Monthly Archives: July 2009

Real quick.

My phone freaked out & didn’t post everything.
I meant to say that my heart would explode from
all the caffeine.

Back to driving.

Radio silence.

Forgive the radio silence for the next few hours, folks. I am on the road. I’ve got a Bille/Frank playlist & I brought Steyn’s Song For The Season. I’m set.

It is terrifying how much caffeine I ingest on road trips, people. One day my heart is going to e

I heart AZ.

I actually like this idea quite a bit. I saw the headline yesterday, but failed to comment on it. Arizona is, in my opinion, the greatest state in the Union. There is no reason that it should be in this kind of trouble, aside from poor leadership. You know the head of DHS, the incompetent Ms. Napolitano? Well, she was in charge of AZ for entirely too long. Coincidence?

I think not.


June Christy singing “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered” throughout my otherwise silent house is divine. I do not get to be alone enough, I don’t think.

I love this song.

Collection of thoughts.

Pandora just gave me the gift of Ella Fitzgerald singing “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most.” If you haven’t bought Steyn’s collection of SotW, you should. TW, I think you especially would like it. It’s right up your alley.

Speaking of alleys and things being right up them, I saw an ad for Judd Apatow’s new movie, Funny People. Sandler and Rogen in an Apatow film together? I must have been very good this year, because that’s exactly what was on my Christmas list. I am baffled by my attraction to Seth Rogen, but I find him deeply sexy. And talks like he’s got a mouth full of marbles. Go figure. Another film I’m going to drag the husband do under protest, during which he will mock Seth Rogen relentlessly until I throw the bucket of Diet Coke at him and move to a seat elsewhere in the theatre, Fun, right?

I’m looking forward to it.

And they aren’t even squatting.

Spooky it may be, but I think this would be pretty damn awesome. We’d have that place locked down within a few hours, and then we’d have a 32 story condo. It would be, as my friend Krissy says, tight.

A brand-new, empty condo building all to myself? That’d be a dream come true.

RIP, Mike.

I can guarantee you that Mike is resting in peace. What male doesn’t want to go out after a marathon session with his ladies? Come on, don’t deny it.

Poor randy sea lion.

Makes sense.

I knew it. Guinness is a wonderful beer, and I knew that it had to be good for you. I just knew it.

My kind of summit.

Honestly, a beer summit sounds like something I’d enjoy immensely.


Ew. It has occured to me that I am in lust with Bale’s Batman/Bruce Wayne, not Christian Bale. I wouldn’t kick his John Connor outta bed either, but the manorexic look is just icky.


Who’s wearing the pants?

40 lashes for wearing pants?! That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? Well, that’s shari’a for ya. It doesn’t really have to make sense.

Every day, as I scour the internet for interesting and inspirational tidbits, I am reminded of all of the freedoms I take for granted. Like my obsession with designer jeans. Or my distressed denim mini. Or laughing in public. It’s the little things.

Good for Miss Hussein for standing up for herself and the women of Sudan, considering the law isn’t even supposed to apply to non-Muslims. I wish her luck.


From an intellectual standpoint, we all know that “a lot” of abortions are performed each year across the globe. Even putting it in numerical terms doesn’t necessarily convey the sheer scope of it. I think the problem could be in the terminology. Abortion advocates have managed to couch the procedure in the most neutral of terms, which makes it all seem a little less real. “13 million abortions in China each year” means less than “13 million babies killed in China each year,” doesn’t it? The article in question got me thinking about the sheer magnitude of loss we, as a race, have suffered.

All life has value, from the oldest person to the tiniest fetus. Even the black widows I torch in my backyard have value, as they are little poisonous miracles. This doesn’t stop me from killing them, but my daughter’s life is more valuable than theirs. I feel bad about it every time; I really do.

I used to be less concrete on this issue, but in all honesty I was being cowardly. It’s such a contentious issue, I didn’t feel like arguing with the people I cared about. And then I had a daughter. And then I lost her. And then I had another. I look at my girl and wonder how anyone could choose to give this up, could actively and consciously choose to stop the life growing inside of them. 13 million children gone in China alone–who knows who they would have been?

I dream in flowers.


I had the strangest dream the other night in which I was standing in a field of giant, waist-high peonies at sunset. Even in my dream, the smell was amazing. What to make of that? It was so vibrant, so gorgeous, I’d love to go back.

Peonies, hyacinth, magnolias and tuberose are my favorite flowers. I guess it’s only fitting that I dream about them too.

One Anglophile’s sorrow.

I was always a bit confused by UK’s ban on Michael Savage. I’m not necessarily a fan, but then again, I haven’t listened to him in several years. From what I remember, he’s harsh, he’s angry and he’s loud–something that just doesn’t work for me. But he’s hardly ban-worthy. Apparently, the British government thinks so as well, and only put him on the “least wanted” list to balance things out.

Honestly, how pathetic.

Officials cited Savage’s “homophobia” as a possible, albeit weak, reason to ban him, which Steyn points out as hypocritical and stupid:

I’d also add that the point of the Home Office banning him was too look even-handed to “moderate Muslims” – such as Sir Iqbal Sacranie, head of the Muslim Council of Britain, who on the BBC a while back expressed the view that homosexuality was “immoral”, “not acceptable”, “spreads disease” and “damaged the very foundations of society”. But that’s not homophobic, just vibrantly multicultural.

The UK’s government has been spectacularly disappointing this decade, which is terribly hard on an Angliophile like me. I love Brits and Scots and the Irish and the Welsh. I love tea and accents and double decker busses and football. I love the English version of English. I love their tabloids, for God’s sake! I have them all bookmarked. I know who Jordan is! And Jodie Marsh–which makes my blood run cold, but I soldier on.

The Brits are letting me down, and it’s making me so sad. Since the first time I saw Disney’s Robin Hood, and read Narnia, I’ve only wanted to grow up to be British. Why have you forsaken me?