Why I love the Aussies and the Kiwis

Reasons #219 and #305

"A man in New Zealand has been charged with using a hedgehog as a weapon, the New Zealand Herald has reported. Police said William Singalargh, 27, had hurled the hedgehog about 5m (16ft) at a 15-year-old boy. ...It was unclear whether the hedgehog was still alive when it was thrown, though it was dead when collected as evidence." - BBC News, April 7, 2008 (courtesy of Lesley)

Go to the article to get the full story.

"A family court judge in New Zealand has had enough with parents giving their children bizarre names. So he did something about it. Just ask Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii. He had her renamed. Judge Rob Murfitt made the 9-year-old girl a ward of the court so that her name could be changed. The new name was not made public to protect the girl's privacy. 'The court is profoundly concerned about the very poor judgment which this child's parents have shown in choosing this name,' he wrote. 'It makes a fool of the child and sets her up with a social disability and handicap, unnecessarily.' " - Express, July 25, 2008

Who needs an imagination when you have the Express reporting gems like this?

Thank you, Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii, for bringing joy to my Friday.

On the Road

While millions of Americans are performing their patriotic duty of firing up their grills and throwing back a beer (or six) in their backyards, I am sitting on a New York-bound Bolt Bus, eating a bag of Sun chips and blogging with free wi-fi.

For $5.50 more than a round-trip Chinatown bus ticket, I get internet, an electrical outlet, pleather seats that actually recline, and a two-seater all to myself. Moreover, the bus left on time, there are no stops in Baltimore, and I didn't have to break out my nun-chucks to battle for a seat. (The typical Chinatown bus experience, especially over holiday weekends, is that no seat is guaranteed even if you book online in advance. Sometimes I have no choice but to get all Chuck Norris on people just so I don't get left behind.)

This past week I started running for the first time since I injured by ankle on June 1st. The swelling hasn't fully gone away and it still feels sore and achy, but I felt that it was time to start working out again. I am miserably out of shape. While jogging on the treadmill yesterday, I could hear my ankle crackle and pop like a bowl of rice krispies.

To add insult to injury, I also had to deal with a bout of illness a couple of weeks ago. Ever since I moved back to DC and have been living with my family, I've been getting sick - a lot. And whom do I hold responsible for these ailments? A young, active, germ magnet of smurf-like stature named Ella. When Ella comes home from school, she brings back with her more than just some arts & crafts project she made that day. I managed to escape the last round of pink eye and strep throat, but I didn't get so lucky with the hand, foot, and mouth disease. It sounds a little repulsive, I know, but it mostly felt like I had the flu with the added bonus of a light rash on my hands and feet and one or two canker-like sores in my mouth that disappeared after a few days.

I have developed this theory that there is a negative correlation between the size of a potential carrier of disease and the deadliness of the disease to humans. In other words, the smaller the carrier, the more lethal the disease it carries and vice-versa. In support of this theory, I have the following examples as evidence:

1. When have you heard of a very large animal such as a polar bear or humpback whale causing pandemics? Being eaten by a shark doesn't count.

2. Some medium sized animals can transmit disease to humans but cases are rare and not widespread (so far). Example: Cows and Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy (BSE), commonly known as mad-cow disease. Maybe the next time you're at the grocery store, instead of asking, "Where the beef?" you may want to inquire about tofu instead.

3. Animals that fall in the "small" category can pose relatively medium to high risk to humans. Example: birds and avian flu. You can also put small human children in this category.

4. Super small beasts = super deadly. Example: mosquitoes that spread malaria and itching. Those little buzzards can raise a lot of hell for humans.

I think I have just made a very compelling argument for my theory, don't you think?

Judging by the content of the last dozen or so entries, I should just rename this blog "A Chronicle of Boo's Afflictions, Dysfunctions, and Postulations." Actually I just did.

RICEing like a Good Asian

Every week I come up with all sorts of things to blog about, but 99% of those ideas inevitably travel out of my head and over to la la land, never to surface again. What you see on this blog is the remaining 1%: a medley of randomness. This entry is no different.

The process of blogging for me is akin to running a marathon in a bear suit with a sack of bricks attached to my ass. That is to say, slow and painful but with an occasional sprinkle of amusements to myself and others.

On the topic of slow and painful, a few days after I sprained my ankle, I made an appointment to see a doctor and take an x-ray. The morning before the appointment, I hobbled past the reception desk at my office. The receptionist noticed my limp and asked what had happened to my foot. When I told her about rolling it while playing Ultimate, she responded by saying, "I have a friend whose daughter sprained her ankle. She went to the hospital to get it checked out. She developed a blood clot from the sprain. And died."

Well, that pretty much killed the conversation. In addition to hoping that it was not a break or fracture, I added to my list of desired outcomes: not die.

Fortunately, my injury was a sprain and not a break or fracture. In addition to the usual RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) treatment, my doctor wrapped my ankle and prescribed 60 tablets of 600mg ibuprofen before sending me on my way. When I picked up my medication from the pharmacy, I almost asked the guy behind the counter if he had made a mistake by giving me pills meant for a horse.

One of these tablets can substitute for a whole meal.

My ankle injury has forced me to stop playing Ultimate and disengage from most forms of physical activity. The most physical effort I've exerted in the last couple of weeks was to scurry across the street in a deformed and panicked fashion to avoid getting hit by oncoming traffic.

In addition to my awkward gait, all this inactivity has had an inflating effect on my paunch. Here's a picture of me current as of today:

I really need to get better soon.

Happy Birthday, Blog!

While deeply enmeshed in a seemingly futile research task for work, I suddenly realized that two years ago today, I published the first post on this infamous blog to herald my foray into grad school in Australia. This is quite the milestone for me, so of course I dropped everything I was doing in order to inform my readership of three of this happiness.

So a big YAY for the blog whose number of name changes rivals the number of entries on it!

And here's hoping to many more birthdays!

"Just Call Me a Freakazoid"

-- says my niece whose face and body are all splotchy from a reaction to an antibiotic she was taking to get rid of strep throat. My poor little leprotic-looking niece. It's too bad; this might lower the price we can fetch for her on eBay.

Just kidding.

On to more serious matters.

Today, I "caught" a disc with my chin at club practice, which I don't recommend as an effective catching technique. And later, during a semi-final match for B league playoffs, I badly rolled my ankle in the fourth point that took me out of the rest of the game. Frustrated, I watched my team get spanked and handed our first, last, and only loss of the season, while I sat helpless on the sideline with a swollen ankle that is now the size of a golf ball. To add insult to injury, I am sunburned (where? on my face, Deb) with a prominent backwards-trucker-hat-band tan line across my forehead. It's a really hot look, let me tell you.

Limping to work this week will be so much fun!

Overheard

Overheard at the Gallery Place-Chinatown metro station:

Some dorky guys in suits (probably Hill staffers) on a Saturday night--

Guy 1: You know what's out [of style]? Jean shorts.
Guy 2: Yeah, seriously, that's so uncool.
Guy 3: Well, I actually got a great deal on a pair a while ago.
Guy 1: Just because something is cheap doesn't mean it's good.
Guy 3: I got them at some store that was going out of business.
Guy 1: Was it a jean shorts store?
Guy 3: No, it was that store that got bought out by Macy's. What was it called?
Guy 2: No clue.
Guy 3: Maybe it was Marshall-Fields.
Guy 1: Don't they make cookies?
Guy 3: That's Mrs. Fields.
Guy 1: Oh, man, those cookies are so good.
Guy 3: Anyway, the shorts were a good deal.

And on and on, but I had stopped listening at that point.

This is the song that never ends...

Thank you, Henry, for having so much time on your hands and sharing this with me while I am at work frantically finishing up a task before leaving for an ultimate tournament.

While listening to this, I could only think of one person who would find it as amusing, if not much more so, than I did -- Grandma D.

Perhaps this is not something I should not admit openly, but I did enjoy parts of it. What does that say about my taste in music? Don't answer that.

http://blog.wired.com/music/2008/04/a-scientific-at.html

California Dreaming

I think recruiting guest bloggers has made me lazy about writing my own blog entries. My other excuse is that I have been away on vacation in SoCal. I must have had too much fun there because it's been a week since my return and I'm still recovering from my trip.

One thing I discovered while I was in California was that a public transportation system consisting of trains and buses really does exist in Los Angeles. Not only does it exist, I even used it! I was inexplicably as excited to ride a public bus in LA as I was to visit the friend in Santa Monica to where I had to take said bus.

I could probably spend several long paragraphs describing in gory detail my solitary journey from Pasadena to Santa Monica, but my bed is calling. To those even remotely curious however, I will report that to get from downtown LA to Santa Monica by bus is not exactly the most efficient method - it takes close to two hours - but the up side is that it's really cheap. It costs less than $2 full fare; or 30 cents for a transfer if you connect to it from a train; or in my case, free because the fare machine was broken. That is assuming, however, that you can figure out which bus to take to begin with (I spent nearly 15 minutes wheeling my luggage up and down the bus terminal in downtown in search of the appropriate bus. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers).

Another benefit of riding a public bus - once you're on the right one - is that you might get a friendly driver named Ron who, incidentally, bears a striking resemblance to the Baldwin brothers. Homeboy kept my ears busy for an hour and forty-two minutes. When he found out that I live in DC, our conversation immediately veered toward the topic of politics - because physical proximity to Congressional buildings automatically makes you a political pundit. Clearly.

At times, Ron became so impassioned by what he was saying to me that he spent more time looking at me than at the road. I did my best to stay brave during these moments. His talking and my fearing for my life kept me from succumbing to the urge to nap during the ride. I rode bus 337 to Santa Monica Boulevard, the final stop, and by the end had formed such an attachment to Ron that I felt sad to leave him.

I need to end this entry before I really turn up the cheese, but before I do, below is a photo snapped right before my plane descended into LAX airport. Despite the toxic smog, endless sprawl, and road rage-inducing traffic, I still feel a fondness for LA and SoCal.

Special Guest Blogger

A couple of days ago, while telling a friend about my blogger's block, I came up with the idea of guest blog entries. Sometimes I become bored with my own writing. And if I get bored with my writing maybe the readers of this blog do too. So I asked this friend, or "Grandma" as she's known to some, to fill in for this month and she graciously humored my request. Enjoy and feel free to submit comments.

Grandma's entry:

"Perhaps this entry should be anonymous, as it describes in detail my descent into a life of crime. The story begins innocently enough when I decided to start biking to work. It’s a leisurely 1.5 mile commute, and there’s a bike rack right by my building. What I’ve noticed during my almost 2 years of parking there is that on this rack there is one bike that hasn’t moved. At first I noticed it collecting dust. Then one day, I noticed that half the rear fender had broken off. Later the seat was stolen. And still this bike hasn’t moved. Not an inch. I’m beginning to think no one is using this bike. Now normally this wouldn’t bother me, except the bike rack is getting pretty crowded, and this unused bike is taking up valuable real estate. I would move it myself except for the fact that the only thing of any value on this bicycle is the Kryptonite U-lock attaching it securely to the rack. (I wish I had a lock like that when my first bike was stolen from that very same rack).

Then, today, I had a moment of brilliance. I took a closer look at that U-lock and noticed that it has one of those circular key-holes, the kind that apparently are able to be picked with no more than a BiC pen. So I popped open a BiC pen and went down to the bike rack. This task was not as easy as the internet makes it appear. First, the pen wasn’t exactly the right diameter, so I stretched it out with a key and jammed it in. Then, all you’re supposed to have to do is twist, and the lock will come undone. The pen twisted, but the lock didn’t open. So my career as a master criminal ended as soon as it began. This is just as well, given that I went out in broad daylight and I’m pretty sure there would have been several eye-witnesses to my attempted theft. I left the pen in the lock, in hopes that a criminal more talented than I might hit the jackpot."

Added bonus video (also courtesy of Grandma): Do the Test

I Live for Stupid News

Inspiration for writing an original blog entry has been lacking of late. Until I get my writing mojo back, I can't resist sharing two news clips that I read this morning that brought immense joy to my commute to work.

From the Express, February 28, 2008:

It's All Fun and Games Until the Golf Course Needs Resodding

The mayor of Arlington, Ore., who once stripped down to her underwear and posed on a fire truck, has been stripped of her office. Citizens voted narrowly Monday to recall Carmen Kontur-Gronquist, effective Tuesday. She said the pictures of her were taken for use in a fitness contest, but a relative posted them on MySpace in hopes they would improve the social life of the single mother. They predated her election, but she said she saw no reason to take them off the site. Opponents said it wasn't fitting for the mayor to be depicted so. They said they also disagreed with her on issues about the local golf course.

Don't Mess with The Guy with the Spork

Police in Anchorage, Alaska, have arrested a man suspected of committing a robbery with a spork. Four parallel scratches on the robbery victim's side have led police to believe that the spoon and fork hybrid, rather than a knife, was used in the attack.

I love the fact that a spork was used in a robbery. What I want to know is, was it made of plastic or metal? I have only seen plastic sporks. Where can I acquire a stainless steel set?

Spork. It's one of my favorite words and it just might be my favorite eating utensil. It's also my new poking implement of choice.

It's Valentine's Day. Whoopee.

Credit: Nick Galifianakis for The Washington Post Photo

If s/he's not hot then why bother? Try and convince this shallow cynic otherwise. The comments section of this blog has been dead for months.

Mews of the Weird

For the past couple of months, I've been saving news clips that I enjoyed reading on my morning commute. After reviewing some of these articles, I noticed a theme: I like snuggly animals. And exotic poop.

Examples:

Tabby Gracie Mae's odyssey ended happily after she crawled into her owner's suitcase, went through an airport X-ray machine, was loaded onto a plane, thrown onto a baggage belt and mistakenly picked up far from home. The pet was returned by a stranger who went home with the wrong bag. "I went to unpack and saw it wasn't my suitcase," said Rob Carter. "A kitten jumped out and ran under the bed. I screamed like a little girl."-- January 24, 2008

Japanese scientists say they've used genetic engineering to create mice that show no fear of felines, a development that may shed new light on the nature of fear itself. Scientists at Tokyo University say they were able to successfully switch off a mouse's instinct to cower at the smell or presence of cats -- showing that fear is genetically hardwired. "Mice are naturally terrified of cats and usually panic or flee at the smell of one. But mice with certain nasal cells removed through genetic engineering didn't display any fear," said team leader Ko Kobayakawa. In his experiment, the genetically altered mice approached cats and even snuggled up to them. -- December 18, 2007


Who wouldn't want one of these kitties?

Not only are these cats clones -- they are clones that glow in the dark. Technically, says South Korea's Ministry of Science and Technology, they have a fluorescence protein gene that causes them to glow under ultraviolet beams. The technology could help develop treatments for human genetic diseases. -- December 14, 2007

Stumped about what to give that special someone? How about rhino dung? The International Rhino Foundation is auctioning separately on eBay four pieces from the endangered species and will use the proceeds to fund conservation efforts. The pieces come from four of the five types of rhino: white, black, Indian and Sumatran. The Javan rhino is so rare, a sample could not be collected. Each piece is mounted in a clear trophy case and marked with the type of rhino that produced it. -- December 7, 2007

Addendum: This is a little gem that Paul P. sent me this morning: Click here.

Green Eggs & Spam

A while back, someone named Ann at my company sent an e-mail with a question addressed to "Timekeeping & WebET Training." Due to some glitch, the message ended up in the e-mail box of every single employee.

Within a four minute period, while I was on the phone with a client, a flurry of e-mail responses popped up in my inbox. I stared at the computer screen, completely mesmerized. It was like watching a bag of popcorn self-inflate in a microwave.

The following is a sequence of messages (in verbatim) in response to the original e-mail**:

'Not in HR' Thelma (9:58am):

I'm not in that section, and I cannot answer any of your questions. Sorry…

'Not wanting to be left out' Laura (9:59am):
I also received this email by mistake and cannot answer your question.

'Confident that he can't help' Duane (10:00am):
I'm sure I'm not the person you need to direct this to.

'Replies to all to tell everyone not to reply to all' Lon (10:01am):
Stop replying to all. This message should not have been sent to this list. All staff should disregard.

'Likes to state the obvious' Jeannie (10:01am):
For some reason, when you sent this to Timekeeping and Training - it goes to everyone! No idea why!

'Not wanting to be outdone by Lon' Roger (10:02am):
To All:

Ignore and DO NOT RESPOND to the email originating from Ann or this email that you are reading.

'Clueless and probably hates his job' Nicholas (10:02am):
?

**Note: I don't actually know who any of these people are. It's a big company.

A little something to lighten the mood

This got a chuckle out of me today. It reminded me of the brain teasers I used to do in middle school.

Labyrinth PuzzleSource: http://xkcd.com/246/

Only 50 more years to retirement

The past couple of days have been challenging for me at work. It has been somewhat pathetic to realize that the biggest threat to my job security right now is my own incompetence. So in that spirit, here's a little news story that will either make you feel better about yourself, or if you're like me, feel some empathy for this schmuck of a buffoon of a boob:

"A man in Grand Rapids, Mich., who hid knives in his pants to try to steal them from a store tripped while fleeing and stabbed himself in the abdomen, police said."

-- Reported in the Express on Jan 9, 2008

In this house, everyone's a comic

Quotes of the Week:

"I'm gonna get you drunk in my hump. My lovely lady humps. Check it out, girl!" -- My niece, singing her rendition of "My Humps" while wriggling and slapping her diapered butt in my face. Kids these days are scary.

"Close, but no potatoes." -- My sister, while trying to fit two puzzle pieces together.

Brother-in-law: "Would you be able to tell that you were kissing a chimp while blindfolded?"
Sister: "You mean, would I be able to tell the difference between you and a chimp? No."
Zing!

Earlier tonight while we were all sitting in the dining room together, the phone rang, and I was volunteered to retrieve the phone and answer it. I hate answering any phone other than my cell phone because I know it is NEVER for me. In fact, calls to my cell phone often aren't for me either.

The conversation went as follows:

Me: "Hello?"
Caller: "Hi, how are you?"

I hate it when people either don't identify themselves immediately and just assume that a) they know who you are; or b) you know who they are.

Me: "Ah... Good."
Caller: "Wonderful! Is your mommy home?"

Whoa. Who the hell was this creepy person and why was he cooing at me?

Me: "Uh... I... my.... who is this?"

I walked back into the dining room.

Caller: "It's Ebby!"
Me: "Ebby?"
Caller: "Ebby!"

I shot desperate looks at both my sister and Nathaniel. Thankfully, there was a look of recognition from both of them. I practically threw the phone at Nathaniel, I was so anxious to get rid of it. Apparently, Ebby thought I was Ella (who is five years old).

That might be the last time I answer that phone. Ever.

Ho! Ho! Huh?

DC is an eerie town during the holidays. Closed are the stores, deserted are the streets. Even my family left for the other coast, leaving me with an empty house, a senile cat, and silence for a week.

Did I weep about my sad existence when they left? No, I did not. This morning, I donned a pair of fancy aviator shades, inserted a Madonna cd in the stereo, and pranced around the house, squawking into my toothbrush, pant-less with my underwear on my head. The cat really got a show while waiting to be fed.

And then I got dressed and went to work.

You can't say that I don't make the best of situations.

Happy Holidays!

The T.M.I. entry

I had a rough weekend battling a sore throat, cough, and congested snottiness. It was no surprise that I did not want to get out of the nest of my bed this morning to go to work.

When I finally lumbered into the bathroom to get ready, I looked in the mirror and experienced a Tom-Hanks-BIG moment. Who - or WHAT - was that staring back at me? My right eye was distinctly smaller than the other, weepy, and bloodshot. I looked like a demonic troll. It was not a good start to the day.

After dilly-dallying, I finally left the house and arrived at work just shy of 9:30am. My officemate took the day off so I had the whole room to myself. Throughout the day, I kept to myself and limited any in-person interactions as much as possible.

At around 2:30pm, my sister called to see how I was faring. I described my eye condition to her and she had a fit, putting the both of us into crisis mode.

"Conjunctivitis! That is pink eye! You must RUN TO THE DOCTOR RIGHT NOW!!!!!" she screamed into the phone, "Do you hear me? CON-JUNC-TIV-ITIS!!!"

One of my co-workers just happened to walk into my office at that very moment. I frantically tried to lower the volume on my cell phone and shield my fang-baring face from her.

"Are you okay?" she asked with a tinge of pity in her voice.

"Oh. Um, yeah, I'm... congested," I sputtered.

I put the phone back to my ear and my sister was still yelling about conjunctivitis, "It's highly contagious!!!!"

"Listen, you don't know that I have conjunctivitis," I hissed into the phone. I gave my colleague an apologetic look, who upon hearing "conjunctivitis" immediately jetted out of the room.

"You have to go see the doctor. RIGHT NOW."

"Look, before I trek all the way to the doctor's office, I'm going to make sure I need to see someone about it first," I said before hanging up.

I then called my health insurance provider and waited to speak to a nurse. I described my symptoms and expressed my concern about the possibility of having pink eye. The nurse was calm (unlike a certain sibling that I know) and asked me a series of questions about my troll eye.

"Is the discharge clear or green or yellow?"

"Clear."

"Is your eye swollen? As in, have people looked at you and said, 'Oh my god, what happened to you?!'"

"Um. No? I mean, it's slightly smaller than the other but not so much that it has caused alarm in my office."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not really. It feels a bit itchy."

"Does it feel like you have something in your eye or do you have trouble seeing because of cloudiness?"

"No. The film I feel on my eye seems to go away after I blink a few times."

"How is your immune system?"

This is where I felt like I was being asked a trick question.

"Um... bad?"

"What I meant was that do you have H.I.V. or cancer?"

"Oh, no."

"Have you had any unusual vaginal discharge?"

Uncomfortable silence. Where was she going with this?

"Um... No. Not unusual??"

Thank god my office mate wasn't in that day.

"I ask because conjunctivitis may be a symptom of chlamydia."

"Oh. Right. I don't think I have that."

And on and on. The nurse finally concluded that I likely did not have pink eye but suggested that I engage in some OCD hand-washing for the rest of the week. I got off the phone ECSTATIC not only because I probably didn't have pink eye but also because I did not have HIV, cancer, or an STD. But I left the office and went home early anyway.

What will tomorrow bring? I can't wait to find out...

Getting Lucky with Tegan and Sara

On Thanksgiving eve, I found out that Tegan and Sara were playing at the Lisner Auditorium over the weekend in DC, but when I inquired about available tickets, the show was completely sold out. Boo.

Instead of conceding defeat, I looked on Craigslist for extra tickets the next day. I found several listings for single and pairs of unwanted tickets for sale and e-mailed all of them. One woman with a pair of tickets responded almost immediately.

My second dilemma then became finding someone to go to the concert with me. Most people were out of town or busy; others I assumed wouldn't like angry girl indie alternative acoustic pop rock. I got mildly desperate and made a half-hearted attempt to coax Indhu to return from West Virginia a day early, but she gave some lame excuse about wanting to spend time with her family.

So I responded to the Craigslist woman asking if she'd be willing to part with just one ticket. She snubbed me by not replying. Blast! I was thwarted once again. But then some guy e-mailed me saying he had one single ticket still available.

My third dilemma was then to decide whether I should go alone. Some people don't mind, and in fact, might even enjoy doing things alone. I am not one of those people - except for when it comes to going to the bathroom. Despite the prevailing gender stereotype, I do not like going to a bathroom in a herd.

But I digress.

It was Saturday morning, the day of the concert, and I had nearly given up on the idea of going at all when I saw that Nick was on Gmail chat. On a whim, I asked if he wasn't interested in going to a concert with me that night, was he?

"What kind of music is it?" he asked.

"Oh, music you probably wouldn't like," I replied.

"Well, who is it?"

"Tegan and Sara."

"Who?"

"Exactly."

Five minutes later-

"Sure, I'll go."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I looked them up on their Myspace page. Their music seems good."

So I went back to Craigslist once again to look for two tickets. New listings selling unwanted tickets appeared. One sounded particularly desperate. I put my kick-ass negotiation skills to work and made an offer (2/3 of the face value). The woman accepted and we exchanged a few e-mails to plan the pick-up. In the end, she decided it was easier to drop them off at my house in the early evening. She even showed up on time. Just when I thought it couldn't possibly get any better, she gave me the tickets - for free!

I was stunned. I didn't quite catch why I didn't have to fork over $40; all I heard and remembered was the word "free." So not only did I get free tickets, I got them hand-delivered to my door. It was awesome!

Fast forward a few hours. The concert was fantastic. The Canadian identical twin sisters were very endearing on stage. They even had Nick lovestoned. They played new songs from their new album, old favorites, and a great cover of Rihanna's "Umbrella."

The sisters also claimed to love our nation's capital although what they associate with this place is a little alarming (but not entirely surprising). Tegan (or was it Sara? Damn twins...) told some story of how while they were desperately seeking a place to 'relieve' nausea from a severe hangover, they came across some sketchy drug deal involving cocaine in toothpaste boxes that went down in a McDonald's bathroom. We Americans sure know how to make a lasting impression.

Another highly entertaining moment was when Sara told the audience of how she had found a video on a fan site of a group of fans spanking each other during one of their concerts in Fort Lauderdale. It was so disturbing to her that right before they were about to perform the same song during which the alleged spanking took place, she asked that the house lights get turned on to discourage any potential spanking at this concert. So the lights went on and there was no spanking. We waited until after the show.

For Halloween, I think I'll be a six year old

For Halloween this year, I decided that I was going to be a chick magnet (i.e. pictures of hot women and baby chickens stuck onto a black outfit). It was my second choice costume; my first was a two-person horse, but Indhu refused to be the back half. Party pooper.

Speaking of parties, the party that I was invited to was this past Saturday night. Earlier that day, I began to piece my costume together. While my family was out having lunch with some friends, I found some trashy gossip magazines around the house, printed out some pictures of baby chickens off the internet, grabbed some of my niece's art supplies, and went to work on the kitchen table.

I first cut out pictures of celerity women and then colored in the black and white baby chick pictures with some of Ella's yellow crayons and color pencils. As I started to cut out the baby chick images, I heard the front door open. I had only expected my brother-in-law to come home after lunch but I heard unfamiliar voices trailing behind him.

He walked into the kitchen followed by four people I had not met before. Already embarrassed that I was still in my pajamas, I shyly said hello. They smiled at me and glanced at the kitchen table at what I was doing. As discreetly as I could, I started to sweep the pictures of scantily clad women underneath a pile of magazines with my hand. I figured that the baby chickens looked a lot less scandalous, so I took my pair of scissors and continued to cut those images out while they stood in the kitchen for a tour of the house.

As the tour progressed out into the backyard, one of the guests, an older woman in her sixties, who was the last to head outside, stopped near the table. In an attempt to seem friendly and engage me in conversation she asked, "Are you doing your homework?"

My homework? Do I look like I'm six years old, lady? Granted I had crayons, glue sticks, and pictures of chickens strewn on the table, but still. At that moment, I didn't know which was more mortifying -- the fact that this person thought I was decades younger than I was or the fact that I was caught coloring, an activity more common and acceptable for persons under the age of 10.

It didn't seem any better to explain that I was making a "chick magnet" for my Halloween costume either. This was one of those situations from which I could not extricate myself without some embarrassment on my part, the other party's, or both.

But in the end it was all worth it because hot chicks like Angie and J.Lo were all over me at the party. They must have been drawn to my magnetic personality and irresistible charm. Was it one sexy night, you ask? You bet it was. Just ask your mom.