I've clearly died from this crappy lung infection, because I could swear that I read in the morning Herald that:

1. The Miami Heat are one game away from winning the NBA championship.

2. The Florida Marlins have an 8-game winning streak going.

I have a raging sinus infection. Is it moldy air-conditioning vents? Is is brush fires? Is it something else?

Don't know, don't particularly care.

Want teeth to stop throbing. Want head to stop hurting. Want sinuses to stop bleeding into the back of my throat.

Yeah. Way too much information. On the other hand: I'm wearing the cutest little drag queen shoes today. For them, I even forego my usual rule about white shoes.


And here's a close up of the bling and matching toenail polish. Hey! I practice what I preach, people.

Again with the cankles. Again with the leggings. In Miami. In the summer. And this dress? I love this dress style. I'm making one for myself even now. And Erin, over at Dress a Day has been obsessing about the Duro for a couple of months now.

But, see, it's supposed to be loose. And flowing. Not tight across the bust and constricting the ribs and giving one an appearance of either A) advanced liver disease or B) advanced pregnancy. And I may possibly be wrong, but I don't think the sleeves are supposed to be medieval in length, either. You know, like only to the wrist, not over them and down to the tips of your fingers.



The things I have to put up with, living in this city... I swear, it makes me yearn for the days of old men wearing bad wigs cruising the beach in their white shoes and shrimp-colored sports coats. At least in those days a person could get a decent pastrami sandwich over in Miami Beach without having to take out a loan on their house.

And while I'm on the subject of "what ever happened to Jewish delis in this town", what ever happened to the bowls of free pickles and cole slaw and the basket of rolls on every table, even before you ordered? Huh? And Jewish bakeries like the late, great, sorely missed and never to be replicated in my lifetime or yours, Pumpernick's? Where the ashtrays had "Nicked from Pumpernick's" printed on them. It was at 63rd and Collins, and I once rode there, on my bicycle, in the dead of night, from the University of Miami for a slice of cheesecake.

This was yesterday's Savage Chicken cartoon.



I love me a bad pun.

A Very Long Time ago, when I was young enough to be president of the Dade County Young Democrats I went on a radio talk show to debate the president of the Dade County Young Republicans about a woman's right to choose. (That's abortion rights to you). He was sincere in his beliefs that women should have the right to consult with men who could make the decision for her. I was and am sincere in my belief that it ain't nobody's business but my own. (And by my, I mean each woman and her own conscience and her own body.)

The POTDCYR postulated thus: "What if you and I met at a party and went home together and made love and you got pregnant? Wouldn't I have some say in what happens next?" To which I replied, quicker than it took him to get through Part B of his sentence:

"Inconceivable."

The host cracked up. I cracked myself up, and the poor Republican tool spent the rest of the hour trying to convince me that it was not totally out of the realms of possibility that I could ever find him attractive enough to go to bed with him.

Lost cause, even if he hadn't been a dweeb. I NEVER (knowingly) slept with a Republican.

Hurricane season is barely two weeks old and we have the first storm of the year. Hurricane Alberto. To which I can only say: Oh, bite me.

Back at Jackson (We Treat Everyone Like Crap) I always tried to get the hurricane information live on line June 1st. The PR department (It Doesn't Have To Be Done Right, It Only Has To Be Done) felt that nobody pays any attention until August, so the web site didn't have to be updated til then and the special edition of the company newsletter that dealt with hurricane preparedness was never distributed (oh, hell, who are we kidding... was never even sent to press) before mid- to late August.

Here at my new job, we've been having drills and meetings and consciousness-raising since May.

The storms of last year did the work of G-d's own weed whacker on my trees, so this year I have no mangos to lose. Or to eat. Nor avocados. Nor royal poincianna flowers. The mulberry tree managed to put out berries, but the spring was so hot and dry that for the first year since I've been in the house, they were too small and tart to be worth eating.

I finished another quilt top this weekend, except for two borders that would have been done, had I cut them correctly. It's turquoise and brown, and a lap-sized beauty. I love the colors so much that I already have another one worked out in my head using the same two fabrics that were in this one, with additional fabrics filling out a large palette of browns and turquoises. It'll be much larger than this one, as well.

By the time I head over to the Gulf for my annual week of laying around doing nothing but drinking and laying around on the beach chair (will break for naps and food) I should have four to six tops heading off to my sistergirl's place for quilting.

Being a secretary has been the greatest boon to my creative energy ever. Why did I waste so many years working as a commercial artist when all it did was sap my creativity?

Oh, yeah. I remember. It filled my coffers with filthy lucre and enabled me to have health insurance.

And I'm not talking about the kind from Star Trek, that got into Ensign Chekov's head, or any of the other varieties that are always popping up in horror movies. No, I'm talking about the song that gets in there and attaches itself to your synapses and won't let go.

Thanks to Reecie, damn her,
this is now stuck in my head and on a permanent loop on the i-pod.

Play at your own risk.