What kind are you?

My Liberal Identity:

You are a Reality-Based Intellectualist, also known as the liberal elite. You are a proud member of what’s known as the reality-based community, where science, reason, and non-Jesus-based thought reign supreme.

Take the quiz at www.FightConservatives.com

Just seems wrong, somehow...

Vegetarians and vegans cite eating meat as inhumane and wrong.

So why - while at my neighborhood grocery store today - did I spot a display stand dedicated to vegetarian bacon bits?

What am I missing?

Doh! Fun stuff!

If you haven't been to The Simpsons Movie web site yet - you should. There's a ton of cool stuff to do - especially if you have lots of time to waste on a Sunday morning - while hubby snores away in the next room - drinking coffee until you shake...

Anyway, you can create your own Simpsons avatar - play games - and explore Springfield.

Even if you don't linger and geek out on the site like I did, it's very well done and worth a peek.

See for yourself.

I gOTta GeT mORE cOfFee.

Next stop - Twilight Zone

Wednesdays hold a sick fascination for me, now that I have started commuting to Manhattan on that magical day each week. And the human comedy, I find, is largely played out on mass transportation.

Well - maybe not MASS transportation. It's Amtrak. I mean, I get cranky if I can't stretch out across two seats on my way to New York City, as it is my God-given right to do at these prices.

And okay - maybe I'm becoming an elitist snob, referring to it as mass transportation. I guess if I were to schlep down to Poughkeepsie to grab a Metro North train. I'd have a different story to tell.

Anyway - the company is footing the commute bill - so I guess I'm an elitist. Bring it on.

Truth be told - I'd even pay the extra $40 bucks roundtrip out-of-pocket just for the air conditioning, upholstered seats and bathrooms that don't recall the slums of Calcutta.

Back to the main thread, now that we've allowed our substance damaged synapses to fire willy-nilly...

So - I'm boarding the train yesterday and I spot a prime set of two unoccupied seats - perfectly positioned as the seats in front are occupied by what appears to be an enormous, slumbering aquatic animal wearing elastic-waisted pants and a jacket draped over his head - with the window seat tilted backwards, thereby removing the desirability (at least visually) of sitting next to me. Cool.

I settled in and opened up my reading choice for the morning - Edith Wharton's "Summer."

I have decided to re-read my entire Edith Wharton collection this summer - with two new additions en route from Amazon (including The Fruit of the Tree - woot!), as I type this - and I hope to visit The Mount before the Fall.

When it comes to social commentary, irony and women who make foolish choices in high society - I simply can't get enough. I also live for each and every opportunity to have B remind me that we "don't live in a house as big as this one."

You see how my mind just freaking wanders? Man - what will I be like 20 years from now - hooo.

Okay - back to the train.

So - I'm reading. And a Darth Vader-ish noise suddenly draws my attention away from Charity Royall and her sun-soaked ennui at living in a small New England town.

And from the seat in front of me appears what appears to be a cheaply constructed Japanese movie monster - complete with wild buggy eyes, tubes and straps surrounding its head, and a wheezing, gasping noise emanating from its masked face.

It suddenly dawns on me that Gorgo here is actually wearing a sleep apnia machine. In public. On a train. Aaaah.

How f'ing weird is that. I mean, come on.

Anyway - having dealt with whatever awoke it - a disturbance in The Force or the scent of a tasty food treat somewhere nearby - Gorgo settles back down, drapes his jacket over its head and resumes wheezing through his life-giving technology.

Upon arriving at Penn Station, I find that a huge thunderstorm has engulfed the city. No fear, say I. I have an umbrella!

Foolish, foolish boy.

Okay - let's take a look at the factors at play here. You take one nearly-biblical downpour, add blocks of tall buildings acting as wind tunnels, mix in trash and cardboard boxes washing down the streets and blocking sewer grates, stir in a variety of cab and bus drivers who couldn't care less about splashing you with a ten-foot wall of street water - and there you have it.

By the time I reached our offices at Madison Avenue and 24th Street, the only part of me - and I mean the ONLY part of me - that was dry...was my hair.

I was soaked through. My appropriately fashionable jeans were waterlogged and now weighed about 300 pounds. My smart, chest and biceps-flattering Banana Republic polo shirt sagged and clung in unhappy places, dripping. My leather Sketcher athletic shoes were actually retaining water. And my Jack Spade messenger bag - oh the humanity...

And we won't even talk about the 2Xist soy underwear with wicking properties - I believe that the wicking capabilities succumbed somewhere around Broadway and 31st.

So - fashionable me - I slogged into the lovely art deco edifice that is 11 Madison, depositing my woefully inadequate umbrella into a plastic umbrella bag, thoughtfully provided by the building management in an attempt to keep tenants and visitors from dribbling on their marble floors.

The looks of utter pity that I received - drenched and bedraggled, clutching my damp little plastic umbrella condom in front of me, as if to say "look! I tried....really! Please look away from my shame..." -made me feel like the "special" family member that everyone is nice to but doesn't want to hang around because they're afraid you will rub jello in your hair or pee on yourself or something.

But, chin up - I sailed into my day - drip drying all the way. I ignored the looks, gradually dried out (all but my shoes) and had my first Halal street meat from the little cart on Park Avenue (delicious!).

The sun came out every once in a while, a fresh breeze greeted me as I left the building to start my trek back to Penn Station.

Then

drip

drip

drip drip drip

downpour

God damn it.

Dude...

The Neuton has arrived - and it totally rocks.

Start your day with a head wound

Nothing says happy weekend like a Sunday morning head injury.

I've hated the appliances we inherited when we bought this house since day one - especially the refrigerator. But it's been a simple case of house expenditure prioritization that has kept them from being replaced.

But now it's war - and the refrigerator has claimed first blood.

In addition to a poorly designed door shelf system that routinely dumps my condiments onto the floor - the interior of this thing is like the Amityville refrigerator. It resists attempts to clean it by returning to a state of utter filth within hours of being bleached to death.

And there is the matter of the mystery substance that collects under the produce drawer - yet has no discernible source.

I'm sure this thing is cursed.

So - this morning, as I was enjoying some light musical fare and preparing a leisurely breakfast, the door shelf once again let go, spilling wine, bottled water and condiments all over the floor.

However, this time - when I stood up after retrieving a bottle of martini olives, some Grey Poupon mustard and a questionable half jar of spaghetti sauce - I drove my head directly into the corner of the upper freezer door.

I cursed - as anyone who knows me would expect - and, after the room stopped spinning, felt something warm running down my face.

Blood.

Oh, Jolly.

And here I am - mortally wounded and I have chicken cutlets cooking on the stove to pack for B's dinner at work - waiting for vermouth and capers. And rice in the microwave. And our breakfast of roasted potatoes and chicken-sun dried tomato-basil sausage finishing under the broiler.

I wasn't sure what to do except make sure I wasn't dying - so I calmly walked to the back door - wet paper towel clasped to my head and said, "B, hon - can you come inside for a quick second?"

This is infinitely better than what I wanted to do which was run around screaming for B and alternately yelling the F word while bashing the refrigerator with a meat mallet.

After having B check the injury and determining that my brain was indeed NOT going to be falling out anytime soon, we continued a series of wet, cold compresses and now I only feel like a very small dumptruck ran over my head.

In the immortal words of Mr. Gumby, "my brain hurts."