Dear friends:

We are approved for adoption of an as-yet-unknown dog. don't tell the cat.

many thanks,
f and boy.

ps-the fridge is beautiful. i have already spent a goodly deal of time buffing it. I need help.

Is it a bad idea to let the strange little cat eat corn? He really likes it. I tried holding the dish away from him but he climbed up my boobs like Mallory up Everest just to get at it. I'm worried he'll choke or puke or both--but I've never seen a cat with such a joyous expression on its face. Cat + corn = joy? Who knew!

Forget the idea of me ever posting another recipe here. Ever.

I've gotten more irate, infuriated, irritated, obnoxious, wanting-to-save-me-from-my-crappy-turkey-recipe and/or hateful email from that post than I get when I talk about abortion.

Look, people: The recipe was for a guy who had never cooked anything. Ever. I gave him the simplest recipes I could think of because it would be miracle enough if he just got food on the table. His guests were other med students who couldn't cook either (why else would they be letting HIM do it?) so I'm really not too worried about the breast meat being dry or the sweet potatoes too sweet or the fact that I told him to use frozen veggies. If he managed to follow those directions and make something edible that was all finished pretty much at the same time--that's good enough, don't you think?

Frozen fucking pizza. That's all he knows. C'mon, think about it. I realize that every single one of the 42 people who have emailed me to tell me just how wrong my recipes were, I know you're all gourmet chefs who studied at the Culinary Institute or better yet, Le Cordon Bleu--but you'll really have to forgive me for my gauche turkey and boring stuffing.

I've probably just alienated those 42 readers, but it's my fucking weblog, remember? I get to alienate whomever I so please. Even if one of those readers was one of Boy's coworkers. shrug.

...

The new fridge is getting delivered in half an hour, and after that is done, guess who is coming! Karin from Seattle Purebred Dog Rescue. Guess what she's doing here! Interviewing us as part of the adoption program. Guess why! WE'RE GETTING A GEE-DEE PUPPY! Well, probably not a puppy. Q says that potty training and stuff are the best parts of dog-owning, but we don't want to deal with piddle on the carpet. Here's what we like so far:

1) Dachshunds, shorthair, preferrably red but black/tan will work.
2) Beagles because they're SO DAMNED CUTE and I saw one wearing a turtleneck sweater once and it was SO DAMNED CUTE.
3) Poodles, because they don't shed, but really, we're just not "poodle people". But they don't shed! But we're not Poodle People.

You'll notice we're leaning towards smaller dogs (although if we got a poodle, I wouldn't mind having a standard one--I wouldn't make it get stupid haircuts and maybe I could still find turtlenecks to fit it because turtlenecks on dogs are SO DAMNED CUTE!) because I've really had enough of big-hairy-slobbery-too-big-to-bathe-at-home dogs. Having a Newfoundland in the city was INSANE. Besides, our little house is too small for bigger dogs.

I am very excited. However, I have to stop writing this soon to clean the kitchen for both of those visits.

...

Went to the Ascension Party last night at The Wet Spot--it wasn't as stupid as I thought it would be! See, the Ascension Party is dance-sex-BDSM-themed, but for 18-30 year olds, which is perfect. Lots of hotties, lots of younger couples, fewer old boring people. (Sorry, not all old people are boring, but I never feel like I have anything to talk about with the usual crowd.) We people-watched and nanny-watched (remember that nanny we fucked a while back? may or june, maybe. She was there, to no one's surprise) and eventually made our way to the big steel bed for some spectator-fucking. Cleaned up, chatted some more, then off to the 5 Spot for late-night dinner. It was perfect.

(okay, I have a secret confession: the dance-part of the party was just absurd. I am not a dancer. I'm not nearly graceful enough to do that kind of thing. I will never say "hey, this music is great, and i'm going to express my feelings through dancing to it", because I'm just not a dancer. so watching people on the dance floor awkwardly gyrating and waving arms and waggling asses--it's just so absurd. I know it's admirable to be able to get up in front of a big group of people who are all watching the dance floor, but what a bunch of freaks. fucking dancers.)

I have REALLY got to clean the kitchen now. Two whole days left of weekend! Thanksgiving rocks. Like hurricanes with gravy.

Thanksgiving dinner was great until my little brother got arrested.

I am most thankful for my loving boy and family, that we're all healthy and well and safe; I am thankful for our beautiful home and strange little cat and our wonderful friends and the gorgeous city we live in and for stars and for moonbeams and chocolate chip cookies and oh my god for pumpkin pie and multiple orgasms and leftover stuffing because I think that's what I'm having for breakfast.

I hope your turkey-day was as lovely as ours (I'll tell the sordid tale of my brother's [mistaken] arrest later. tryptophan coursing through veins.), and if you don't celebrate the roasting of the turkey, then I hope you had a lovely wednesday.

Thursday. Whatever. Too much white wine, too much gravy.

Dude, wouldn't it just rawk if we had gravy instead of blood? I'd be cutting myself all the time.

i am a sick fuck. Happy Turkey Day!

Several questions:

(I know, I'm making a lot of lists, but there's a lot I need to get out!)

-What's wrong with comments? Why do the "Links" and "About Me" links just lead to the index page? Where's my redesign? (I guess those are all for Boy.)

-What if the FBI used criminals to their advantage and added a...a...I don't know, pay scale? to the Most Wanted list? You know, like a million bucks for the severed head of the number one guy, $900k for the entrails of the number 2 guy, and so on. Even better, let's make it this huge all-out battle between blood-thirsty criminals--make it totally legal for them to kill eachother, and the last blood-thirsty criminal left standing gets a million bucks and a new bedroom suite featuring a Sealy Posture-pedic mattress set.

Good thing I live within the law now.

1) Happy 1400th entry to me!

2) Here's the deal with the Turkey Day Schedule: Evil coworker has a friend who's a med student. He offered to make dinner for a bunch of other interns whose families live far away, but neglected the fact that he'd NEVER COOKED ANYTHING, EVER. Because Turkey Day is my favorite goddamned holiday this side of my birthday, and because I can't bear the thought of him muddling his way through it, I slapped this together over the course of three boring stupid workdays.

*Disclaimer*
That is not how I cook a turkey.
Even though I heart jellied cranberry sauce, I make my own, too. And I have NEVER made gravy from a package. I don't go so far as to toast my own breadcubes, though--I have a LIFE.
Uh...yeah, that's it.

3) HOLY CRAP, FOOD PROCESSORS ROCK LIKE A BUNCH OF HURRICANES. Hurricanes with knives.

Here's what I've done all day: Perfect Thanksgiving Dinner Schedule and Recipes For Someone Who Has Never Cooked Anything But Frozen Pizza. (Even YOU could do it if you followed my directions and didn't obsess too much.)

It's long, but good, so feel free to use it--but I get credit.

Menu:

Roast Turkey
Mashed Potatoes &Gravy
Sweet Potato Pie
Stuffing
Peas & Corn
Cranberry Sauce
Rolls

Ingredients:

-1 12-15lb. Turkey (make sure it’s completely thawed out by the time you’re ready to start cooking on Thursday morning. It may still be a little frozen when you buy it, but leave it in the refrigerator for a couple days and it should thaw.)
-1 stick butter
-salt and pepper

-appx 5lbs russet or Yukon gold potatoes
-1 stick butter
-sour cream or cream cheese
-salt and pepper

-if you want to go easy on yourself, buy some instant gravy packets. Otherwise you'll need some flour and some butter to make gravy with turkey juices.

-3 large yams (I know, it sounds counterintuitive, but sweet potato pie is made with yams)
-1 stick butter
-1 large egg
-sugar
-pumpkin pie spice (if you already have a lot of spices on-hand, you can use a combination of nutmeg, ginger, cloves and cinnamon. Otherwise, buy the stuff that’s already packaged as “pumpkin pie spice”
-rolled oats, appx. 1-2 cups (NOT instant oatmeal.)
-brown sugar
-chopped pecans

-1 to 2 lbs. Stuffing mix (you can use Stovetop, but if that’s not available or if you want it to taste better, use the stuff that comes in a bag—it’ll look like cubes of bread and will probably already have some sort of herb/spice mixture with already in it)
-ONE MORE stick of butter
-1 large onion
-3 stalks of celery
-dried thyme
-dried sage
-dried rosemary
-2 cans chicken broth or stock

-frozen peas & corn
-cranberry sauce (it comes in a can! Yay!)
-rolls or bread if desired.

Schedule

930am: First and most importantly, take the turkey out and put it in your roasting pan. Dry the skin and cavity with paper towels. Don’t forget to remove the bag with the gizzards, heart, liver and neck! You can just throw those away. Also, take two sticks of butter out of the fridge and leave them on the counter. Heat the oven to 425F.

Now start chopping onions and celery for the stuffing into ½” dice. Heat sauté pan (frying pan will work) over medium heat. Add 4 tablespoons butter to the pan, and when that’s melted, add the onions, celery, 1 teaspoon dried thyme, ½ teaspoon dried sage and ½ teaspoon dried rosemary. Cook until they become translucent and sloppy-looking, stirring often (this will take about ten minutes). Take pan off heat, set aside while you work on the rest of the stuffing.

Dump the bread cubes into a big bowl, add cooked vegetable/herb mixture, 1 can chicken stock, and salt and pepper. Stir this all together so the mixture is even-looking. If the bread cubes still feel dry and crunchy, add some more chicken stock, maybe ½ a cup? You don’t want the bread disintegrating, just moistened. Set the stuffing aside to cool while you finish getting the turkey ready.

Now that the turkey is dry and in the pan, season it with salt and pepper all over the outside AND the inside. Loosely fill the neck cavity with stuffing and fold the neck skin under the body of the turkey. If you have metal skewers, you can poke that through to hold the skin in place. Now loosely fill the body cavity with stuffing and tie the drumsticks together with kitchen string. Filling the cavities loosely is important—if it’s packed too tightly, bacterial growth is encouraged, and killing your dinner guests is bad. The rest of the stuffing should go in a shallow buttered baking dish. Cover it and put it in the fridge for now.

1030am: If you put the turkey in much later than that, it won’t be ready for dinner at 4pm. Put the turkey on a rack in the lower third of the oven. You don’t want the top of the turkey to be too close to the burners. Leave the turkey alone for 30 minutes, and while it’s cooking, melt ½ of one of those sticks of butter I told you to take out of the fridge. At the 30 minute mark, turn the heat down to 325F and pour the melted butter over the top of the turkey, making sure you get some on the drumsticks and wings. This is called basting. For the next three and a half to four hours, all you have to do is baste the turkey with more butter every half hour. Set a timer.

Now that the turkey is in the oven, you can begin the sweet potato pie (actually, it’s sweet potato crisp). Start some water to boil in a medium-sized pot. While that’s heating up, peel the yams and cut them into 1” chunks. When the water has come to a full boil, drop the potato chunks in and let them cook until they’re tender (about 15 minutes). If you’re not sure what tender is, poke them with a fork or sharp knife—there should be no resistance. Drain the potatoes and put them in a large bowl; add 4 tablespoons of butter, stir until it melts.

If you have an electric mixer, you can use it for this next step—otherwise you’ll be fine with a potato masher. Beat or mash the potato-butter mixture until it’s smooth. In a small bowl, beat 1 egg lightly with a fork, just so that the yolk and white are combined. Mix this egg, 6 tablespoons sugar, and 1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice into the potato-butter stuff and stir until it’s well mixed. Pour this into an 8x8” baking dish, cover and refrigerate until the turkey is done. You can make the topping when it’s closer to baking time.

11am: Baste the turkey with more butter.

1130am: More basting. Maybe have a glass of wine now. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.

Noon: Baste baste baste. More wine.

1230pm: Guess what! Time to baste. Play some Scrabble or something.

1pm: By now, the turkey should be coming along (BASTE NOW.), the sweet potatoes should be in the fridge, and you should be feeling like things are under control. If they’re not, just relax—you still have four hours, and all you have left to do is peel the potatoes. You can start that now. As you’re peeling, chop the potatoes into 1” chunks like you did with the sweet potatoes. As you finish cutting them, drop them into a big bowl full of water. This will keep them from getting brown and bruised-looking before you start cooking them. Start boiling water in your biggest pot (you don’t have to have the heat on high, just let it simmer into a boil.) but don’t put the potatoes in the water until I tell you to.

130pm: It’s Basting Time! Do it with vigor.

2pm: I feel so repetitive, but do it again. Butter is your friend. Start setting the table or getting your buffet area ready. Put a pitcher of ice water in the fridge. It sounds silly, but this will make things much easier when it’s time to dish up.

230pm: Baste again, and turn the potato water up. When it’s reached a full, rolling boil, plunk the potatoes in. Keep an eye on them to make sure they aren’t boiling over, but you can pretty much just let them boil away for about 20 minutes.

Appx. 250pm: Check the potatoes to see how close to done they are. Do the same knife/fork test that you did on the sweet potatoes—if you feel any crunchiness, they’re not done yet.

When the potatoes are finished boiling, drain and return them to the same pot. Cut one stick of butter into pieces and toss them in with the potatoes, then leave the lid on for a few minutes to let the butter melt.

3pm: Baste the turkey with a) more butter, if you have any left in the house. I hope you do, because you’re going to need half a stick for the topping on the sweet potatoes. If you’re close to the end of the butter, just use the juices in the turkey pan—this is where a big turkey baster comes in handy. If you don’t have a turkey baster, just use a big spoon. While you have the ovento baste, check the temperature of the turkey by sticking the meat thermometer into the stuffing in the breast cavity. Turkey is best (and safest) when the temperature of the stuffing has reached 180F and the drumsticks have reached 165F. If it gets much higher than that, the breast meat gets dry, and no one likes dry breasts. I’m pretty sure your turkey won’t be ready quite yet, but if it is, no worries. Let’s make some contingency plans now:

1) If your turkey has already reached optimum temperature, take it out of the oven and cover it with a loose tent of aluminum foil. It needs to rest for at least 20 minutes before you cut into it, so this is not a problem.

2) If your turkey still needs to cook, you’re still in good shape. Just make sure to check every 15 minutes, basting along the way.

Either way, now is the time to mash the potatoes. The butter should be good and melty, so add the sour cream or cream cheese. Whichever you use, you’ll want plenty of it—just add some, mash a little, take a taste. Does it taste good and creamy? Don’t add any more. Not creamy enough? You get the picture. Be liberal with salt and pepper, too. When you’re finished mashing them (you can also use an electric mixer for this if you have one), put the lid or cover back on them and leave them on one of the back burners. You don’t need to turn the burner on, the heat from the oven will keep them pretty toasty.

330pm: Now prepare the topping for the sweet potatoes. This is the easiest part. In a medium bowl, combine 1 ½ cups oats, ½ cup brown sugar, ½ cup chopped pecans (these are optional, but they’re really good) and 4 tablespoons of melted butter. Stir all of this stuff together in a medium bowl and sprinkle it across the top of the sweet potato mash-mixture.

Check the turkey again to see where you’re at, temperature-wise. If it’s done, take it out and tent it with foil. If it’s not, pray to the kitchen gods that it finishes soon.

As soon as the turkey has reached optimum temp and has been removed from the oven, return the rack to the middle position and set the oven temperature to 375F. Get the dish of stuffing out of the fridge and drizzle ½ can of chicken stock over it. Cover it tightly with foil and put in the oven; put the sweet potato pie in next to it. These need to cook for 25 minutes.

After the stuffing and sweet potato pie are in the oven, start making the gravy. You have more options here. If you’ve done the easy route, you’ll have a package of gravy mix and I think all you’ll have to do is add water and stir. If you want the best gravy you’ve ever tasted, here’s the scoop:

1) Remove the turkey from the roasting pan and put it on your serving platter. If you don’t have a serving platter, a giant cutting board will work, too. Remove the stuffing from the neck and breast cavities and put it in a covered serving dish. Cover the turkey again with aluminum foil to keep it warm.

2) Pour all the juices from the pan into a clear container (a pyrex measuring cup works well—you need to be able to see the level of liquid vs. fat when you look at the side. If you don’t have the measuring cup, improvise) and scrape off the browned bits that may be sticking to the pan. The brown bits are what makes it taste EXCELLENT.

3) Let the liquids and solids settle in the container—when you see that they have, skim as much of the fat off the top as you can.

4) Heat a medium saucepan on medium-high heat, add 4 tablespoons of butter. When the butter has melted, whisk in half a cup of flour. You have to whisk REALLY FAST so that the flour doesn’t clump or burn or anything. This is called making a roux, which sounds fancy, but it’s easy and will make you a god among men. When the flour is all mixed in and the roux starts getting darker (you should still be whisking), turn the heat down to medium-low and slowly add the reserved turkey juices. Whisk until you think you can’t whisk any longer. Once you’ve achieved a relatively even consistency, you can relax—you’ll still need to keep stirring occasionally so it doesn’t burn, but the hard part is over.

345pm: Start microwaving the frozen peas and corn. They’ll probably take about 5 minutes each. If you want them extra-tasty, add a tablespoon or two of butter. Check on the mashed potatoes—if they need a little warming, turn the burner on VERY low and leave them covered. Stir them around every couple minutes. If you have rolls or bread, and you want them heated, now is a good time to wrap them up in foil and put them on the bottom rack in the oven to warm. If you have cranberry sauce, now is the time to put it in a dish and get it to the table.

355pm: Check the stuffing and sweet potato pie. The stuffing should be hot all the way through and the sweet potatoes will be bubbly around the edges with a crispy brown top. Start putting food in serving dishes and on the table, and dig in while it’s hot!

Some notes:

-If you cut into the turkey to serve it and pink juices run from it, or the meat feels squishy, have one of your friends do magic tricks or something to distract everyone while you put the turkey back in the oven. Don’t send your friends to the hospital (they spend enough time there, heh.) [ed. note-this was originally written for a med student cooking dinner for his intern-friends. i'm a laugh-a-minute.]

-Enlist people as they arrive to help with things. Remember, while you’re carving the turkey, heating the vegetables, warming the rolls and dishing up the cranberry sauce you’ll still need someone stirring gravy so it doesn’t burn and someone taking the stuffing and sweet potato pie out of the oven.

-If you cook, everyone else does dishes. Have a great Thanksgiving! (and you have an emergency, call me at 206.XXX.XXXX.)

(a cooking emergency. not a medical emergency. YOU are the doctor, I'm merely the cook.)

Yesterday SUCKED.

1) I locked my keys in my car...in the valet line. Apparently it took them half an hour to get them out, and cars were lined up down the street. They also put a nice chip and ding in my door trying to get it-i had no room for complaint because they usually just tow you if that happens during the morning rush.

2) My stepdad is such a fucking jerk. He'll only pay for us to come down to Mexico if a-we come right at christmas, and b-if we pay for our room at the resort. I asked if the week after new years was close enough, and apparently it's not. When I tell him that I canNOT take any more time off work this year, he says I'm "not trying hard enough". b-$400 a night! Perhaps he hasn't heard anything I said about remodeling the kitchen in January. jerk. So now it'll be months and months until I can see my family. sniffle.

3) I had my yearly exam yesterday after work. There is nothing fun about getting poked in the crotch with a stick.

But good things happened yesterday! Boy and I had a date! I got a food processor, for to make my pie-dough-making easier! I watched Buffy and talked to Quincy and Steve and edited photos and eavesdropped on Boy's conversation with the Astronaut all at the same time! Perhaps that is why I understood NOTHING of what was going on last night with Buffy. The Master is back, yeah? And he's posessing people? or something? What's with the principal burying Jonathan's body? and why does he look so familiar? So confusing. This is SO going to be the last season. It's so...blah. O, how I long for the days of a plump and delicious Buffy, a nerdy Willow, a Xander who tripped and fell a lot...

Ah, well.

And then I watched the scariest X-Files ever, so scary that I even jumped and screamed! Boy gave derisive snorts but was good-natured about letting me clutch his arm like the little girly-man-girl that I am. And then I went to sleep.

the end!

i heart pictures

A conversation in which the author reveals just how much Stevewants to get married. Also, the author's competitive nature is thusly confirmed.

Ferra:
Did you become violently jealous upon reading dollarshort this week?

Steve:
Ooooooooooh, great call on your part.

Ferra:
No joke.

Steve:
It sort of crossed the line from sweet to disgusting.

Ferra:
heh.

Ferra:
Also, Quincy is back. Did you know?

Steve:
Ohhhhhhh!

Ferra:
I hope you didn't, because I love one-upping you.

My grandfather rode a horse.

I am seriously loving this posting-photo business. Sorry dial-uppers. (losers. get broadband.)

pin-up dolly.

peek-a-boo!

(I see you)

Mussolini.

me: ow!

boy: what now? (ed. note--I've been owwing a lot lately.)

me: I just got poked in the eye!

boy: by what?

me: my finger!!

boy: *silence*

me: I am the dumbest girl alive.

I had forgotten what it's like to be at war with your body--mine is in great rebellion! Woke up Sunday morning with what looked like a killer UTI, though it faded after a while. Ended Sunday night with a nice fall in the driveway, skinning my knee and SPRAINING MY BLOODY ANKLE. Well, my ankle wasn't bloody, but you know what I mean.

I feel very wrung-out. My face is pinched and squinty, I've been grimacing all damned day. and my ankle fucking hurts. They bandaged me up, gave me an aircast to wear for a few days, and an instructional videotape (on...what? shrug) but no drugs (sigh) so I should be right as rain soon enough.

better be.

In other doctoral news, I found a new shrink but can't see her until next week. apparently she's a "Registered Poetry Therapist" (shut up.) but I don't plan on participating in that nonsense. Let's hope she turns out better than the last.

entertaining.

and that's all i've got for you, folks. pain pain pain, tired tired tired.

Whoops. I should have followed up my Fairy Tale with a "Sorry, Dave". I didn't know it would come out that way!

Thanks, Joe:

FAIRY TALE

nce upon a time there has a young BUS DRIVER named JOE GOLDBERG. He was FESTIVELY FUCKING in the SLIMEY forest when he met GREEN EVIL DAVE, a run-away CUM-SCRAPER from the ERSTWHILE Queen SHANIQUA.

JOE GOLDBERG could see that GREEN EVIL DAVE was hungry so he reached into his TUPPERWARE and give him his HIDEOUS HUMMUS. GREEN EVIL DAVE was thankful for JOE GOLDBERG's HUMMUS, so he told JOE GOLDBERG a very RACKALICIOUS story about Queen SHANIQUA's daughter BERTHA. How her mother, the ERSTWHILE Queen SHANIQUA, kept her locked away in a HOUSE protected by a gigantic CAMEL, because BERTHA was so CHEAP.

JOE GOLDBERG RAN. He vowed to GREEN EVIL DAVE the CUM-SCRAPER that he would save the CHEAP BERTHA. He would BLUDGEON the CAMEL, and take BERTHA far away from her eveil mother, the ERSTWHILE Queen SHANIQUA, and EMASCULATE her.

Then, all of the sudden, there was a TACKY TYPHOON and GREEN EVIL DAVE the CUM-SCRAPER began to laugh. With a puff of smoke he turned into the gigantic CAMEL from his story. ERSTWHILE Queen SHANIQUA GUTTED out from behind a TOILET and struck JOE GOLDBERG dead. In the far off HOUSE you could hear a CLAP.

THE END.

Make your own Fairy Tale at fuali.com

Oh, hey--if you didn't figure it out or haven't seen that photo before--there's me. That was right after Boy and I started dating. C'mon now, all together: awwwww.

Steve:
   OK, now you should be back in that window with the local address of the image in the window, right?

Ferra:
   mhm

Steve:
   Just click the UPLOAD button at the bottom.

Ferra:
   Create a new entry using this uploaded file?

Steve:
   Actually, you know what?

Ferra:
   OH MY GOD.

Ferra:
   This is how you post with photos??

Steve:
   Yes!

Ferra:
   WHY HAS HE NEVER SHOWN ME THIS??

Steve:
   If you were just doing this to change the photo on the front, you wouldn't have to do anything with this window.

Steve:
   You'd just close it.

Steve:
   See, because it'd have the same filename as the one that was there already. It'd just overwrite it.

Steve:
   Same as when you overwrite anything else locally.

Ferra:
   he has NEVER SHOWN ME THIS.

Steve:
   This is why he needs me to bother him about your new design.

Ferra:
   I am in SHOCK.

...

Needless to say, changes are again afoot. When you come back here on Monday...this might not be here at all!

Okay, that's a baldfaced lie. But changes! If Steve nags enough, that is.

If you've ever wondered what I do on days when I've got nothing to do...

Steve:
I want to post these online-dating observations to Pedestrian, but eventually, one of these girls is going to find out about it.

Ferra:
shrug. it happens all the time.

Steve:
Yeah, so I've heard.

Ferra:
I mean, at least you're not saying how shitty they are in bed.

Steve:
I suppose there are varying levels of everything.

Steve:
I'm writing something about how I'm a non-expert. What I SHOULD be doing is writing JDate mail.

Ferra:
See? Spreading yourself thin.

Steve:
My weblog isn't supposed to be competition for Internet girls!

Ferra:
It will be.

Steve:
Oooooooooooh.

Steve:
How provocative.

Ferra:
Enough with the sarcasm, mister does-too-many-things-at-once.

Chou:
http://www.cnn.com/2002/LAW/11/21/malvo.prison/index.html This is the stupidest CNN article all week.

Steve:
Poor John Lee Malvo!

Ferra:
Po' widdle boy. being treated soooooo badly after KILLING THIRTEEN PEOPLE.

Ferra:
http://www.cnn.com/2002/WORLD/africa/11/21/aids.safrica.prisons.reut/index.html Now THAT's a prison story.

Steve:
The concept of "trying someone as an adult" is stupid.

Ferra:
CNN is turning into PNN--The Prison News Network.

Steve:
"Slow puncture" -- dear Lord.

Ferra:
Why? He's old enough to decide that he's going to KILL PEOPLE, he's old enough to serve time or be executed for it.

Steve:
By the way, Adebisi had that idea.

Steve:
Why not try everyone as an adult, then? Everybody who commits a crime decided they wanted to commit that crime.

Ferra:
Fine with me.

...

Ferra:
I'm having some serious sore throat.

Ferra:
But not like getting-sick sore throat.

Steve:
What kind of sore throat?

Ferra:
more like just swallowed a load sore throat.

Steve:
Some lozenges or something might help a lot with that.

Ferra:
and I should stop sucking cock at work.

Steve:
That's a good idea for many reasons.

giggle. I thought it was real.

I'm going to the warehouse today (that's whorehouse for you, Mikey), so nothing new until this evening. Probably.

A curse upon a loyal fan and her girlfriend for the e-card they sent me last week--while the card was sweet and well-appreciated, the company they sent it from has been sending me spam nonstop since then. fie!

I'm a bit busy with worklike things, but I wanted to let you know: I am in a much better mood today.

I just flat-out give up.

Last night was so scary, so unnatural and tense and terrifying, and today wasn't much better (although it was a great deal less terrifying--just long and boring and exhausting after my meager four hours of sleep) so I've really been looking forward to seeing the shrink, despite her strange ways and mixed messages.

I arrive at her office promptly at 5, and what do I see? A sign that says she'll be out of the office for the next two days and will reschedule appointments when she returns. No phone call! No warning! I wouldn't be so bent out of shape if a) I didn't so badly need to talk to a professional, and b) if she hadn't done this three times before. Different circumstances, of course--she threw her back out, mischeduled, blah blah blah...

So no shrink for me.

bastards.

Well. That was uplifting.

Steve applauded my last post, calling it "intimate". I'm tempted to just pull the whole thing. It feels too personal. Give me a few hours, then we'll see how I feel.

One am and still awake--I drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours, but it looks like nothing's happening, or at least not happening any time soon. My head is killing me. Doesn't help that I'm alone in bed, but I'm a whiny bitch and we all know it.

Had a serious serious episode of...I-don't-know-what. We headed to bed a bit early so we could get some fooling around in before I (hopefully) zonked out, and after almost an hour of grinding and heavy breathing and diddling and fucking and jesusgodwhycan'tIjustcomenow? There I was, sobbing and fetal--I couldn't breathe, couldn't stop crying, couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I finally had tothe window, letting the blistering chill in our naked bedroom, and even then it took a while to calm down.

The not-coming is easy enough to explain--the room was too hot, the lights were too bright (not that I need dark to be able to do it, but I've had a light-sensitive headache for two days now) the cat kept jumping on the bed, I just couldn't fucking concentrate. But what was with the freaking out? I don't know what's going on. I suppose this is something for therapy, yeah? I don't need drugs. I refuse to consider drugs are the answer for me, despite the good they may do for others. Had a big argument with that horrible coworker today--she says that she's been so much happier since she started taking Prozac (!) (I wave my hands in the air in frustration--so much happier? then why does her work suck so much more? why has her performance gone even MORE downhill? fuck.) and that it would make me feel better, too.

"Does Prozac make you stop missing your family when they leave you? Because that's what's wrong with me." I don't think they make a pill for that. make some joke about 'luudes or whatever here, that shit will make you forget you were born. Point was that it's not the solution for me, it can't be. They didn't help before, they're not going to help now. Right?

I don't know. There really is something wrong with me, I can feel it. Maybe it's the onset of a cold (my glands are WAY swollen), maybe not--but there's something fucking wrong with me.

Illustrious Stepfather was home this weekend, inasmuch as one can be "home" without actually having one. We saw him once, yesterday morning for brunch, and that was it. He wants us to come down to Mexico for Christmas, but it's just not happening--I'm totally out of time off, and I really want to be in our little house for our first christmas there. Ideally, they'd be there too, but it's looking less and less like that will happen.

I did manage to make it through the goodbyes without the crying, but I had to have a little sniffle in the car as we were driving away. I MISS THEM SO DAMNED MUCH. It doesn't get any easier with time. Aren't you tired of hearing me say this? I'm tired of thinking it.

Actually, I'm just tired. Maybe it's the ever-constant sleep-deprivation, maybe it's too much thinking. I've had a pretty solid stream of Thought going for the last 22 years (except for those bleak moments where I a) got engaged to a slavering republican, and b) did heroin) (that was totally a joke, you know that. I was comparing almost-marrying a republican to the horrors of heroin use. equally reprehensible.) (man, there have been a lot of heroin jokes around here lately, and by "here" I mean between me and Boy. Yesterday at IKEA there were horses everywhere! Little horse statues, horse patterns on rugs, a tiny cocktail tray with the same horse design repeated on it...Boy started the whole thing, telling me they were subliminal messages to do heroin [known as H or Horse or...you get the picture]. Lots of horse.)

This is why you come here: For The Heroin.

Speaking of IKEA, guess what we're doing early next year. REMODELING THE KITCHEN. Praise the heavens, we are ready. We spent a couple hours yesterday designing cabinet layouts and hemming and hawing over measurements and placement and oh my god we're getting a new kitchen. I will most surely post photos everywhere, and you will most surely tell me what great taste we have and how our lives will be improved by the addition of this new kitchen (well, not addition, the structure stays the same but everything else will change!) and when you come over for dinner I won't be all mortified by the flourescent lighting and horrible grout and ugly vinyl floor.

Well, not you, but Dave and Quincy, our most consistent guests.

Look, you never even ask to come over. Well, maybe if you'd said something, I would have invited you! sigh. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you.

(words cannot express how excited we are at the prospect of getting rid of our horrible awful original 1947 cabinetry. and how nervous I am at the idea of not having a kitchen for six weeks. all for the greater good.)

Something caught my eye on my walk back from our other building: the shoe repair shop has a big sign in their window that says "Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet, Give Me Your Shoes To Repair". How strange.

Had two dreams last night that make me twitch in discomfort when I think about them:

1) Boy and I were going into business together--we'd developed this revolutionary device called the seX Box, and it was going to save the world. I can't remember what it looked like, or what it did, but it was revolutionary.

2) That particular coworker of Boy's was making his offer again--remember when you got really drunk at that party and said that if Boy was ever out of the picture to give you a call? Yeah, that was funny. Anyway, I had a dream about that.

I had a dream last week about a lady who rides my bus and swims at the pool by our house--she was giving me a ride home but I kept making her stop so I could do things like get a smoothie and adopt a cat. She was mad. I considered telling her about the dream, but then I realized we'd never even had a conversation, just mutual eavesdropping. I'd probably be pretty freaked out if some strange girl told me she was dreaming of me.

Still, it'd be nice if she gave me rides home.

Steve says:
What format should I use for my bio page?

Ferra says:
Whatever makes you feel good.

Ferra says:
Live Without Fear.

Steve says:
If it's not too late, you should rename your weblog Live Without Fear.

Ferra says:
ew, no.

Ferra says:
People will think I'm some new-agey freak.

Steve says:
Yeah, I know!

Ferra says:
instead of a blistering, narcissistic bitch.

You know me, I enjoy the wacky as much as anything--but there is something about seeing a trailer full of llamas in front of my office building (in the heart of downtown Seattle, remember) at 7am that makes my brain give a little jump.

I have been so very quiet lately. Do you still come here? I haven't shared good stories or amusing IM snippets or anything, and I feel pretty guilty about it. Not like hang-myself-in-the-closet guilty, closer to gosh-i-feel-like-i'm-not-holding-up-my-end-of-the-bargain angst. Remember the deal? I'll be funny and talk about dirty freaky sexy things and you come read them and send me adoring fan mail (ahem.) and we all go home happy? Well, you're not keeping your end of the deal either, I haven't gotten more than one lousy email telling me how great I am all week (wait, it wasn't lousy, it was very nice! sorry).

The big impediment has been this nagging feeling--I'm wasting my time at this job that in the beginning promised to go somewhere! and has gone nowhere (or at least nowhere good, and not far enough), and not doing enough outside of the job to make up for it. Sure, I started my novel (it is still going VERY slowly. There is no way on earth will assure my finishing 50k by the end of the month. none.). And I've got a head start on both thanksgiving AND christmas (oh my god, did I tell you I made my mirepois a couple weeks ago? all that chopping done ahead of time so I can be extra-perfect on Thanksgiving), but who cares! Life is so short and fleeting and oh my god we're all going to die.

That's really what it's come down to--I have secretly developed this gigantic fear of dying. I am not done yet. You know how sometimes I complain about how it feels like I've done everything and been everywhere and seen everything? Next time I make those noises, please do kindly tell me to shut up. There is so much to do.

And because being misty-eyed about our eventual fate (death.) doesn't help anyone, I've adopted a new mantra that I'm forcing on everyone (Steve.):

Live Without Fear.

Look, let's not get into it too much, I don't really feel like explaining because it was another awake-at-five-am-with-no-hope-of-falling-asleep-again morning and I am so very tired and you know this is just an excuse for not having further explanation? Just take it at face value: live without fear, because there isn't enough time to be all freaked out.

I've been getting all woo-woo lately, too. It feels silly explaining it because I sound like a self-help guru or the dalai lama or godknowswhat (do you want to know something slightly amusing? when I was young *cough* I used to think that the dalai lama and Mata Hari were somehow related. I do so love Mata Hari.) and the more i think about telling you, the sillier I feel. Never mind.

I should do work...or something.

Places I have left my sexy librarian glasses today:

-bathroom
-desk
-fireplace mantle
-bathroom
-pocket
-kitchen
-bathroom

I'm not very good at wearing my glasses. And I drink a LOT of water.

They break more fake windows in this movie than any movie I've ever seen.

I'm starting to make a habit of watching horrible movies in the cozy den after work--You'd think that I'd be satisfied after Dangerous Minds, While You Were Sleeping and Cruel Intentions I'd be pretty well set.

I'm topping those steaming piles of crap with American Outlaws. Good lord, that's a bad movie. Even Colin Farrell couldn't save it.

...and then I look further down the cast list:
Kathy Bates! (have you noticed she's got a nice little directing deal with HBO? an episode of Six Feet Under and Oz. Not bad.)
Timothy Dalton! (I'll forgive him a bad Bond movie or two, and Flash Gordon)
Terry O'Quinn! (who was in The Rocketeer with Timothy Dalton. this is rapidly becoming a quick study in the Kevin Bacon Game)
...and that's pretty much it. But still! I expect better of Kathy Bates--showing up in a movie involving Ali Larter and the inimitably dull-witted oversexed Scott Caan is just tacky.

I need a job that lets me work from home.

And I need donuts.

Watching Cruel Intentions and shaking my head with bemused disbelief. What a movie. I know that there are valuable parts of my brain being sloowwwwly crushed to bits with every second I watch, but...it's got a little bit of everything that makes me blush with pleasure--girl-on-girl, boy-on-boy, Reese Witherspoon nearly nude...I guess I can let it go a little longer.

Had a dream last night that I was remodeling my parents' old house--ripping out the flooring and digging through layer and layer of insulation. I was covered in filth, hot and dusty despite the pouring rain, and when I stepped outside for a breath of fresh wet air The Ex drove by with his little Mexican fiancée in the seat that used to be mine. I was glad to see him safely back from his perilous journey south of the border, and somewhat puzzled--why does he keep asking girls to marry him? Doesn't he know he's destined to be alone? They drove by slowly and I watched as he whispered and pointed, and then I went inside. I kissed Boy, who was intent on pulling up floorboards, and woke up.

Digging through my jewelery box this morning to find my princess necklace (it looks so sweet with this johnny-collar shirt I got in Florida), I found my old ring--it looked dirty and tarnished, and when I dropped it back into the box it gave a slight clang.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. Just thinking.

...

I had an amazing discovery last night--not quite the intellectual magnitude of when I discovered the Theory of Relativity, but strikingly important: Dreyer's Dreamery Deep-Dish Apple Pie Ice Cream Is All I Need In Life.

No, that's a lie. But christ, it was good.

...

I'm a silly girl.

I'm feeling fairly heartsick today--I finally got ahold of Mom today, and it turns out they're not coming home for the holidays after all.

No Thanksgiving, no Christmas, no Family Anniversary (that's New Year's Eve, when Mom and Illustrious Stepfather were married, thus officially making us a family). I feel hopeless and abandoned, and I keep seeing flashes of stupid family-themed moments that used to just irritate me but now they make me all weepy (more specifically, I was reminded of all the thankless autumn weekends spent in the pouring rain, raking fallen leaves from the cherry blossom trees, cursing humanity and creation itself for bringing the combination of deciduous trees and my do-it-the-hard-way-because-we-said-so parents who refused to ever get us a fucking leaf blower-vac to my life. O, how I miss those days.)

I guess it's time to grow up and stop pining for my family. Lots of people don't see their family for months and months at a time. But who knew this would be so hard? 'Fess up, because I'm going to kick your ass for not warning me sooner.

Speaking of leaves, welcome to our weekend. Okay, not the whole weekend, but a great deal of our Sunday was spent in the company of the leaf-vac and a three-dollar rake that very steadily fell apart as the day wore on. Raking and sucking (heh), hours and hours, yelling and fighting--I think it's just proof that we are destined to have hired help. No yard is worth this (and I'm not just talking the hours in the yard and the rake that fell apart and the yelling because we're both stubborn and pig-headed--oh my GOD my back hurts. pain is not my friend.), and even worse is the fact that today the yard looks exactly the same. With barely half the leaves fallen from the trees, those blustery winds we had overnight did some dirty work.

A craaaazy carpet of leaves. no grass to be seen.

Holy christ. I can't believe I forgot to tell you. Steve Has A Weblog. Finally. And it's hosted on the very same machine that keeps mine and Boy's! Excellent. Please, go and be merry.

I promise a full update tonight, but work is slightly busy (well, at least I have a project to work on, plus I'm trying to find the perfect tins for the little gifties I've been making, so I'm extra-occupied). To tide you over, another snippet of novel. I'm still working on the dialogue.

Then the Psd to HTML or PSD to CSS conversion is carried out by hard coding the image to fit into HTML frames or layers

Made port at Fisherman’s Terminal this afternoon after a longer-than-necessary wait at the locks. We made good time until the West Point lighthouse came into view, when the ebb tide was only the first obstacle—once you pass under the railroad bridge, your boat’s in full view of the watch tower at the Ballard Locks. That’s not a problem for most fishermen, because most fishermen don’t fuck the locksmen.
Well, one locksman. Bill was the kind of guy you’d find puking in a urinal come closing time, and was making full use of that reputation the night we met. The crew was taking Young Joseph out for his 21st birthday and making a night of it, starting with a few beers at the Bit Tavern. The bartender there was a woman named Moreen, 52 years old and tougher than Teflon. One time, Chuck got into a “discussion” with another patron, and she threw them both out—one in each hand. Since then, Chuck’s been on his best behavior, and Moreen has been my hero.
So we’re belly-up to the bar at the Bit, maybe two or three beers under our belts when he lurches up and plops down on the stool next to me. I can smell the bud lite and bad cologne, and for a minute I consider moving down to the other end of the bar—but something about the weird smirk on his face convinces me to stay.
“Who’d you come in on—Louisa May?” he slurred into my ear. Three days of stubble and a tiny scar on his neck made him look a little dangerous, but the dull brown look in his eyes was a dead giveaway—he’d be too drunk to get much of anything done.
“Avery’s been my captain for two years now—you’ve seen us come through often enough,” On average of twice a week, if the haul was good.
He leaned in, brushed his hand against the outside of my thigh and waved Moreen over. “Give us both a shot of something good, Mor,” his slurring was only getting worse, and the slumping wasn’t getting much better, either. Moreen shook her head, surprising no one; if anyone was going to know how much was too much, she would—and Bill was clearly past his limit.
“Hon, you gonna take him home or what?” she asked me, causing a wave of snorts and chuckles from my crewmates. One of Chuck’s fellow grease monkeys, a guy named O’Riley, threw a sly grin my way. “She don’t take no one home, Moreen—not even me!” his buddies punched shoulders and congratulated him on his beer-soaked wit.
“Yeah, I bet your wife would just loooove it if I took you home, O’Riley,” I returned. “But not as much as she’d love putting her foot up your ass for suggesting it!” Hooting and hollering, the boys turned their jolly praise towards me while I turned toward Bill and pulled him upright.
“You ready for a good time?” His head popped up, smirk back where I found it earlier. I slid off my bar stool and sauntered towards the mens’ room, inviting more cat-calling and head-shaking. Bill followed slowly with a wary look on his face, starving man hoping for porterhouse but more likely to get a mouthful of dirt.
Twelve minutes later, I was leaving by the back door with watch cap in hand. Bill buttoned slowly and looked around for his sweater; it must have flown under one of the stalls. His belt hung as limply as his--
“You’re a good kid,” he said, muffled by the sweater he pulled over his head. “A real tiger. You wanna try that again back at my place?” He’d sobered up a good deal in his exertion, but not nearly enough to make better performance at all likely. I shrugged into my coat and pulled on my gloves while he finished tucking and buckling.
“No thanks,” I said, “but if I change my mind, I’ll think about giving you a call.”

Again, more apologies for being so distant. I know it's only Day Six, but I really don't think I'm cut out for this novel-in-a-month business. How was I to know until I tried? I know that I work well under pressure, but nanowrimo is pretty ridiculous. Perhaps by next year Boy will have decided to let me be a stay-at-home-girlfriend and I'll have all kinds of time to pump out 50000 words for a novel that will likely never see the light of day.

I'm still working on it, bit by bit--but I fall into my same trap of being easily distracted. Hey, I haven't seen that episode of Changing Rooms! Look, I'd better sweep the kitchen floor! Ooh, marble magnets are all the rage, let's drive to Bellevue so I can get the materials I need and then spend all afternoon making them! Too easy to find other things to occupy me, and not enough willpower to overcome it. And not enough incentive, either! Boy won't even read it because he's afraid he won't like it and he'll have to be polite or risk hurting my delicate girly feelings. pfft.

Other things:

1) if you are an american and did not vote yesterday, please let me know so I can come to your house and beat you senseless. I canNOT believe the number of people in my office alone who don't vote. The last two days have been rife with arguments and distress--my boss stepped in right around the time I started calling people stupid to their faces, but at least she agrees with me. How can you NOT VOTE? People literally die for the right to vote in other countries, and you just "don't feel like it"? "Don't have time" to fill out a couple of little dots and make your voice (however small and insignificant-feeling it is) heard? "I'm European, what difference does it make" is NOT a good enough answer unless you actually LIVE in Europe and have no citizenship in this country. I hate to play the Iraq card, but in their latest election Saddam Hussein got ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THE VOTE and not because he's a great guy that everyone wants to see in power, but because there are ARMED MEN AT THE POLLS TO MAKE SURE YOU VOTE FOR HIM.

It's a privilege and a responsibility, and "I'm just not educated enough about the issues to vote" is not fucking good enough.

All right, I'm off the soapbox. But be warned! I've joined the League of Women Voters and plan on kicking some ass.

2) boy, that rant took it out of me.

...

Saw the shrink again last night and am becoming increasingly frustrated with her. Is her plan to try to make me MORE crazy? because that might be working. Last session she tells me to stay at my job because as much as it pays shit (true) at least it's a paycheck (very true) and I have good benefits (reasonably true) and relatively flexible hours (somewhat true) and I still have the freedom to write here, and work on my novel (not true right now, very busy) and so forth. THIS week she tells me that it's time to start looking for a new job and suggests freelance editing because it will play to my strengths (true), but come now. So confusing. Also, when will she stop focusing on work? That's not the ONLY thing that makes me crazy. I'm thinking about finding a new one, but how do I tell this one that I want to break up with her? And then I'd have to explain everything to a NEW therapist, and it would be so time-consuming, and I'd feel like I'd wasted the last five sessions with this one...

But she told me I need a "Five Year Plan" last night, which is the death knell for anyone, but especially for anyone giving me advice. She's very concerned that I don't seem to have any specific "goals", and that I'm without "direction" and I seem "aimless". How can living a good life, making my Boy and myself happy, and writing a novel seem aimless?? I am without a clue.

I have four links to pimp to you in lieu of further content:

-The Morning News, which every day makes me grateful that I have eyes with which to read their publication. I have got the HUGEST crush on Rosencrans (and Maggie Berry) but I'll never admit it.

-Sarah Hepola, writer for the Morning News, and a rockstar in her own right. I love people who fall in love.

-Kevin Fanning also deserves your love and devotion. Read Stir, because it's wonderful, even only five chapters done.

-Sarah B. (another Sarah, I can't keep those girls out of my life) has consistently kept me amused for the last 47 days. I can't imagine she wouldn't do the same for you.

Now, to drink water, eat an apple, and make sure today is brilliant.

I hope you'll forgive me my neglectfulness (is that a word?), but things are busy. C'mon, you try unpacking from vacation, doing the subsequent vacation laundry, getting back into the swing of work, freezing your ass off (remind me, please, to wear more clothing.), WRITING A NOVEL, and absorbing my very first issue of ReadyMade Magazine.

Speaking of the novel, not one of you commented on my little snippet. C'mon, lemme hear it, even if you're not going to be nice. I NEED FEEDBACK. Steve says it's "salty", but in a good way. Hmm.

Once I catch up on my word count (only 4000 until I'm in good standing), I'll be back with regular updates. I promise.

Next year, remind me to write about something I already know. Fishing and pirates are hard.

Two things:

1) Leftover Kit-Kats for breakfast = Bad.

2) Yes, Caterina, Writing is hard. I'm at a measly 800 words so far, which is terrifying. I've got to hit 4500 words by tomorrow morning.

Want a taste?

Tuesday:

Dawn broke today with a crash. Young Joseph must have tripped over the ropes he was supposed to wind and store last night; I could hear him and Old Joseph drinking in the galley with Chuck until we passed Dungeness Bay, making it unlikely that he finished his duties before heading for his berth. He’s a novice deckhand, and I don’t expect heroics, but I thought that his uncle would step up and show him the way of things on the water. Old Joe and I have sailed together for three seasons now as 2nd mate and bosun dragger with Chuck Rawlins as our oiler, and we were a good team. Our first three seasons were like magic, bringing in haul after haul under Captain Frame, enough to keep us all in beer and pizza during the off-season and enough to keep me coming back for more.

After my first season, I was tempted to move on; I’d had enough of smelling like fishguts and fending off the horny college kids who signed on for the summer, looking for a quick ten grand. Women are still uncommon on salmon tenders and with two months of celibacy under their belts, those boys are likely to try anything. I was mending webs in the focsle when the last one made his move; he crept up behind me and tripped over a fold of net, reaching out for a grope even as he fell to the deck. Frame had been in the forward head when he heard the fall and my resultant cursing, came around the bend of the alleyway to see me standing over Brad or Thad (they all look alike anyway) giving him hell for his attempt.

“I’ll see you on the bridge, sir. And Danny,” the old man said to me with a wink, “You come along as well.” He’d played this game before but I had no pity for Brad/Thad, who trudged up the companionway like a convict to the gallows. We reached the wheelhouse, where I slumped on the stool in front of the radar, idly watching a small school of whitefish pass under us at 12 fathoms. Brad/Thad stood sullenly in the spot the Captain had indicated and glared at the horizon.

“Mister Wilkinson, I run a tight ship aboard the Louisa May. When you signed on in June, you were made aware of the consequences of poor behavior. As a greenhorn fish-gutter, you are nothing I can’t replace in the space of an hour once we reach port, so let me ask you this,” Avery paused, sliding his freezing grey stare towards me. “Is pussy worth your earnings from this season? Is it worth your reputation? Because I can guarantee your stunt today is going to cost you some of both.”

He sat at the nav table and began writing an account of the matter in the ship’s log. I knew that he wouldn’t dock the boy’s pay more than a couple hundred dollars, but I also knew that word was already making its way through the crew—Brad/Thad was likely going to see the business end of a few fists before we made port that evening, thanks to Old Joe and Chuck. This is what passed for justice at sea, where the Captain was judge and your crewmates the jury—and occasionally executioner.

Changes are afoot: I have written a new bio, revealing many sordid details! Which has left me with no time to write an actual entry. Sorry. Anyway, enjoy.