But Call Me Betsy

My friend Kelly and I were talking the other week about how we apologize too much; how pretty much every request is prefaced with "I'm sorry." A few examples: *When ordering a drink at a bar: I'm sorry, but could I please have a glass of wine? *When purchasing cigarettes: I'm sorry, but could I have some matches? *When buying groceries: I'm sorry, but would you mind scanning my discount key? You get the idea. "I'm sorry I exist and have needs. I know I'm just asking you go do your job, but I'm really sorry I have to!" There's also the "I'm sorry it's-your-fault" scenario. That is when you apologize to the person who just did something rude to you: Bumped into you when coming out of a door, stepped in front of you in the elevator , mangled your toe, spilled a drink on your shirt, stabbed you with a pen knife. Another variation on this theme is the "I'm sorry you're such a dick" phenomenon. That occur...

Rocket Cat brings out the worst in me as a human being. It is not necessarily the fault of the coffee shop; it's the humanity that I encounter here. Last time, it was the people talking loudly about their very personal problems. Before that, the irritating baby that we were all supposed to find precious. Today, it is this guy sitting beside me who should most likely be laid up in bed with Vicks Vapor Rub on his chest, a large box of Kleenex, orange juice, bed pan, and enough cold medicine to knock out a yak. He keeps sniffing and not like a little sniff but one of those snotty sniffs that you know is just barely keeping his running nose from dripping on to his computer. Like, would it be too much to ask for him to blow his nose or to take a cold tablet or to fucking stay home if he's that sick? I think I'm also irritated because he has one of those tiny, puffy soul patches of hair on his chin, as if he has had a run in with a tuft of cat hair. Now he's singing along ...

That was Shawn's title for the photo to our left. I'll try to write more tonight, but we'll see since I have a hard time connecting to the Internet at home.

I signed up to take another undergrad advanced fiction writing class and almost didn't go because the other two courses I attended in the summer (both were entry level fiction) were made up mostly of disinterested twenty year olds who wrote about--well, actually, I can't remember what the stories were about, except for this one girl who wrote a great story about living in Japan that was nicely understated and had a line I love describing the Japanese roommate as seeming to have a head full of "unicorns and rainbows." Anyway, I almost gave up on going to the class because I had trouble finding it and was late, but then I decided I could go at least this one time and sit through a few hours and then never return if I hated it. The course turned out to be a good mix of people--mostly guys, which is a surprise and two older women (three if you count me) and then two cute younger girls. There are always a few slender hipster girls in these classes. They wear low slung ti...

I have a proposal for the next election—no individual with a Southern accent should be allowed to run unless he or she can at least pronounce some of the basic vocabulary words kerectly. Against my will, I am listening to President Bush’s Presidential Address of EyeRack. He is perhaps the least charismatic speaker I’ve ever heard. He says everything exactly the same. He has no passion. He has no public speaking skills. He is reading the words written by some intern who is cringing underneath a table somewhere in the White House. He is only reading; he has no particular intonation. It seems all he can do to go at a slow and understandable pace. Here are some words I believe a President should know how to pronounce: Al Quaeda not Al Kahdah Children not Chirren and Granchirren Terrorists not Tara wrists America not Merica I can’t believe that someone hasn’t given him some speech giving skills. He says “We-owe-it-to-them-to-buyld-a-greater-fuetur-and-ensure-Merica’s-struggle-fer-fr...

We watched our favorite nanny on Monday night trying to help a husband and wife with five boys ages 9, 8, 6, 5, and 3. If I had been Super Nanny, my first suggestion would've been to get rid of a couple of those kids--any child under the age of 7 would immediately be dropped off on the doorstep of UNICEF or Sally Fields' house. But SN instead decided to sit the parents down and show them videos of themselves being bad parents and then they had to talk about why they hated each other so much and write down a list of what they despised most about the other person and then burn it up on the front lawn with the kids watching, telling them, Mommy and Daddy are going to try not to get a divorce and split all of you alls up. The father was told not to yell at his two stepsons so much and to have quality time with them. He took them out front and made them wash his taxi cab and splurted water down their pants. They loved it. Later, the whole gang went to the park and played soccer. By ...

Shawn's dad bought us a very nice gigantic outdoor grill for Christmas and so we went to Super Fresh last night and got some meat and threw it on the grill and then ate it all up like the all-consuming carnivores we are. Meanwhile, because we are in the midst of global warming, our windows were open, allowing us to hear the screeches of the wild packs of teenage gangs in flip flops who streak through our neighborhood. I happened to glance outside and counted nine fourteen-year old boys as they ran, one after the other, past my window toward some drama on the corner or away from some drama on the other corner--it's hard to say which. So now I'm at Rocket Cat listening to Belle and Sebastian and trying to get motivated to write fiction--even just a little teeny tiny itsy bit. The nice barissta is here--she's small and wears a knit cap over her short curls and she moves quickly as if it actually matters that you're waiting. Though I won't go into details, we are ...

Well, it turns out that Miss Sprinkle Face Mumu Kitty Cat is not in fact pregnant. How do we know this? She is currently trying to mate with everything in sight--a shoe, a towel, the Christmas tree--everything except for the other two cats, who look on with great embarrassment as she caterwauls and sticks her butt in the air like a little hussy. We must now get her fixed and fast because no one can sleep with all of her yowling. Jodie took a great photo of her this morning which I'm hoping she'll add to her Flicker page, but here's one Shawn took this morning: