Good News, Bad News

The good news is that my cell phone still works and that I am fine.

The bad news is that the orange coat is apparently flammable. And stinky while burning. Burning with the phone and me inside it.

This peanut-sauced chicken whose burner set me on fire had better be worth it.

[Edited to add: Yes, yes, it was.]

Blogging for Choice


Here’s our dashing President bravely signing the Partial Birth Abortion Ban back in 2003. Look here for Andrew Sullivan and his two other male guest bloggers sitting around discussing whether a zygote is a human being. Note that old Sully and Ross and Julian aren’t arguing for a strict anti-abortion position.

And, actually, I’m not going to use any space here arguing for a pro-choice position.

I’d just like for y’all to stare at this photo for a little bit and then read through this discussion which manages to never include or consider input from the woman carrying said zygote and to really get it, to really understand how it feels to know that we’ve mastered ways of talking about what happens to women without including women in the discussion at all.

(I’m blogging for choice early because I get enough do-gooder spam and I’m not about to give my email address to another group and I’m determined that, on one important feminist issue, I’m going to beat Egalia to the punch. )

In Which Our Hero Admits a Personal Failing

Sarcastro took me bowling last night, which was great fun. I was rusty. No, to say I was rusty is an insult to rust. So, let’s just say that the difference between someone who’s never bowled before and me is not that much, except that I don’t have the excuse of not knowing what I’m doing.

However, while bowling, probably about the time I let the ball slide off my fingers and roll towards Sarcastro, who was standing behind me*, I realized that I bowl right handed.

America**, I’m not right handed. I use my right hand to move a mouse, shift my car into drive, and wipe. That’s it. Otherwise, it just hangs there like some vestigial limb. Why would I try to pick up any object that weighed more than, say, seven ounces with my right hand?

As a girl who’s made a career out of mocking other people’s obtuseness, I’ve got some nerve***.

Sarcastro actually came into our house, which I thought would spur the Butcher into cleaning, seeing as how we’re having company this weekend. When someone comes into your house and has no place to sit or even stand for all the slacker pothead accoutrements littered about, most people can discern that there’s a problem with the level of picked-up-ed-ness of things.

Yet, when I ask the Butcher, “Are you going to clean before Shug gets here?” he just looks up at me through one half-closed eye and says “I did clean.” Perhaps I should ask if he inadvertently cleaned another house, not ours.

*And yet, I came back from that embarrassment to get a spare.
**And other nations of the world.
***Also, this weekend, after watching The Lost Boys for the eleventy-seventh time, I realized that all the folks the vampires have the altercation with on the carousel end up dead.