My Friend B.A. was blissfully ignorant of Sheena Easton's late 1980's mega-hit, "Sugar Walls."
Sugar Walls Lyrics, Click Here
Prince wrote the song for her. Now, prior to Prince, Sheena Easton looked like this:


After Prince came inside her sugar walls, she looked like this:


Prince scares me; in high school I had a dream that he was trying to anally rape me. (I think we've covered this subject before on... LoLo's blog?)

Anyway, I thought I would spread the pain around.

Gay Heavy Metal at its Hardest!
Thank you, B.A.!

I came across Velveeta Fudge yesterday, while I was cruising for recipes.

“How delightfully disgusting!” I thought to myself. Immediately, I thought to share it with you guys. But I was also reminded of a glorious blog brought to my attention months earlier by my good friend B.A.: Steve! Don't Eat It!

Here is a sample of things Steve is exhorted not to eat, yet he eats anyway for our education and enjoyment:

A Houston witch is asking for $3 million in damages from a Unitarian church whose members she says harassed her when she refused to teach them Wiccan rituals

The unkindest cut of all, she alleges, happened when the Unitarians started referring to her unflatteringly as "a humpbacked, toothless, redneck hillbilly witch."

He used to work on the Altoids account.

Miss Kathy (on your left, my right. My right in the picture, I mean. Oh, hell, she's the one with the dark hair!) is engaged to marry the fabulous Mr. Jeff! While this is good news for you, I realize it's bad news for all the guys looking for an attractive, funny, intelligent woman; there's now one less on the market.

But it's good news nonetheless! Best wishes, Miss Kathy! We love you!

Hooray for Ubergirl Elder!

I wanted to post about happy things today, like Ubergirl Elder's first day of kindergarten and an all-chocolate lounge called Ethel's. I can't with the people in New Orleans and the rest of the Gulf Coast suffering through a devastating hurricane.

I also want to know what jackass could name something causing destructive 90- to 120-foot waves "Katrina," considering... well, see the picture.

It's that time again, folks. Cowboy Nick is on the move again.

But where is he? The scamp! He could be near enough anywhere, I reckon'.

Here's your clue:

"The quiet serenity surrounding this outstanding building is evident in the spiritual truths that it represents: the oneness of God, the oneness of mankind and the oneness of religion."

Anyone have a guess? That clever cowpoke has fooled you this time, for sure!

My heart broke when I saw cousin Lou Lou’s pudgy fingers grasping my precious Minnie Pearl collector plate. It sickens me to think of poor Minnie hanging on that trashy trailer wall, even if she will have her friends Loretta and Tanya next to her.

When I heard that treacherous traitor daughter of mine say, “I’m sure Ma would say you should have it, if only she could talk!” I about split my spleen right then and there. Why the good Lord burdened me with this pack of thieves and lowlifes for a family I’ll never understand.

Traitors and ne’er-do-wells, the whole lot of ‘em. If I could get out of this wheelchair and thrash them with my broomstick, I would. Confound this stroke of mine. Now I get to live out the rest of my days in a nursing home. With old people. Old people who smell like mothballs and talk nonsense.

And could they have chosen the fancy home for me? Oh, no. They wouldn’t think of it. There wouldn’t be enough inheritance to squabble over once I’ve passed, I imagine. Instead, they chose Woodland Arms.

It’s just as well, I suppose. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by drunks and scoundrels, so the staff at Woodland seems mighty familiar to me. Now I’ll have to do is get used to the smell of Lysol. I’ve always hated Lysol.

My spoon collection! Put that down, Charlene! I hate you, you redneck piece of…no, that glimmer in my eye is NOT approval, you southern-fried hussy! It’s wrath, I tell you, you bunch of deceitful ingrates!

Fine. So be it. But I’ll get my vengeance someday. Mark my words.

I just wish someone would roll me away to Woodland so I wouldn’t have to see all this. I hate my family.

They better come visit me.

My brother and I were the youngest members of our extended family, and thus played together with whatever toys we could find while the "adults" talked or played cards or whatever.

Depending on who we were visiting, we could have anything from Tinkertoys to a moldy 16-inch softball to stretch into an afternoon's entertainment.

When we were visiting my aunt D in Mount Prospect, the choices were painfully clear:

Dynamite Shack

or Gnip Gnop.

Those were the only two games in the house, and Dynamite Shack stopped working after awhile, thankfully. That game either caused my current anxiety problems or exacerbated them horribly. From the Dynamite Shack original instruction manual: "All you have to do is put your bundles of dynamite sticks down the chimney of the Shack. It sounds easy – but there's a catch! One problem is, you must use the clumsy 'thumbs' to pick up the sticks. The other trick is, the Shack is ticking away like a time bomb, and at any moment, 'POP' – off comes the roof. The player who gets caught must take back all the sticks put in by the other players. The player who gets rid of all his sticks first is the winner."

One of our favorite games in our own basement was Mystery Date.

Well, my two older sisters and I loved it. We didn't so much play it as make fun of the guys in the pictures, who were all from 1965 and exceptionally dorky looking. In fact, the so-called "loser" was actually more attractive than the "bowling date" with his lime green ensemble and horn-rimmed glasses, or the "ski date" in his shiny stretch pants and tassel-topped knit cap.

I can't find individual pictures of these gentlemen, unfortunately. If I do, I will first dance joyfully around the room, then post them for you.

Correction!! SYSM would like me to correct a misconception I had. I thought the kind sir had left this Anonymous comment on my blog last night: "You're a Virgo...you are essentially doomed with this perfectionism...believe me...I know.
So, how IS your mother? And, do you really WANT to be a MILF?" I thought he left this comment because he is a Virgo, like me. And someone enquiring after my mother would, I presumed, know me in the off-blog world. And, he doesn't have a blog of his own. However, twasn't him. So, my anonymous friend, let me know who you are, please. it was NOT Sysm.

Anonymous (not SYSM) poses an interesting question, to which I have a simple answer: I don't really care. The whole MILF thing to me is a joke, which is why I chose my moniker. I rebel against labels of all sorts, whether they are applied to me or to others. I spent too much time in marketing; the whole concept of grouping people into segments with labels offends me deeply.

But I do have a self image. And that self image is plucky, independent, sassy and wears chic clothes. This isn't about sex appeal; personally, I believe people can be sexy in all shapes and sizes. But my size is starting to edge up to where it's interfering with my self image.

I want to be one of those glamor girls from the age of black and white films, or a 1920's flapper going to gin joints and dancing to jazz. Or Sophia Loren. Or Grace Kelly. Someone with poise and elegance.

I am not maintaining myself. And the less I maintain myself, the less self-dignity I feel. And the less self-dignity I feel, the less inclined to maintain myself I am. It's a vicious circle.

But I am a smart lady and I will snap out of it. I'm just bitchin' and moanin. And admitting it is the first step to change!

Or three, actually... counting all my beloved Blogger friends.

One, I've been doing some reading online and I think I know the roots of some of my self-destructive impulses. Now, all I have to do is figure out how to effectively deal with my mother... stay tuned for that! Amusing stories no doubt to follow!

Two, I found the Oriental Trading Company catalog that came in the mail today. The Halloween issue, no less! And I have my theme set: dead pirates.

From this catalog, I can order:
* A full-size pirate skeleton dressed in velvet coat
* A skeleton in leg shackles
* Pirate costumes for the whole family
* A full-size Jolly Roger flag
* Black, ripped, gauzy fabric to hang around that looks like tattered sails
* A pirate chest loaded with toys and candy, so the trick or treaters can reach in
and pick their treat out of the chest
* More skeletons!
* Fog machine and fog mist

And that's just a start! My friends, I L-O-V-E Halloween! Now I have something to occupy my crazy brain. Hee Hee! Who wants to come to a party at my house? They even have martini glasses with disembodied skeleton hands wrapped around the base, and skulls you can drink out of with a straw, and much, much more!

Thank you, Oriental Trading Company! You've made me very happy!

As I was driving today, I realized how closely my driving resembles my approach to life. I drive in a constant state of anxiety that someone will usurp my lane and crash into me.

It doesn't help that the two car accidents I have been in (one so minor that no damage was done) have both involved someone crossing into my lane and hitting me.

Now I drive constantly aware of each and every car, making sure I'm in nobody's blind spot, driving neither too fast nor too slow, but in perfect rhthym with everyone else so that nobody crashes into me. I am convinced that at all times, at least one of my fellow drivers is so selfish, so intent on his or her aims that he or she doesn't care whom he or she crashes into.

Or, the someone is frantic, and may make a mistake. Or, someone is on allergy medication... or worried about a loved one... or any number of other reasons. It doesn't matter the reason; I am constantly braced for attack.

Unfortunately, that's how I live my life as well. It's led me to develop a dangerous strain of perfectionism -- if I don't make any mistakes and keep cute as can be, I lessen my chances of being hurt. It caused me to develop anorexia in high school, put up with abuse at TEO's hands, and made me terrified of aging. I constantly fear losing people's love because I am not cute enough, not nice enough, not entertaining enough, or, (ahem), I don't like the band Queen.

Now, I am worried because I am hurting myself. No, not cutting or attempting suicide, or anything serious. Just treating myself like shit, then punishing myself for treating myself badly by treating myself even worse. I want so badly to break this cycle, but every failure compounds. The more I need to treat myself well -- feed myself healthy food, exercise, play, create -- the less I do it because I'm flogging myself for mistreating myself in the first place.

I would tell my doctor about this, but I really don't want more meds. I already have depression and anxiety meds, and they have helped. But I need some sort of behavioral change that lets me climb out of this pit. Any thoughts would be greatly appreciated.

ADDENDUM
Evidence of my downward spiral: Insomnia
I woke up at 1:30 a.m. and didn't fall back asleep until nearly 4:30 a.m., despite watching the movie "Orca" on American Movie Classics (clearly a misnomer.) I can't explain why; the closest I can come is my joints felt itchy.

Further evidence of my downward spiral: today's food log
Breakfast: 3 cups of coffee with half and half and REAL sugar; black cherry yogurt
Lunch: Green salad with ranch dressing, coconut shrimp with french fries, 1/2 gallon or so of lemonade
Afternoon: Piece of glazed cake, 1 butter cookie, 1 key lime cookie
Later afternoon: Ginger ale
Dinner: Handful of potato chips, some Reese's Peanut Butter Bites, Macaroni and Cheese
But at least I didn't eat this:


It also comes in Key Lime and Passion Fruit. Hurry; they're limited!

I am tired of propaganda. Can anyone tell me what could possibly be wrong with Hugo Chavez? He was democratically elected. The only people in his country who hate him are the elite, who are pissed off because he uses their oil to fund social programs instead of line their pockets.

And he's friends with Castro. Anything else? Am I missing anything? He wants to undermine oil companies and give poor Americans petroleum products directly, I know that.

What else? Why should he die, Mr. Robertson? Because I see nothing to support that course of action. Nothing. I'm not an expert, though; can someone tell me more?

My sweet, clean, well-cared for daughters decided to take a mud bath today. They got wet in the wading pool, then rolled around in a muddy patch like a couple of piggies.

They are now clean again. I wish I could say the same for my bathtub. Sigh. I shall now snap on the rubber gloves and get to it.

We will not be going to Kiddieland, or anywhere else for that matter.

Construction workers are ripping up my street. We are stuck at home, temporarily. Which means you, dear readers, are stuck with me today.

W00t!!!

Here's a picture of Pat Robertson's best friend (left) -- the one he doesn't want us to know about.

His friend also made sure I ate leftover cake and candy from the birthday party.

Ubergirls and I will not be around this afternoon. We're going to Kiddieland (right) with Grandma and Grandpa.

We'll think of you while eating cotton candy and spinning around on dangerous 80-year-old rides.

Click Here if you haven't already heard about his latest idiotic rantings.

The girl of the hour

Administering anesthesia to Dora before inserting candy

Waiting to Attack

CAKE!

PRESENTS!

Is this picture flattering to the American male?

According to Lifetime Movie Network, men are divided into two camps: dangerous sex-crazed villains, and men who would be dangerous sex-crazed villains if only they weren't too fat and lazy. Oh, and the lazy ones spend most of their time scoffing at the truths they refuse to face because they are fat and lazy.

Women are either helpless, stupid victims or raging vengeance-crazed vigilantes.

I love searching through the titles of these movies, like "Tall, Dark and Deadly." "Terror" can be found in several places, notably "the Family," "the Mall," "the Night," and "the Shadows."

My favorite so far is called "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?", a 1996 film starring Tori Spelling. Here's the synopsis:

"A naive female college student falls in love with a charming pathological liar, credit card scammer and murderer. When her mother attempts to break up the relationship, the psycho boyfriend abducts the daughter and hides her in his cabin in the woods."

That baby has EVERYTHING.

More about my future brother-in-law, his family and this church to which he and my sister-in-law belong.

We know from Dilf's earlier comments that this guy is quite proud of his Trans Am bought at police auction. Hence the "Jesus Loves a Bitchin' T.A." reference. His father and brothers are similarly obsessed with machinery that moves -- cars, motorbikes, airplanes, whatever. They urged Dilf to get Ubergirl Elder out on a motorbike, something that would unite my mother-in-law the emergency room nurse and my mother the anxiety-ridden worrywart in a scheme to skin Dilf alive. Slowly.

Searching for common ground following the prayer supper-cum-bachelor party, my husband suggested they could ride go carts. There was a go cart track not far from the restaurant, in fact. "No," said one brother smugly, "They don't go fast enough for me." Thus ended the evening.

But a fascination with shiny moving objects is not offensive. Less benign was the discussion surrounding Gary, Indiana. For those not from my area of the world, Gary is an economically depressed city just east of Chicago with a high crime rate. African-Americans make up roughly 85 percent of the population.

The Evangelicals were discussing the plans for a third regional airport, noting that Gary would be the most logical location, but "those animals" wouldn't know what to do with it. Dilf was concerned; was that racist, considering the population? Or about criminals in general, since it was such a high-crime area?

It got worse. "Didja hear about the bathrooms in the high school there?" (still regarding Gary) "They put in new toilets, and they only lasted 15 minutes before 'those animals' tore them out of the wall! They had to install prison toilets!"

"That's just as well," continued the brother, "They'll probably all wind up there anyway." (Grunting, mirthless laughs from the Evangelicals.)

Dilf was horrified, but I think that whole network of people is very prejudiced. His sister once remarked to me that she thought "all black people looked alike."

"Really?" I said. "Denzel Washington and Dennis Rodman look alike? Vivaca Fox and Isabel Sanford look alike?"

"Well, no," his sister said, sheepishly. I think she expected me to nod in agreement and was surprised when I challenged her.

Please don't misunderstand; I am not accusing any large group of racism, Christian or otherwise. I think this group of people she hangs around with, who met at church and whose social activities are centered around church, are racist. That bothers both Dilf and me very, very much.

Hint:
About 1,200 people lived in and around this place, most of them women, children, and priests. The buildings are thought to have been planned and built under the supervision of professional architects. Most of the structures are built of granite blocks cut with bronze or stone tools, and smoothed with sand. The blocks fit together perfectly without mortar, although none of the blocks are the same size and have many faces; some have as many as 30 corners. The joints are so tight that even the thinnest of knife blades can't be forced between the stones.

This bastard was seen in the home of my good friends, B.A. and The Queen of the Harpies. Now, when I went to clean my downstairs guest bathroom, he was attached to the backside of the towel and almost made me wet my silky Uberdrawers.

B.A., did or did not Queen of the Harpies instruct you to kill this foul beast? But noooo, you had to succumb to some leftover hippie-shit leanings and spare its life. "Oooh," you said to yourself, "I cannot disrupt Mother Nature's plans for this gentle creature. I shall spare its life, and throw in into the garden. Live, my little arachnid friend, live!"

Well, guess what, asshole! He found his way south and west and wound up on my guest towel! Then, he found himself smeared on the business end of my flip flop! He was scary, too... he had a skeletal system and everything.

Rest easy, citizens of Earth! The murderous fiend has been extinguished.

No thanks to B.A.

Loyal readers of this blog may recall me mentioning my sister-in-law's upcoming marriage into the "cult." It's not really a cult; just some Evangelical Christian church descended from the Puritans.

Tonight, DILF is attending a bachelor party for the groom-to-be. It's being held at Smoky Bones.

Now, anything with the word "bones" in it might suggest sexy things. But it's just a barbeque joint. DILF called me on his cell phone after dinner. He was taking a smoke break; of course, he was alone. He called because he made a couple of faux pas.

For one, the future groom's father and brothers (which comprised the entire bachelor party besides DILF) had given him gifts. Power tools. DILF had never gone to a bachelor party that required wrapped gifts; usually buying a round of drinks sufficed.

Then, he started to dig into his green beans before they said grace. Oddly enought, he wasn't expecting to say grace at a bachelor party.

Don't get me wrong. DILF has attended bachelor parties that did not involve looking at naked ladies. His own, for instance, he planned to be an all-nighter at his favorite watering hole playing poker and darts; his rationale was he didn't spend time at strip clubs when he was single, but he did enjoy the pub crawl, so that's what he wanted to relive. The fact that one of his friends went against his wishes and hired a stripper... well, that is another story, and really DILF should be the one to tell it.

Also, many men choose to attend a sporting event, or play golf, or even shoot paintball guns at each other instead on engaging in the stereotypical "stag party." But a non-alcohol, prayer-based bachelor party with tasteful gifts? That caught DILF a bit off guard.

This is just a guess on my part, but I think he may be home early.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

Mr. Housing Bubble

Carrot Top: The Despised.

Carrot Top: The Repulsive

Carrot Top: In a Loser Contest with Corey Feldman. Who won?

Carrot Top: Dangerously close to showing clown-orange pubic hair.

If I'm wrong, and you actually like Carrot Top... please, don't let me know.

Due to the success of "we-play-anything" radio stations such as Jack FM, I find myself tuning into a song in my car, only find myself listening to the worst music on the planet 3 minutes later.

While they are several genres of really bad music, like Dante's levels of hell, one in particular struck me yesterday -- "hard rockin'" chicks who turn soft and perform love ballads.

I have three horrors for you to consider:

Heart, "These Dreams"

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away


Pat Benatar, "We Belong"
We Belong to the light
We Belong to the thunder
We Belong to the sound of the words
We've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace
For worse or for better
We Belong, We Belong
We Belong together

Scandal, "The Warrior"

Shooting at the walls of heartache
Bang, bang
I am the warrior
Well I am the warrior
And heart to heart you'll win
If you survive the warrior, the warrior

Now, SYSM, I know your thoughts on the matter. Anyone else have an opinion?

I ordered Ubergirl Elder's cake from the Busy Bee bakery. She chose Disney Princesses, with pink and lavender flowers. It will have yellow cake, whipped cream frosting and chocolate mousse in the middle. The bakery's closed on Sunday, when her party will take place, so I ordered it for pickup at 2:30 p.m. Saturday.

There's one small problem.

The big Bicycle Race is this Saturday. It's some big national championship thing held every year in downtown Downers Grove. It takes up all the parking. It attracts large crowds. See the picture?

The bakery is smack dab in the heart of the action. So DILF will be precariously balancing a giant whipped cream concotion in his arms, walking several blocks, through a throng of excited bicycle fans.

It's time for the park district board meeting again.

At the first one, they passed a carefully-worded motion to "not cut down trees or alter the southwest corner of McCollum Park." Apparently, and incorrectly, they felt this would shut us up.

But I found the last meeting very enlightening. These people on the board are unclear on the concept that I and my fellow taxpayers own the parks, and they are appointed to carry out our wishes. One woman on the board, the SECRETARY no less, complained about receiving our letters and emails, which she claimed actually DETRACTED from her duties as park trustee. She was also the only member of the board who didn't reply to my email. The SECRETARY. That whiny bitch is the first to feel my wrath tonight.

Instead of enlisting the involvement of us pesky taxpayers, our park district board has allowed, nay, encouraged, an "advisory board" of non-park district sports club entities to unduly influence the park district board. These leagues do have some Downers Grove residents, but are not limited to our residents. These non-tax payers, non-owners have our board's ear. Perhaps they pay huge user fees, you may think. Money talks, right? Well, they don't. Not even close. They're all just buddies, and doing what this "advisory board" wants allows the board the luxury of not thinking.

Now, Ubermilf has some experience with these boards and such. I reported on village board meetings for a local cable station, I worked for a fire district, and a downtown merchant's association. I am not going to use my anger. That leads to the dark side. Plus, they can dismiss you as a random lunatic.

Instead, I'm going to be sweet, calm, and icily logical. I am going to ask uncomfortable questions in a cooly respectful tone. I will make them squirm. And in the case of Madame Secretary, cry. Hee hee. I do so love when my evil can be used for helpful purposes.

And people -- next time there's a local election, vote. Please???

Ubergirl Elder's birthday is Sunday. High on her gift wish list is Groom and Glam Brietta -- pictured here. It's the head of a winged horse, from the upcoming movie "Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus" or some such nonsense.

My mother, my niece and I went to Toys R Us to shop for birthday gifts. We stopped by the display for this horse head thing. None of us wanted to buy it, despite the delight it would bring Ubergirl Elder.

"Lip gloss on a HORSE?" said my mother. "I just can't see that."

"It's scary looking," said my niece.

"It reminds me of "The Godfather," I said. "Maybe I'll buy it, and leave it tucked into her bed on her birthday morning, so when she wakes up..."

"Don't forget the ketchup," says my mother.

The adolescent stockboy thought we were a stitch. But then, he was probably looking at my 20-year-old niece's ass at the time, and just trying to get in good with us.

It appears I jumped the gun this week and many people missed "Where's Cowboy Nick." Besides, it seems it was too easy.

So, without further ado, I present this week's OFFICIAL "Where's Cowboy Nick." Here's your clue:

"It ranked as the tallest structure on Earth for more than 43 centuries, only to be surpassed in height in the nineteenth century AD."

I hear Udder Balm is good for saddle sores. Just say the word, Nick, and we'll send you a case. We just need to know where you are... any guesses?

Mon Aug 15, 1:43 PM ET

LONDON (Reuters) - UK police said Monday they were searching for a man wearing just a diaper, who approaches women late at night and asks: "Are there any baby changing facilities around here?"

Cleveland police in northeast England said the latest incident occurred around 11 p.m. Sunday when he surprised a women walking her dog in a play area in Eaglescliffe, near Middlesbrough.

Police said no one had been assaulted by the man but described his behavior as bizarre and a cause for concern.

"There have been several reports of him having been seen in Eaglescliffe dressed only in a nappy and we are keen to trace him and speak to him," police said.

Click Here.

But wait ... there's more!

Naked Elvis!

Does Dr. Sardonic still read my blog? Do you, Dr. Sardonic? This is a good picture of you, don't you think? I think so. Do you mind telling the rest of us just what you were doing in this picture? I'm sure it's very interesting.

And why are your pants wet? At least you're still wearing them. But do tell us what made you so... moist. Hmmm?

Plastic baskets of bondage
Smelly hampers of hopelessness
The whirling, swirling void
Swallows our outer shells of conformity
Before the malevolent hum of the dryer
Gases them into submission
My failure smells like fabric softener


I do not want the salmon
But I buy it
I do not want the salmon
But I encase it in plastic
I do not want the salmon
But I freeze it
I do not want the salmon
But I defrost it
I do not want the salmon
But I cook it
I do not want the salmon
But I eat it
I do not want
the salmon

I wish I could be encased in jello
Like a pineapple chunk, or mandarin orange
And view the world through bright cheery colors
All harsh edges erased
But then someone would get hungry
And ruin my world
And then I'd have to see the world as it is
Plus, I'd be sticky

Yee Haw! That cowpoke sure got roped into a mess of hot soapy fun! But what city did he visit to get his high powered rub-down? Here's a hint:

"...a city of wonders far exceeding what words can tell! That's why we thought you might want to take a closer look at this spectacular city divided into two continents by the Bosphorus."

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood
In your neighborhood
In your neighborhood.
Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood,
The people that you meet each day.

Due to the power outage, the death and the house fire, we interacted with more neighbors than usual this past week. We learned the good, the bad and the ugly.

I know you're not all that interested in the good, and the bad will just make you sad -- so let's skip right to the ugly.

We live on a shortened block because our street ends at the park on one end and the subdivision through street on the other. We've gotten to know the four families on our street in the year since we've lived here, but since they're the "good" we're not going to discuss them today.

Let's get right to the ugliness: neighors watching the fire.

At the end of the street, as I mentioned, my elderly blind neighbor passed away Thursday morning. Next to her, around the corner, is the house that caught fire on Friday when the power came back. I've spoken to the woman who lives in the burnt house on a few occasions; she takes a walk in the park with the lady with no eyebrows who lives across the street from her, so she passes my house on the way. She seems nice, verging on AARP membership, unremarkable. I never met anyone else from the house, but her husband and her son live there, too.

When the house caught fire, my next door neighbor, her teen aged daughters (Ubergirl Babysitters) and DILF were helping with the animals, bringing water, etc. Another neighbor, who I haven't spoken to much, was looking on. As he's getting in his van, I said, "God, how many weird things can happen in this neighborhood?" And he said, "Yeah, really."

"Of course," he added, leaning in toward me confidentially, "You know he was a child molester, right?"

"No!" I said, shocked. My next door neighbor had described him as an "odd duck, Vietnam Veteran" who locks you into conversation and won't let go. But not evil.

"Yeah," he continued, "He used to sit and take pictures of the little girls on the way to school. And, do you know the (Blanks) in the blue house across the street? They said he was taking pictures of their daughters through the windows, and of them in their bedroom!"

"I didn't see that on the sex offender list," I said.

"Oh, they didn't call the police," he said, "I'll talk to ya later. I gotta go." He got into his van with a big W '04 sticker in the back window, and drove away.

I thought to myself, if some pervert were looking in the Ubergirls' bedrooms (which would require a ladder; and the Blanks have the same model as we do), DILF would either call the police, chase the offender down the street with a baseball bat, or likely both. They didn't call the police? That raised red flags right away.

So I mention this story to my next door neighbor. "What??!! No! Who told you that?" she asked. "I never even saw him with a camera."

I tell her: the Blanks told guy X over on street Y. She looks disgusted, then says, "The Blank guy is the same guy who said, 'Good riddance' as the (XFamily) boy lay dying on the side of the road from a head injury."

More shock on my face. She added, "(XBoy) did get in some trouble, but he was just a kid. And he was dying. That Blank guy's a piece of work."

Meanwhile, the nice mom of The Boy Who Dressed As A Fireman/Dalmation on Halloween and Plays with Ubergirls in the Park (yeah, he's got a long name), asked me what happened with the fire. I told her: A power surge caused a fire in the garage when the power came back on.

She relayed this info to her next door neighbor Tim, who was hosting Ubergirl Elder at his home while she played with his daughter at his house when the fire broke out. While she was reporting, the van driver's wife ran over to them, yelling, "Oh, no. That's not what happened! They had a meth lab in their garage!"

Tim looked at her and said, "Yeah. Well. I better go clean out my fridge."

"Yeah," said nice mom, "Me too."

Nice mom has always made an effort to talk to me and make friends, and now I know why. She's living in a barracuda tank with those neighbors of hers. Her husband is named Jan and speaks with a foreign accent, so I'm sure they aren't treated very nicely by anyone besides Tim.

Remind me to invite her over for coffee some day.

Wednesday, late afternoon -- I am shopping for school supplies at Office Max. The lights dim, flicker, then go out. Since I live nearby, I tell them I'll come back.

I head toward home. All lights, including stoplights, are out. I see a plume of smoke and emergency vehicles everywhere.

We learn the nearby power station caught fire. My mind immediately combines this fact with hot summer weather and lack of air conditioning, and repeats "Some Like it Hot" over and over in my head.

My electricity is also out. We talk to neighbors, including the neighbor's family two doors down. That neighbor is not expected to live through the night; thus, her entire family was there.

Thursday -- The next morning, lights are still out. Dilf is home on vacation this week, so we decide to go to the Museum of Science and Industry to see that body exhibit. (This is a whole story to go into later.)

We return; lights are still out. Next door neighbor tells us neighbor two doors down passed away at 9 a.m. that morning. We visit grandma and grandpa.

Lights are still out when we come home. Com Ed promises they will return by 6 a.m.

Friday -- 8 a.m. Enraged DILF marches to fire station at the end of our block where Com Ed is handing out ice, water, batteries and McDonald's certificates. He also brings back Caribou Coffee.

We begin purging and cleaning refrigerator, mopping floors from melted ice, and washing dishes. (Dishwasher doesn't work. It was full.)

At 1 p.m., power returns. My neighbor's house (next to the newly deceased) catches fire from the power surge. Their three cats die and their house is destroyed, but the people and dog are otherwise okay. We agree to watch doggie overnight.

2:45 p.m., power goes out. Again.

5:30 power comes on. I write blog. Neighbor returns for dog; they will be staying with family.

It's now 6:13 as I write this.

So. What's new with you guys?

This is what America is becoming: a big bloated tick on the Earth's surface. Oh, not all of us, of course. With poverty levels rising and rising costs for "luxuries" such as health care and utilities draining the middle class's paychecks, we're not all riding the gravy train.

Just some of us. And, contrary to American mythology, it isn't the hardest working, or the cleverest, or those most willing to take risks. Michael Ovitz proves my point.

In case you haven't read the news, Michael Ovitz received a $140 million severance package when he left after just 14 months of poor performance. The board of directors cried foul at this, and challenged it in court.

However, "Sanford Litvack, Disney's former chief of corporate operations and chief legal officer, testified that Ovitz's 'total failure' as president didn't mean he could be fired for cause." He gets to keep it, because he made sure he signed a contract stipulating he'd keep it, even if he were an abject failure. His buddy Mike Eisner sure is a shrewd businessman.

I want to clarify something: if some person rakes in tons of cash for turning a company around from red to black ink, or invents some new kick ass item, or takes a chance on a new venture and it takes off, I have no problem with large earnings.

I have a problem with rich people guaranteeing other rich people that they will stay rich people regardless of talent, knowledge or labor. That disturbs me.

I fear that this will only increase, with the offspring of these wealthy people expecting a similar reward for simply existing. This Time Magazine story article describes some of these up-and-commers:

"Carla Wagner, 17, of Coral Gables, Fla., spent the afternoon drinking the tequila she charged on her American Express Gold Card before speeding off in her high-performance Audi A4. She was dialing her cell phone when she ran over Helen Marie Witty, a 16-year-old honor student who was out Rollerblading. Charged with drunken driving and manslaughter, Carla was given a trial date — at which point her parents asked the judge whether it would be O.K. if Carla went ahead and spent the summer in Paris, as she usually does."

If you think these aren't signs that the wealthy are becoming an aristocracy reminiscent of the 18th century French nobility, read this report from May of this year.

"In 1973, CEOs made 45 times as much as workers, according to pay expert Graef Crystal. In 1991 -- when Crystal said that the imperial CEO 'is paid so much more than ordinary workers that he hasn't got the slightest clue as to how the rest of the country lives' -- CEOs made 140 times as much as workers. Last year CEOs made more than 300 times as much."

According to this news story from Monday, a pharmacist in Wyoming confused tubes of hemorrhoid cream with tubes of super glue and sent the wrong product home with several customers.

"I have to keep the glue behind the counter because of the kids huffing it," explains Jensen. "I'm so sorry for the mix-up."

I'd like to introduce you to a new segment called "Where's Cowboy Nick Now." I give you a picture of Nick in a famous place, plus a written hint, and you cowpokes tell me where that critter's done gone off gallopin' to. This week's hint:

The Danube flows at its head and the Rhine babbles at its feet, all set in a natural splendor that is veined by 3000 km of trails that climb over jagged mountains and between majestic trees. This area forms one of the most beautiful landscapes on the Old Continent.

Does anyone have a guess?

I've decided to give the South Beach Diet a chance.

I will let you know if it's working. I'm also going to the YMCA today. I hope nobody smelly picks the treadmill next to mine. I'm just sad that I have to start all over again with my workouts.

Despite the fact that my clothes all still fit, I can still tell my conditioning is back at square one. Sigh.

I put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, shut it, locked it, and turned around to find the Precious Moments terrorist had struck again.

For the past three years, each and every time I have traveled from my home, someone has left a Precious Moments figurine in my hotel room. Actually, the same exact Precious Moments figurine: a clown, holding balloons.

The first time, I thought it was part of the décor in the hotel. The hotel mailed it to my home, thinking I had left it behind. I threw it away.

It reappeared when I visited Tulsa, then, in Portland. The fourth time, in Atlanta, I became disturbed, and hammered it into smithereens with my shoe. That did not stop another from being delivered to my Philadelphia suite.

My job requires extensive travel. I am a property inspector for a national real estate development agency. At first, I suspected someone in my office of leaving the figurines. After all, who else had access to my travel plans?

But then, I took that spa vacation to soothe my nerves. When I peeled the cucumber slices from my eyes following a nice, relaxing nap, there it was on the nightstand. It stared at me, with its eerily vacant yet sorrowful eyes.

I asked every employee at every hotel or resort I visited: did someone make a delivery, or ask for my room number, or lurk in the hallway? No one has any clues to give me.

One would think that its appearance would cease to unnerve me, but I become increasingly unsettled with every visit. I have changed jobs twice, but it still finds me.

I tried to change careers. I took a real estate course, but when I entered the classroom, there it sat on the teacher’s desk.

This time, I closed my fingers around its waist, carried it onto my room’s balcony, and flung it as far as I could into the darkness of the parking lot. I took a small bit of satisfaction in the resulting shatter, but only a bit. I knew it was only temporary.

The next morning, I packed my bag, headed to the airport, boarded the plane and sunk into my seat. As I have ceased being able to sleep in my hotel rooms, I tried to close my eyes to nap on the plane.

The flight attendants strolled down the aisles, preparing for take off. One tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss,” she said. “You’ll have to secure your belongings.”

Seeing my puzzled expression, she pointed to the seat next to me. There sat a Precious Moments clown figurine, holding balloons, staring balefully into my eyes.

Clean up efforts work. Look at the Chicago River!

The Chicago River used to be little more than a sewer. No human wanted to live by it, no plant or animal could live in it, and if you had the misfortune to fall into it, you had to be thoroughly disinfected and innoculated afterwards.

Yet, after many years of tireless work, this is happening:

"It wasn't the trendy restaurants or the stunning architecture that brought the latest visitors downtown.

The brown, bucktoothed rodents came because of a natural riverbank with tempting poplar trees.

The beavers swam to Wolf Point, puttered up the riverbank and snuck under the black iron gate near the Merchandise Mart. They blatantly ignored signs that warned plant vandals of arrest and in the shadow of the city's skyscrapers chowed down on a few dozen poplar trees."

For those of you unfamiliar with Chicago, the Merchandise Mart is "the world’s largest commercial building, largest wholesale design center and one of Chicago’s premier international business locations. Encompassing 4.2 million sq. ft., The Mart spans two entire city blocks and rises 25 stories."

As you can see, it is located in the heart of the business district. Far from negatively affecting commerce and industry, as opponents of clean up efforts often warn, the newly clean river has actually spurred economic development. Restaurants, tourist boats, hotels and more have sprung up as people are enjoying rather than avoiding the Chicago River. Mother Nature seems to approve, too:

"There are more surprises in store. Friends of the Chicago River also report sightings of muskrats; minks; foxes; blue, green and black-crowned night herons and kingfishers."

Which Takeshi's Castle Character are you?

I love a show on Spike TV called MXC -- Most Extreme Elimination Challenge.

Its a Japanese game show with American voiceovers. Now you know a little bit more about me.

Inspired by JJ's story about reading a scary book, I remember an incident that took place when I was an UberTeen.

My parents were in Hawaii celebrating their anniversary. My brother had moved into his own place but a few weeks earlier. My sisters had moved out years earlier and now had families of their own. I was alone in the house, for a week, for the first time in my life.

Late at night, I chose to read a scary vampire book. At roughly midnight, the electricity went out -- gradually, in the most frightening way possible. It was as if someone sucked the power out. Or, as my brain quickly concocted, cut the wires.

It was a clear spring night, so a storm was not responsible. I looked outside; my neighborhood was swathed in darkness. That was slightly comforting; at least I wasn't specifically targeted. Despite my best efforts at remaining calm, I was terrified.

I called my brother. He, being in his twenties and on his own for the first time, was not home. As panic began to set in, my phone rang. It was my good friend, Miss Kathy.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "We were on our way home from the movies when all the lights on the expressway went out. Do you want to come over?"

I thought about it, but since I know this wasn't a dastardly plot by Nosferatu to puncture my delicate young neck and drain me of my life essence, I declined. Talking to Miss Kathy restored my tranquility. After all, if she could sleep after being dragged to a Jean Claude Van Damme movie, I could manage as well.

My asshole brother called sometime the following day to make sure I lived through the night. Thanks, bro.

The local paper explained what had happened. A raccoon had climbed into an electrical box and wiped out power for miles. As scared as I was, I was relieved not to be the poor guy who had to clean barbequed raccoon out of an electrical box at 1 a.m.

Barely.

They didn't recognize me as a heretic because Dilf's aunt attracted their suspicions by loudly announcing that she believed conservatives have been gradually peeling off her "More Trees, Less Bush" bumper sticker.

I didn't hang around to see if they burned her as a witch; I was grandma's chauffer, and thus got to leave early. God bless grandma!

I do have one question: what kind of sick individuals wait until after all the presents are opened to eat, and then don't even have cake. No CAKE, people. That should tell you something right there.

This weekend, Dork-Americans will congregate in Chicago to celebrate their cultural heritage, share sacred texts, and honor esteemed leaders such as Frank Miller and Jim Lee at Wizard World, their annual pilgrimage.

They also hope to showcase their diversity and solidify their unity, as Dorks of every stripe and description descend upon the Donald E. Stevens Convention Center in Rosemont.

"People have this warped perception of Dorks as white, suburban males lacking in physical ability. In reality, Dork culture encompasses a wide variety of people," explains prominent Dork-American Steven Armbrucht. "Just look around! I see a girl over there."

Armbrucht also quickly pointed out the growing number of hillbilly participants at Wizard World. "People are so misinformed. They think all hillbillies are adherents of NASCAR, yet here they are immersing themselves in the world of comic books. Our female population is also increasing. Our mating percentage is rising exponentially!"

Bolstering Armbrucht's claims is the recent launch of Dorkgirl, a line of lingerie catering to female Dork-Americans.

In addition to misconceptions about gender and socio-economic class, Dorks are sensitive to being mislabeled geeks or dweebs.

"Geeks have a computer or science thing going on. Dorks aren't as hung up on intelligence or accomplishments, like the Geek community. And, as you can see by the large crowds here, Dorks are much more social than Dweebs. You'll never see a Dweeb convention; they keep to themselves."

I'm attending my sister-in-law's bridal shower Thursday night at 7 p.m. CST. Her "church family" is throwing it for her, at the church.

Now, I am clearly not anti-religious. I'm not even irreligious. I am Catholic. Now, I'm neither prepared nor inclined to defend everything or anything my church has done. I know they've been assholes at times. I just received some divine intervention when I needed it, and I would feel awfully ungrateful if I didn't acknowledge it, and the Catholic Church is what I know because that's how I was raised.

But this isn't about the Catholic Church. This is about a group of fellow Christians, which includes my sister-in-law, who give me the heebie jeebies.

My sister-in-law adopted her faith from the family for which she nannied. I think they indoctrinated or brainwashed her, but that's speculation. She met her fiance through this church, all of her friends are through this church, and she still lives with this wacko family even though she's long since moved on with her life and has a job of her own.

I don't use the term "wacko family" lightly. Hell, you should see mine. But these people, these incredibly wealthy people who own an oil refining business which allowed them to build a mansion/compound where they house at least two non-blood related adult females and I sense they wish they could attract more, are bizarre. I have more stories about these people, including another starring my hero, God, again voiced by a pissed-off Samuel L. Jackson. I'll save those for another time.

I just want you guys to know where I am tomorrow night in case they kidnap me. The last shower I attended in my sister-in-law's honor scared me. It was a Personal Shower (guys, that's where you give/get lingerie and fancy underwear) held in the scary mansion. They started with this long rambling prayer asking Jesus to help plan the wedding, like he was a celestial puppet-master or something. Then we had to go around the room giving marital advice, which, from the church people, all seemed to involve a "Christ-centered marriage."

Now, I'm not sure what they mean by that. But it's hard enough getting in the mood when Ubergirls leave Mr. Potatohead in my bedroom and he's staring at me through those blue-rimmed glasses of his. If Jesus is in there, too, it's all over for poor Dilf.

Plastic surgery, microdermabrasion, liposuction and hair extensions have outlived their welcome in the fashion community. The news for fall is a look insiders call "Roper," characterized by the 1970's fashion icon from the sitcom "Three's Company."

"I'm bored with perfection," stated Paris designer Maurice! from his studio. "It's time for individuality! Out with the Hiltons, or those monstrous Olsen twins! Bring on the polyester stretch pants, darling."

The new look is shapeless, ageless and infinitely comfortable. Think caftan. Think muu-muu. Think crochet.

Footwear has also undergone a major change. Stilettos, kitten heels, even the wedge have given way to what fashionistas dub "Ortho." To complete the look, designers combine the white, thick-soled shoes with nude or suntan nylon knee-hi's, rolled down around the ankle.

To accommodate the new fashions, models are engaging in reverse liposuction, also known as "granny fanny." Cellulite is de riguer. Also, young models have begun drawing varicose veins on the back of their legs with blue eyeliner pencils, to perfectly accent their new "Orthos."

Hair news for fall: short and tightly curled.

The look has already been spotted in Milan, Paris and Tokyo; expect it in your stores sometime this month.

People surnamed "Bolton" reacted with outrage on Monday when they learned that President Bush used a recess appointment to install John Bolton as ambassador to the United Nations. The Boltons are protesting the recent appointment on the grounds that it unfairly ties their family name to another unpleasant public figure.

"I speak for all of my fellow 'Boltons' when I say it is patently unfair to ask us to shoulder this burden," said Frank Bolton of Racine, Wisconsin. "The public has barely managed to erase the unpleasant shrieks of "When a Man Loves a Woman" [as performed by Michael Bolton] and now this!"

"I know other people, like with the last name 'Jackson,' have problems, too," added Shirley Bolton of Norfolk, Virginia. "But at least they have some good ones, too. Like Reggie Jackson!"

The Boltons cite damaging John Bolton characteristics, such as "violently abusive," "truth distortionist," and "really bad mustache."

They point to such evidence as subordinates referring to Bolton as a "quintessential kiss-up, kick-down sort of guy," and charges from intelligence officials that he pressured them to distort espionage reports to suit his views and then tried to retaliate against them when they would not comply.

"I realize this is precisely the kind of man the Bush Administration fawns over," said George Bolton of Evansville, Indiana. "But couldn't they find someone with similar characteristics but a different last name? Come on!"

"They wouldn't expect the Dahmers to take a double whammy like this," Frank Bolton chimed in, "And they shouldn't ask it of us."

If you don't believe me, read this scary story.

"Partly rotten, with its spine exposed, it has been impossible to identify, but has been described as having some hair, and orange stripes across a three to four-meter wide belly. The skull, which alone weighs over 100 kg, and coccyx of the creature have fallen from its body."

Its coccyx fell off, people! Expect repercussions.

Oh, I forgot: I'm also pissed off because my food supply sucks. My fruits and vegetables are not bred for flavor, but for shipping ease. Species after species of produce are disappearing not only from our grocery stores, but from the planet Earth as well.

This is just another way the consumer is treated like crap. And then, when I go to my farmer's market, they're selling Florida tomatoes anyway. This doth piss me off mightily.

However, there is a farmstand one town away. I will go there with high hopes that undoubtedly will be crushed like a succulent, tender tomato with a high sugar content.

I am still getting over some lingering issues from The Evil One (my ex-husband, to the uninitiated). My psychiatrist explains it thusly: since the abuse started in my late teens, when synapses start to fully mature, he really fucked up my brain chemistry. Well, he didn't use those exact words, but you get the idea.

So, I'm realizing a few things. I used to be a really free spirit in high school -- dressing very avante garde, enjoying foreign films, music from the import bin, that sort of thing. But I did these things on impulse, following some inner inklings. I wasn't choosing a particular look or persona or anything. And even though I see my hipness and brilliance in retrospect, at the time I didn't know I was cool. I thought I was an oddball.

When I started dating TEO, he used this as a hammer to beat me with. I gave up everything that made me interesting, different and fun to be around because I allowed him to make me feel embarrassed by these things instead of proud of them.

Then, I went to an art college where I started to revert back to myself. But then this happened. I don't know, I guess I've second-guessed myself ever since. Now, whenever my free spirit impulses butt up against the status quo, I get very anxious. Now I get pills for that, too. Hooray. MOTHERFUCKER TEO.

But I'm getting better about choosing my free spirit. For instance, I've decided to get a variety of scarves while I grow out my hair. I'll throw one of those babies on when I want to get out of the house but my hair is a mess. Ubie loves her freedom.

Have you ever gone to the laundromat and come home missing socks? A bra? Underwear? Do you live in Iowa? Then read this.

Yes, a lingerie thief has been captured in Iowa.

"When police searched Sills' home, they found hundreds of pieces of ladies lingerie — and shoes. Miller said he did not know if Sills wore the stolen items."

I suspect the victims will not be requesting their items to be returned.

According to this news story, some high school kid purposefully puked on his profesora and got slapped with a sentence from some judge.

"Johnson County Magistrate Judge Michael Farley on Tuesday sentenced the 17-year-old boy to spend the next four months cleaning up anytime someone gets sick in a police car."

Sounds appropriate to you? Well, since this is 2005 and not 1925, the police departments involved are unsure.

"Police in Overland Park, where a vehicle maintenance manager usually decides if a biohazard company needs to be called in for cleanup, plan to consult a department lawyer about liability issues.

'Are we going to have to provide this guy with a biohazard suit?' Overland Park police spokesman Jim Weaver asked rhetorically. 'Are we going to have to provide him with a breathing apparatus? That's a valid question.'"

I understand the judge's intent, but is it wise to put someone with a known tendency toward vomiting to clean up sick mess? "I'm as queasy as Kansans in August..."

We went to the DuPage County Fair last night. We caught but a glimpse of the demolition derby; apparently, it's quite the popular attraction amongst the county fair crowd. Next year, we'll have to get there earlier to reserve our seats.

We still had fun, eating corn dogs, corn on the cob and funnel cakes. The girlies went on rides, including a full family spin on the Tilt-o-Whirl.

We also took the girls to the petting zoo, where a calf (that's a baby cow, for you city folk) decided to nurse off of Ubergirl Younger's little blonde head. It took Dilf a few moments to detach the calf from her noggin, and she lost her desire to visit with the animals. I did my best to disinfect her with baby wipes and Purell, but she got a full and thorough bath when we came home.

I still find it amusing that DuPage County clings to this fantasy that farms still exist within its borders. According to the Chicago Tribune, "...DuPage County once was rich with farms but now has the fewest of any county in the state."