

Or not.

I take the train to work every day (and, by extension, home) and there seems to be no low to which my fellow passengers will not sink. I'm almost immune to the shrieking into their cellphone people, and the packs of wild teenagers who go to the art school downtown. Truth be known, I'm fond of those kids: they make me smile.

But yesterday morning was just appalling. And me without my camera. There sat a young adult male in a business suit and his skanky girlfriend, and she was picking at his zits for him while he sat there and took it. On the train. In full view of all other passengers.

Once more, I must ask: Have you no dignity? Have you no concept of social proprieties? Have you no boundaries?

STOP THAT RIGHT NOW, before I vomit on your wingtips.

Mine has: my nightguard, because I'm grinding my teeth. (Quel suprise, eh?)
The Red Queen's house with miniatures
Eeyore by John R. Wright
Pocket Piglet and Piglet with Violets, also by John R. Wright
The Damon Runyon Omnibus
The Complete Diaries of Samuel Pepys
A Hello Kitty Lamp
a few books on dreaming
a dozen back issues of Gourmet
a dish of semiprecious stones
dust
an old cherry wood recorder

When I first got the job of webmaster at this fine institution, it was by default. Default of my own big fucking mouth. At the time, I was merely the art director, and I had a new Director of Public Relations as my boss. She tossed me out of a meeting to discuss the possibility of doing a web site saying, and I quote: "I don't want you at this meeting. Nobody wants to hear what you have to say. You will only tell us what is wrong, and this doesn't have to be done right, it only has to be done."

So I found someone who did want to hear what I had to say, and I said it in a three-page "Jerry Maguire"-type memo. The person on the receiving end of said memo immediately stopped work on the "it only has to get done" web page and convened an oversite committee with my memo as its starting point. My PR director promptly fired me. The CIO (the guy who DID want to hear what I had to say) took that opportunity to merely have me moved to another department where I was tasked with building the web site.

Which is where the Little Red Hen comes in. Nobody in the PR office wanted to give me content, but they were the department in charge of content. I had to steal it from all the brochures I had ever produced as the art director.

Once the site was up and running, there came a battle for control between my new department (business development) and the PR office. Now that it's done, said PR, it's no longer a developent issue, it's a PR device. The CIO split the baby, and sent me and my website to the Medical Network Services division.

Well, that was two years ago, and I'm still in the Medical Information Services department, the PR department still can't stop the Miami Herald from hemmoraging bad ink about this hospital, and yet, even though one would think that possibly that group of vicious little people would have better things to do with their time, like, say, brushing up their resumes in anticipation of our first new president in 15 years, and one who has a mandate to be a new broom, they are back flogging the same dead horse as ever. To wit: That I am someone that none of them wishes to work with and I'm difficult.

To which I say, I may be difficult, but you are idiots. And I'd rather be a bitch than an idiot any day of the week.

I went to a huge bead show this weekend. In fact, I went twice. And I spent money. I wish I knew why little bits of glass and silver get me so hot. It seems that a LOT of women feel the same way. The joint was packed with women (and men) all fondling beads and buying beads and showing off their creations of beaded jewelry.

When you see some of these baubles, you understand why beads are currency in so many civilizations. Except for the part about you can make them yourself, I don't see why the custom of using beads as money ever went out of fashion. I told one vendor that if she needed a website, I could build one, not for money, but just for beads.

Seems a fair deal to me, because if she gave me money, I'd only blow it on more beads. Glass and gem stones, and silver and vermeil. Now, in your best Homer Simpson voice, repeat after me: "OOOOh, Garnets."