Have you ever read Mary Roach's "My Planet" in the Reader's Digest? She's a humor writer that writes about her encounters with her mechanic, lawn care, buying furniture, and whatnot. (You can do like I do and read them all at under humor.) Anyway, at the end of one of the articles, it mentioned that she had written some books, and I thought "Oh good! Humorous short stories like what she does in My Planet!" So I go the library, and I get her first book, and it's called "Stiff: The curious lives of human cadavers". And it's about what happens to human cadavers! It was actually really good. It's funny, but respectful, and most of it is not that gross. (The chapter entitled "Eat Me: Medicinal cannibalism and the case of the human dumplings" was a little disturbing, but the rest of it was neat). She talks about how they're using cadavers to test flak jackets for the army, and as crash test dummies in automobile tests, and of course, to train surgeons. She's done unbelievable amounts of research, and if you're not squeamish about the dead, read the book. I've included the excepts from the back of the book below:

"To learn the weight of the human soul, in 1907 a Massachusetts physician engineered a special bed-scale upon which he installed his dying patients. At the precise moment of their passing, he watched for a downward twitch of the needle. By his determination, the soul weighs three-quarters of an ounce-about the same as the big toe."

"For every cadaver used to test and develop airbags, 147 lives are saved."

"It is possible to eat oneself to death at Thanksgiving. In 1891, a German physician sat a cadaver in a chair and filled its stomach until it burst-at about a gallon."

See? Neat stuff about being dead. You'll get some weird looks carrying the book around, but I found it to be really cool.


You have not heard from me in days and days because I have been waylaid by an evil, yes EVIL sinus infection, and have not been able to come into work for the last two days. It is in my head, it is in my ears, it is in my jaw (which I didn't even know sinus infections could do, but apparently they can). The pressure is killing me! I asked very nicely if Tony would drill a small hole in my head to let the pressure out, and he said no! Then I asked if he would just gently break my occipital bone to let the pressure out, and he said no again! Then I asked if he would just remove some of my teeth to get the pressure out of my jaw, and he still refused! You just can't get good healthcare these days. I have decided that my theme song for this sinus infection is Zombie by the Cranberries. For the past few days I have been laying around moaning, "In my heeaaaaaaad, In my heeeeee-aaaaad, they are fight-ting...With their tanks and their bombs, and their bombs and their guns, in my head, in my head, they are dy-ying!" When the fever spiked, Tony decided enough was enough and took me to a walk-in clinic. After an hour in the waiting room, the doctor spent MAYBE 75 seconds with me, most of which consisted of looking in my ears and going "yep. mucus" then looking at my throat and going "yep. Mucus" and then writing a couple of prescriptions. Then it was off to the pharmacy, to get my happy little hot pink pills. On the way home I was reading on the box of pills that side effects included nausea and diarrhea, but only in 1% of the population. Guess what. You just happen to be talking to 1% of the population. But who cares! If it will get the pressure out of my head, I can put up with a little additional bathroom time.

Can you hear me now? Oops!

Here's something that just makes my day. I dropped the cell phone in the toilet.
It was hooked to my belt, and as I undid the buckle, the phone when Zip! off the belt and Sploosh! into the toilet. I fished it out (luckily the water was clean...well as clean as toilet water gets anyway) and blow dried it, and it never quit working, so I thanked my lucky stars and continued on my merry way. Two days later, it shows message that says "Service required". I called my helpful Sprint people, and they said that a diagnostic would need to be run, and to take it to the local Sprint store. I took it to the Sprint store, and they told me that the cost for the diagnostic was $35, OR I could buy a warranty plan for my phone, in which case all diagnostics would be free. The Warranty plan just happens to also cost $35. So I buy the warranty plan, fork over my $35, and the result of the diagnostic is "Hmmm. Water got inside your phone. It's broken". (And for this I paid $35? Brief stomping and cursing). Fine. Fix it. "Ohhhhh no" they say "the warranty covers everything EXCEPT water damage. There's no fixing this phone. You'll have to buy a new one". (More stomping and cursing). All my pictures that I had one there? Gone. All my phone contacts? Gone. Much gnashing of teeth on that day. But in the end, I got the buggers back. I refused to buy their overpriced replacement phones! I just went back to using my old blue one that I had previously. Works just the same, jut no picture taking capability. Meanwhile, there's a new phone on ebay with computer link up capability, so it's kinds like a palm pilot and phone in one. Tony says I don't need something that fancy, but maybe...

"Just wait til we get our Ames on you"

By the way, the title up there is meant to be sung to the Hanes commercial jingle, so that it goes, "Just wait til we get our Ames on you!"...Yeah, never mind.

For all my Non Hah-vard fans out there, the Ames is this contest that they do at Harvard Law where they get in little teams and write briefs, and then "battle" those briefs in oral arguments against other teams. I think there's a round every semester or so, until the third year, when somebody wins. I asked what they won for all of this hard work, but apparently you just get your name in the paper or something. I'd at least hold out for a toaster.

To help you better visualize such a battle, close your eyes and imagine the following:

Scene: Still shot of HLS campus, in colorful Pokemon style animation.

Two law students are standing in a ring with the traditional oversized eyes of Japanese Anime, and funky spikes of hair. Suddenly one pulls out a little red and white ball and throws it, calling out something asinine like, "Ridinghood v Wolf brief, I choose YOU!" Close up on the brief with "zooming through the air" streaks rushing past, and several minutes of strobe-like flashing which causes entire cities to have epileptic fits. Change to close-up on other opponent's face, which is a slow motion, ridiculously prolonged expression of shock. Add gasp. (Because the first rule of Amine is "Why talk when you can do a close up on a single art frame and just gasp?).

Now, you'll be glad to know that when Stepher and her teammate Allison totally rocked the kasbah in their oral arguments, so they will be moving on to the next round. True to the Pokemon form, they won by keeping their eyes as large as possible and prolonging each facial
expression an additional 15 seconds before changing suddenly to the next one. They also gasped a lot instead of speaking. Growls also work. Guaranteed win.

So my congrats to all you Ames teams who have made it to the next round. Be sure to display your briefs so that they resemble a small yellow flying squirrel thing, or a dinosaur with wings.

Erin go what?

Happy St. Patricks Day all you wonderful people out there in blog land!

I read an article yesterday that said that true Irish Catholics (the Ireland variety) don't have a big celebration for St. Pat's day. There's no green, and they don't drink lots of beer. It's a somber day, they may eat a big meal with the fam, then retire to the living room to sleep it off, and that's it. But then, the Irish tourism board caught wind of what Americans THOUGHT that the Irish were doing, so, being an opportunistic tourism board, they immediately started having parades and green beer. The Ireland Irish think that it's an American tradition that for some reason, Americans go flocking over to Ireland to celebrate, but they're getting lots of tourism dollars out of it, so why rock the boat? Kiss your lucky blarney stone and start taking the American tourist's money.

There goes Peter Cotton-tail...

So yesterday I was puttering around the back porch, refilling my bird feeders, and I found half of a rabbit under the porch. A big rabbit. And the left half. I don't know where the right half went, and the part that was left was not all in one piece. Luckily, he'd been there long enough that he wasn't still gooey, and it was mostly just fur and feet. When I first saw it, I was like, "Oh look! A rabbit nest where the momma bunny has lined it with fur...and her back leg". Needless to say, EWWWWW! I made Tony come out and scoop it up with a shovel and throw it away. What worries me is what killed the rabbit, and how it came to be under our back porch. The rabbit in question was almost the size of a small cat, and literally ripped limb from limb, so I don't think a cat could have done this. Besides, cats will break its neck, but they don't usually rip it apart. That makes me think dog, but we have a fenced yard, so how did a dog get back there? And back out again? Tony suggested maybe a raccoon, which he says would be both big enough to rip a rabbit apart, and agile enough to scale our fence. He also says they would have the disposition to tear Peter Rabbit limb from limb. (By the way, did I mention that raccoons will be the next exhibit at the local zoo? Keep your hands and feet in the car at all times). Whatever it is, I have given it the newspaper-worthy name, "The Suburban Killer" and am seriously concerned about Mason being out on the screened in porch by himself. True, there's screen between him and The Suburban Killer, and he could run back inside the house if he felt threatened, but he's a house cat. How would he know he was in danger? He's never felt threatened by anything scarier than the vacuum cleaner. I could lock the cat door so he couldn't get out, but he loves being out there, and closing it off would create one very ticked off kitty who knows where I sleep. Anyway, the whole point of having a screened in porch was so that the boys could enjoy it. Tony says that the cats should be fine...he doesn't think the Suburban Killer would want to get through the screen, even if he could, and I guess he is the resident raccoon expert. However, if I find another dismembered animal under the porch, we're going into extreme lock-down, and I don't care who stands on my head in the middle of the night and fusses.

On the soap box

Warning: I have pulled out my official box of soap and am preparing to launch a full missile strike against one of my very favorite pet peeves, the "reality" TV show. If you're a fan of "reality" shows and are prone to melodramatic rants towards my comments section (and why wouldn't you be? You learned from the best- the reality show itself) then turn away now, and use this very special time to reflect on what exactly draws you to watch such ridiculous television. (I'm talking about the Survivors, the Wife Swaps, the Apprentice, the Bachelor and Bachelorette, all of those variations where the girl falls in love with the geeks but then chooses the hot guy in the end, the Real World, the Big Brother houses/farms/communes, and the like).

I wish they wouldn't call it Reality TV, because it's not reality, and a lot of it is encouraged, if not straight out scripted. It's just not an accurate cross-section of society. (If it is, then Heaven help us.) There are no "nice" people on these shows. There are no sweet grandmas, or people who would help others and expect nothing back in return, or (gasp!) shy people! There are only spotlight hogging, extremely aggressive people with egos the size of planets. True, the directors want it to be that way because they think that makes for entertaining television. They want there to be controversy. They think that it would be boring if everyone just got along.
So they pick "strong personalities" and create rifts on purpose. Someone who liked everyone, or worse, didn't care if someone didn't like them, would never get on the show. With my common sense, I'd never make it past the first screening. You'd have to be an Ammorosa, or that irritating psycho woman that they're always showing on the promos of the Bachelor, or a Vegetarian, Jewish Mom who gets switched to a household full of Nazi, Deer hunting Carnivores (actually, I think that one airs tomorrow night). Sigh.

What really worries me is that are kids are growing up watching all of this, and they think that acting like this is normal. It's okay to have a screaming match to get your way, or backstab someone that you're supposedly working with, or double-crossing people with secret alliances. Can you imagine people growing up and trying to work in an office like that? It doesn't work, even if Donald Trump pretends it does. It's going to ruin the kids of today, and worse, other countries think that this is how Americans work. They already don't want to work with us because of our incredible egos, but no one is going to want to cooperate with someone who glorifies winning by spreading rumors about all the other candidates. It's all downhill from here, and I blame a lot of it on reality TV. I'm moving to Switzerland.

Now, cue the people who will vehemently defend their favorite show, (fill in blank here). How dare I say that (show contestant) isn't "real" just because they are driven/have the guts to speak their minds/not afraid to look for true love in Paris with 28 hot girls who are all pretending to be someone they are not so that they can be the last girl standing and thereby launch their acting career? Why, if I had half the (characteristic of above mentioned show contestant), I wouldn't write such stupid blogs. (Favorite show here) is wonderful! It's about the American Dream! True love! Fighting scurvy on a tropical island! Just for that, I'm fired! I'm out of the alliance! I'm not going to marry the guy pretending to be rich when he's really a construction worker. I rest my case.


THE OLYMPICS ARE ON! THE OLYMPICS ARE ON! I am so excited. (Yes, I know, I am one of maybe 20 people who are watching it this year.) I do NOT understand why other people don't find the Olympics as exciting as I do. Our little 21 year old downhill skier guy who has never placed higher than 32nd before, and is the newcomer to a team of strong veterans WON the gold last night in a phenomenal run! His Mom cried, his Dad cried, he cried, (I cried), and his teammates hoisted him up on their shoulders and paraded around with him while he cried. Or, how about our guy who won the 500M speed skating Gold on the 13th anniversary of his grandmother's death, because before the race he wrote her name on the front of his skate with a marker, and when he started to get tired, he remembered that and pushed to get Grandma across the finish line first? You can't BUY TV that exciting! I'm watching curling, and I don't even know what the object of the game is. I just know that those little broom sweepers are really excited, so I am too. And don't even get me started on how much I love Snowboard Cross! Not that it's all fun and games. (Well, it is all games, but not always fun). Last night in the men's short program figure skating, Weir(d) was an absolute idiot. The guy named his glove on his costume! When he won Silver, the camera zoomed in on him and he did this ridiculous little shoulder wiggle and dance. I'm embarrassed that he's representing our country. I'm starting a campaign to officially give him to France. I really wanted the Austrian to win. He did an incredible skate, but he caught his foot on his other skate going into a jump and it tripped him up. Poor guy.

Stepher's project

Stepher, the brilliant Hah-vard Law school sister, is going to teach the law to 7th graders as some kind of pro bono project that she has to do for class. (This is Hah-vard's way of infiltrating and infecting the minds of our young so that they too will yearn to grow up without a soul).

Unfortunately for Stepher, the 7th graders already know why lawyers are important to society. It's to convince the judge to try you in juvie for knocking off the convenience store. And in the event that you do get time, the lawyers are the only ones who can send you mail that can't be read by the warden, so you can use that to put the hit out on one of your homies on the outside.

Here's my opinion on the matter (and since it's my blog, mine is the opinion that counts. If however, you agree with my opinion, then I'll let your opinion count also). 7th graders are dangerous little monsters. I was one once, and I remember. I think their interpretation of the law should be that if they so much as thinking about doing something wrong, then the 7th grader ends up in jail. That would be beneficial to them. 7th grader buys some drugs? Boom! Sentenced to jail. 7th grader skips school? Goes to jail. Talks back to mom? Jail. Copies homework? Jail. Sits directly behind me in a theatre and giggles on a FREAKIN CELL PHONE through the entire movie? Jail, and then lethal injection. That's what 7th graders need to know about law. And if one of the little smart mouths says otherwise, tell him that "It's not what 150 years of precedent says, it's how the LAW SHOULD BE".

Banana Pudding Cake Update

Banana update: I was feeling kinda bad about not knowing that Tony thinks he hates bananas yesterday, especially since the cake is just sitting there, tormenting him, so I stopped by Kroger on the way home to get him some Valentine's cupcakes. I got 6 chocolate cake ones, and 6 vanilla ones, just in case he thinks he hates one of those. So I get home and put the cupcakes down and notice that a large portion of the banana cake is no longer there. Hmmmm. This is very strange, since the only person in the house all day is a self-proclaimed banana hater. So I ask him if he ate the cake, and he gets all sheepish and says yes. He quickly adds that it's still yucky, but in a half-hearted way. Because it's Valentines Day Eve, and we're getting ready to go to my favorite restaurant, I let it go, but I cannot help smirking. The outspoken banana hater has a secret love of banana after all.

Banana Pudding cake

I don't claim to bake by any stretch of the imagination, but every now and then I get the taste for a confectionary delight, and 9 times out of 10, the only way I'm going to satisfy that craving is to make that something myself. Hence my recipe for banana pudding cake, which has been painstakingly handed down through the generations with love and care...that is, right up until somebody posted it on http://, at which point I printed it out and claimed it as my own. (It's faaaaaabulous!) Besides, the bananas were hitting that point where they were too brown to eat, so it was the perfect solution. I had it out and iced when Tony came home, and he immediately swarmed it. I told him that he had to have dinner first before he ate cake (Boooooo!) so he stuffed down some pasta and then tore into the cake. I swear he had a 4th of it, and was stuffing it into his mouth like it'd the last thing that he'd ever eat. Anyway, I asked him if it was good, and he said yes. He had finished the piece off when I asked him why he would eat banana pudding cake, but not banana pudding itself. He announces that it's because he hates bananas. I told him that there were bananas in the cake. He throws his fork down, announces that the cake is yucky, and he KNEW that something tasted bad in there, and that he was just eating it to be nice, and how could I TRICK him into eating bananas, and try to POISON him like that? He stared morosely at the rest of the cake for the entire night. Imagine, a whole cake, RUINED by bananas! I immediately told him that I was just kidding about the bananas, and that I only told him that so that he'd save some cake for me, but he wasn't buying it. Nooooo, now he could TASTE them in there! Blech!

All this time, it never occurred to me that he didn't like bananas. We keep bananas in the house! He eats my banana bread! (When I pointed this out, he said that the bread was yucky too.) He's so silly. Like a child who has suddenly decided that he no longer likes a certain food, even though he doesn't know it when he's eating it. I'm not sure what's worse...the idea that I deliberately tried to feed him a food that he didn't like, or that after five years, I don't know what he likes and doesn't like.

What women want...

I've been lecturing about the good and bad types of chocolate every time one of those Valentines commercials comes on. For example, that irritating Kay's jewelry commercial comes on, and it's talking about how all women want a heart shaped pendent for just $99, and I'm mentioning that ACTUALLY, women want chocolate, but not assorted crème-filled chocolates, noooo, women want high quality solid milk chocolate, or something like turtles for Valentines Day. We'll see if I get anything.

Cocoa Bean

I dyed my hair last night. Nothing drastic, just one of those washes-out-in-28-shampoos, home dye kit. I was sitting in church, trying to listen to the sermon, and all of a sudden I think, "I feel like dying my hair again." So we stop by our local Kroger on the way home, and Tony immediately picks out this bleach blond. I told him no. Said it would look weird with my coloring. He says no, I'd just look like a blond with a tan. (I think he always wanted a blond, but ended up with me instead. Doesn't really bother me though...I always thought that I'd marry a guy with hair period. Just goes to show that what you thought was important isn't always so). Anyway, he picked up "cocoa bean" next, which was pretty close to my natural hair color, and that was what I was looking for anyway. It's a little darker, and it's got a bit more shine to it that my current color "mousy brown". I came in today and all the girls were like, "Your hair looks fantastic! Where did you get it colored?" None of the guys have noticed, which I guess is pretty par for the course as far as guys are concerned. I like it. It was just enough change. Of course, it will just get lighter again through my 28 shampoos, but that's okay. I didn't want to mess with roots showing, so I wanted something that would fade back into normalcy.

And the stockings were hung by the chimney with care

So, do you all have all of your Christmas decorations up yet? I spent the first part of Monday morning up on the roof, scooting along a dangerously steep incline on my butt at the refreshing temperature of 31 degrees. Tony stood on the ground below, taking the flashing bulbs out of the lights and offering such reassurances as, "You're going to fall off and die!" and "There aren't even bushes over there to break your fall!" (He had originally planned to get on the roof also, but the awkward angle of the roof and his fear of heights made him, I told him someone needed to stay on the ground to change out flashy bulbs). He did climb up onto the extension ladder though, just to prove he could. We also bought our "fresh-never frozen" tree at Lowes, and carted it home to put up. I'll give him one thing about his insistence that it's not Christmas without a real tree--they smell WONDERFUL! The whole house has this great pine
scent. And without even mopping the floor! The boys have never really paid attention to the tree before, other than to look at us like we've lost our minds when we drag it in. This year, however, Dixon has been stealing nibbles on the lower branches, which has resulted in little wreaths of cat barf with pine needles all over the hallway floor. (This shortly on the heels of Mason deciding he had a taste for artificial plants, which he barfed up all over the duvet. Don't even ask how much that cost to have it dry cleaned!)

I am so tired of cat barf. We have a spray that is supposed to taste bad enough that when you spray it on the plant/tree/flower arrangement, the cat won't eat it, but I've been holding off because it also has the added side bonus of smelling like burned plastic. I think the time has come though.


So I came home from work yesterday to discover that one of my fish had inexplicably headed to the big fish tank in the sky. No disease. No injury. No note. Just gills up, and lodged as deeply into the plants as he could possibly float. I had to uproot the entire plant to get him out. (I say I did it...actually, I had Tony dig him out). I claim emotional attachment to the little buggers, but I think it's really more of a gross factor for me. A quick burial at sea (via flush), and life goes on.

I find it easier to take if I look at them as "living decorations" like plants, as opposed to pets. That's my most important piece of advice for new fish owners. Fish are NEVER pets...that's also why they don't get names. Name a fish, and it's like daring it to keel over-which it will happily oblige. Besides, if you ask me, that Gourami looked old anyway. Fish only live a couple of years(with some exceptions) and who knows how long he was in the store?

Home Improvement

We spent the weekend tiling the kitchen. There was a workshop on how to tile on Saturday at Lowe's, so Mom and I went. After gathering necessary tools and such ,(which took about 5 hours, but that also includes the detour around to the plants section, and dinner) we began our tiling adventure. We started at 10pm, but Tony came back downstairs at midnight and told us that we were being too noisy and to quit. He and I picked it back up again on Sunday morning, and tiled until about 5:00 when we ran out of tile (exactly 12 tiles short- I KNEW the Lowes "tile expert" didn't order enough!) Tony is ordering more tile today (special order) and the rest will probably show up Wed or Thurs. Then we'll be able to finish. It's both easier and harder to do than what I thought it would be. Easier because the technique is rather simple...harder because you have to do it while leaning over at a 90 degree angle to get under the cabinets. It definitely falls under the "manual labor" category, but we're saving ourselves $8 a sq foot by doing it ourselves instead of having it professionally installed. Plus it looks really good, if I do say so myself.

In self defense...

So about a week ago Sunday, Tony and I were on our way home from church when all of a sudden, my lips started burning. Weird. I remember touching my mouth, but that's no reason why they should burn like that. Perhaps I am insevere need of chapstick. Mental note to put some on when I get home. Other thought was that I had one of those Arby's wraps for dinner, and maybe one of those ground pepper kernels had been stuck in my teeth or something. Gasp! pepper in my teeth after I greeted all those people during the "peace" part. (You know, the part where the priest says "peace" about 50 times, thus signaling the time of the service where you turn to the people around you, shake their hand and say "peace be with you". I have a contest going with Tony to see who can get the most "peace". I think I had something like 7 that night, which only makes it more mortifying that I smiled at all those people with a hunk of pepper in my teeth). Mention something to that affect to Tony. He says he's sure no one noticed. I say that people notice those kinds of things, they're just too nice to point it out. Tony says he didn't notice anything in my teeth. Considering Tony doesn't notice new pieces of furniture, I am not convinced.

Approximately a minute or two later, I innocently rub my eye. ARRRHRHHHH! My eye is on fire! It's like someone put acid in it!!! I've got my eye squeezed shut like a pirate, and I'm demanding that we pull over so that I can properly rip the offending eye out of my face. Tony, (whose eye is not burning) points out that we can't pull over-we are on the interstate, and if I'll just hang on a minute, we'll be home where I can stab myself in the eye in private (and he can watch tv while I do so). Pound myself in the eye with my fist. Eyebrow starts burning too. WHAT THE CRAP?!?! Something must be on my hands! I have acid on my hands!! How did I get acid on my hands??? Think back to 7 "peace" handshakes. (NOT SO PEACEFUL NOW!!!) Did someone have something on their hands? Chemicals? Harsh cleaning products? Who knows what those people touch out at Oak Ridge. Thoughtless of them not to wash their hands before coming to church. (Try to tear up so as to wash it out. More burning!!!) Also consider that this is not so "accidental". The new Pope movie comes out tonight. Possible anti-Pope terrorists making a statement by lacing hymnals with acid? Whole church could be blind by now!!! (except for Tony, who doesn't touch the book because he doesn't sing) Oh cruel fate! Oh freakin' burning eye!! Almost rub eye again before remembering that the hands are compromised. (Hold hands out and up like surgeon finishing scrub). Glare at them in horror through one squinty eye. Other eye, I am convinced, has been eaten away already. Shudder at idea of wearing an eye patch for the rest of my life. (Perhaps a glass eye would be better. Mental note to google glass eyes later). Finally get home and wash hands with soap and water. Wash eye with soap and water. Wash eyebrow with soap and water. As a precaution, shoot myself in the eye for 15 minutes with kitchen sprayer. Am thoroughly drenched, but eye is feeling better. Tony inspects gaping eye socket. "Looks fine. Not even red". Kinda implies that I did all that fussing for nothing. Run to mirror to inspect eye. Looks fine, although kinda wet. It's a miracle!

Fast forward to Thursday night. Innocently shopping with Mom, secure in the knowledge that the Anti-Catholic acid terrorists are an isolated incident, and wouldn't come after me in a furniture store. I am debating the earth-shattering effects of going with a beige chair in the living room vs taupe. Pushy sales lady (who has never seem my living room) is suggesting beige. Suddenly, my highly sensitive eye-goop detecting meter goes off. "Whoop! Whoop! Possible eye goop lodged in corner of right eye!" Obviously, eye goop would severely affect the true color of the beige/taupe dilemma, so I rub it out with my finger. And HOLY CRAP!! IT'S IN MY EYE AGAIN! THE BURNING! THE BURNING! (Sales lady is wondering if chair looks different with one eye squeezed shut like a pirate. I seem to be doing that a lot). Luckily, being with Mom, (who has the bladder size of a marble) we have already scouted the bathroom area of the store, so I can run back to it, half blind and squinting at everyone as I rush past. Store bathroom does not have kitchen sprayer. Plebeians! Make do with about 50 wet paper towels instead. Finally burning subsides. Wonder if maybe this is a medical condition that I will be forever plagued with. Like a trick knee, only a trick burning eye. Not a happy thought. Explain situation to Mom. Note that location, people, weather all different between two occurrences. Only thing that is the same is...I'm wearing my black jacket. Of course, I wear my black jacket almost every day, so that can't be it. Mom suggests that I was standing with my hands in my pockets seconds before the attack occurred. Perhaps something fell into my pockets, or my coat somehow came into contact with terrorist acid. Will investigate when I get home (where I will be in close proximity to kitchen sprayer, if the need arises).

Home. Take off jacket, and circle it warily. Pockets are packed with all kinds of stuff. Pull out scarf and inspect. Looks normal. Pull out gloves. Also normal. Pull out Scooby Doo ear warming head band. Scooby would never do anything to blind me. Pull out blue highlighter inadvertently stolen from office. Oops. Pull out tape measure. Pull out chapstick. Pull out gas receipt. 3 to-do lists. A phillips head screw. Tube of lip gloss slightly leaky canister of pepper spray.

Epilogue: Despite carrying the pepper spray for protection when walking to the garage at night after work, it has proven to be more detrimental to my health than a benefit. I have removed it from my jacket pocket. I am also slowly getting over the embarrassment of having pepper sprayed myself...twice. That said, this has been a highly valuable lesson. Obviously, being pepper sprayed does not leave you rolling on the floor, screaming until you lose consciousness. (It does however, make it impossible to keep your eyes open). While temporary blindness is okay for your common criminal, I want my attacker to REALLY suffer to the point that he's completely incapacitated while I kick him. Obviously blindness does not equate to the paralysis I'm looking for. I'm thinking of getting a tazer.

Birth of a Blog

I have long held the belief that too many people blog, and the vast majority are incredibly boring. Because of this, I have, up until this moment, resisted becoming one of the minions to share my worthless dribble with the masses.

That was the case right up until I discovered that I am obviously brilliant. Apparently, my dear sister (who is currently attending Hah-vard Law school, learning all the industrious ways to sell her soul to the devil) has been selflessly sharing my daily emails to her with all of her friends, AND they love hearing all about the insignificant details of my day. I figure if the Harvard law school students think that I am fascinatingly witty, then it must be true. Besides, that was just the push my ego needed to think that the whole world might be interested in what I have to say.

So welcome happy blog-readers! Welcome to my little slice of the internet. If you find the content lacking, just remember that I have several dedicated Hah-vard Law readers that love it, and they are obviously the smart people.