I am a snob.

I can't help it though! It's Arizona's fault. Living in a place where you are smarter, thinner and more worldly than 99 percent of the populace, you can hardly help but feel vastly superior.

...

Man. I am a snob.

So I walk over the lakeside cafe next door and the waiter starts chatting me up.

"Yes! I am still a cute girl! Skeevy underaged waiters hitting on me proves it!" I think.

...

Then I think: "The fact that I am excited by the fact that a skeevy underaged waiter is hitting on me automatically disqualifies me from the cute girl category."

I mention that I work next door.

"Oh, at the hairdresser's?" he asks eagerly.

"Excuse me, the hairdresser's?" I think indignantly. Which doesn't prevent me from thinking: "Although, I have to admit, my hair is pretty cute!"

"Uh, no. The magazine," I tell him.

Don't worry! I was nice. And I got a free Coke out of it. Finally: Cosmic reassurance that being nice has some kind of reward other than people taking advantage of you and trampling your goodwill into cynical little smithereens. It's like someone up there's saying: "Be nice, you might get something out of it."

Hey you up there, I hear your words loud and clear! I will humbly attempt to live my life in accordance with your guidance!

Even if I am a snob.

It's not that I think I'm better than you. I'm just insulted that not everyone immediately recognizes the shining light of my bright future and immense inner potential.

Oh by the way, at the Wells Fargo I went to yesterday? Today a bank robber shot a teller and took a hostage.

Just another day in Arizona, la de da....

...

Ok, WTF? No, seriously. WTF? Never have I lived in a state where so many crimes have been perpetrated on me or people I know.

In the last three months:

• A co-worker's car was stolen
• My roommate's car was broken into
• The phone box at work was broken into and used to call porn numbers
• There was a gun fight in park across the street from my house
• And now this.

I ask you: WTF?

All I have to say is: When I went to the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport a couple weekends ago it was packed. And that can only mean one thing: a lot of people want to get the hell out of Phoenix.

And I am one of them.

Oh, did I mention that I broke up with my job yesterday? Well, I tried to. That's how I meant the conversation to go. But then we got to reminiscing about the good times, the laughs, the history. And what can I say? I felt bad. So now I might be working from California and flying in every once in a while. Or working part time. Or on a freelance basis...

Look, how was I supposed to react? You'd have a hard time saying no too if they looked you in the eye and told you how much you meant to them. Ok, fine. I'll admit it. Once again, my self-serving intentions were undermined by my CHRONIC NICENESS. (...Because it is nice of me to ditch them after three months cuz I, like, wanna surf in California, right?)

LOOKIT, I've had SERIOUS pangs of conscience since I took this job, so it hasn't been easy, ALRIGHT? The mental anguish alone ought to absolve me of all guilt.

On the other hand, when I say I don't fit in here, which was my justification for leaving ("It's not youuuu, it's meeeee"), I really mean, I don't wanna freakin get shot next time I go to the bank, alright? Is that really so outlandish? Take me back to the land of gleaming Mercedes and sun-kissed anorexic people! The grass is so much greener there!

Well, you know how that goes.

There should be a backwards-honk.

Sometimes you just need to honk at someone behind you, you know?

In California, they pave paradise and put up luxury homes.

Which is better than a parking lot, I suppose. Since parking lots in California serve no other earthly purpose than to provide a place for Hummers to hang out.

But then, so do luxury homes.

That’s ok, we didn’t need those priceless, irreplaceable wetlands, anyway. I’m sure we can always go back and fix it later. After we’ve killed off the endangered species that inhabit it. It’ll only take evolution another 10 billion years to recreate them. No worries.

Being environmentally minded sucks. First of all, you’re annoying as hell. Everyone thinks you think you’re better than them (alas, the veggies suffer the same plight - life is So Hard when you’re right!). Secondly, the world is bleak, bleak, bleak. You can’t open your eyes without being assaulted by destruction, followed by an irrevocable, soul-stripping sense of loss.

But I understand. There’s money to be made. It would be against our free-market sensibilities to let this opportunity go to waste. Or, god forbid, recognize some value in an integral part of the ecosystem and beautiful natural heritage of Southern California.

Pretty soon, all that’s going to be left of SoCal is Scottsdale. How can they bulldoze everything that is distinctive of the region and put up some cookie-cutter monstrosity that belongs in Arizona? The tragedy of living in a place as beautiful as California is that you feel it slipping away right before your eyes. Elsewhere, you can depend on things being there tomorrow. There’s not so much rapacious construction in Europe or on the East Coast that you feel like you’re being closed in by five-bedroom Tuscan-style villas. You don’t get the sense that the whole of the region’s natural endowments are on the verge of being swallowed up by identical, increasingly exclusive and extravagant developments. (Although it could be worse: in Phoenix, you get the sneaking suspicion that the noose of Taco Bells draws ominously tighter by the day.)

Everybody just wants a piece of it. Of course, I shouldn’t complain. I grew up there. Carping about the travesty of the gluttonous development strategy in Southern California is akin to those jerks who complain about all the Californians in Arizona. (Like, hello! You’re so over it! We hate being here too.)

Everybody wants a piece of it, and then they complain that everybody else who wants a piece is desecrating it.

The worst part is it’s not even fun to be cynical about.

Quote O' Yesterday:

"Justice Scalia likes to boast that he follows his strict-constructionist philosophy wherever it leads, even if it leads to results he disagrees with. But it is uncanny how often it leads him just where he already wanted to go."
--ADAM COHEN in an Op-Ed in yesterday's New York Times.

Word.

In matters of law, I often return to a landmark contribution to judicial theory: A Time to Kill (1996).

Matt McConaughey is so delicious.

Mm.

Anyway. During an impassioned closing statement (during which he looked excedingly scrumptious), McConaughey's character says, "And until we can see each other as equals, justice is never going to be even-handed. It will remain nothing more than a reflection of our own prejudices."

Well, I thought he just said "Justice will never be blind," but that's what the Internet Move Database is for.

Hmph.

Anyway, my completely inaccurate rendering of the script brings up an important question: Should judges rule only according to what is written in the law, or is there room for their own interpretation? Now a synonym for interpretion is opinion, and what does opinion rely on? Judgement. Now, ask the question again: Is there room for their own judgement? Well of course, moron. That's what judges do: they judge.

So: How can you ask a judge to judge without using his judgement? (Other than by speaking v-e-r-y c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y, of course.)

And since the law was made by men, and is in no way divine or incontrovertible or even "right" by any standards other than whether it stands the test of time as a just law, wouldn't slavish obedience to the law only be allegiance to another man's opinion? Therefore, wouldn't it be more important for a justice to apply his own judgement to the situation, taking into account the wisdom of the law as well as historical developments? How can you deny him this crucial tool of judicial scrutiny?

The people who want to follow the Constitution down to the letter are like the people who literally believe that God created the Earth in seven days or believe that you should stone your neighbor if his oxen encroach upon your cornfield, or whatever outdated advice people always point to in the Bible when they're making points like this. You know what I'm talking about. Of course in the Bible, at least you can make the case that it was written by god, and so you'd better not be f*cking around with it. But who's to say that the Constitution is so cosmically right? Our founding fathers were wise, but not clairvoyant.

Basically, they should just follow the law if it leads to conclusions I agree with, and be given license to interpret it differently if it doesn't. Let's just set a standard, alright? People who disagree with me are WRONG.

There. Glad we got that straightened out.

I have a dirty little secret.

I listened to religious radio, and I liked it.

I can't decide which is more freaky, the first part or the second.

...

Definitely the second.

It's freaking. me. out.

!!!!

I can't say I felt cleansed, per se. In fact, I felt sort of mushy. Dulled. Watered down. Like I'd be prone to G-rated words and to see the good in everything, rather than visiting the scourge of my cynicism upon unsuspecting, crappy companies, politicians, co-workers, foods, e-mail systems, tape recorders, Arizona, Evil Fat Mirrors, and corporations that plot to deny you god-given, inaliable software.

Sucky.

The whole experience has left me somewhat shaken. The pillars of my faith in cynicism rest on believing that religious types are freaky, naive dupes. I can't find solace in religion! I'm too aware for that! Too self-sufficient! Too cynical! It goes against everything I believe!

...Does this mean I'm in danger of becoming Republican too? There's a red bump hehind my knee. Has it broken out already?

And a Christian station, of all things. I've just spent the last three years of my life soaking up all the wholesome yelling-across-house, pandemonium-at-dinner-table, you-paid-how-much? goodness of Russian Jewish culture!

But this brings up another question.

Would I find solace at a synagogue, as well? Is there actually spiritual guidance that would aid me in my daily life and decision-making?

No! No! I refuse to believe that I need religion!

This is a major crisis.

I cannot tell you how much of a curse it is to be tolerant. I am cursed!, I tell you, with the ability to understand and sympathize with others' viewpoints. This, however, is a viewpoint I could have stood not understanding. Cleaving to. Appreciating. Liking.

Ugh.

But just the thought, for a moment, that there is a community of people out there, who believe in holy words, who strive to do good in the world, to learn and to do good for others, and that there are people who can tell me about it every day in a way that relates to my life, to the betterment of myself!--is vastly frightening.

I'm going to go online and see what dirt I can dig up about this David Jeremiah character.

Look: ’

!

Wanna hear something disgusting?

Well, ok. Fine. If you must know. But be prepared to be fully grossed out. I’m not kidding. This is really disgusting.

It has to do with a trashcan. And a needle. Let’s just call this little adventure “The Needle in the Haystack, aka a Formidable Assemblage of Disgusting Detritus.”

It begins like this: When I was in Geneva, Switz. this fall, being the fabulous type of person I am who flits off to Geneva, H&M was having a sale, and I presciently bought a bunch of tank-tops I knew I would need to combat the infernal hell-hole that is Phoenix.

One of them was retro-green (you know the color) and white. It was super cute.

It also ties around my neck.

I usually don’t get tops of that kind. Why? Well, when you’re 34D, it’s not very comfortable to have several pounds of boobage hanging from an itty-bitty string around your neck. (See how hard life is for us?) Of course my boyfriend convinced me that I could go without a bra.

Ok, not to bring up the “S” word, but at 34D, you can only go sans bra if they’re FAKE and you don’t have to worry about that whole gravity issue. Me? I’m an all-natural chick. I have to take the “S” word into account every. single. minute. of. my. day. (See how hard life is for us?)

So of course the top has sat in the back of my closet since October. But today, I thought, “I haven’t done laundry in a month. What the hell can I wear that doesn’t have dog hair on it?” And I remembered: the shirt.

When I tried it on and realized the whole tying-around-the-neck thing wasn’t going to work, I had a brilliant idea. I’ll just sew the straps to the back, and voila, a normal, big-boob-friendly shirt!

So I went to get my needle.

Now in order to fully understand this story, you have to know three things:

1. Earlier this week, my boyfriend had a nasty bout of food poisoning. Result: one slimed pair of underwear in trashcan.

2. Earlier, that day, I had done a little, er, you know, trimming. Result: in trashcan.

3. J*zz. In trashcan. Don’t ask why/how.

Also, keep in mind that my boyfriend is impatiently waiting for me to get ready to go out to brunch, getting crankier with every little tummy-rumbling, bless his meal-driven little man-soul. Any minute he was going to walk up the stairs and force me to wear something that wasn’t the cute shirt I wanted to wear.

So I grabbed my little sewing kit, marched into the bathroom, and prepared to begin my operation. I poured out the contents of my kit. I thought about how cool I was for knowing how to sew. I envisioned the five minutes it would take to complete my project. I thought about how cute I would look. I found my thread. I found my needle. My needle had khaki-colored thread in it. I tossed the khaki-colored thread in the trashcan.

And the needle fell in too.

I watched as it disappeared into the formidable assemblage of disgusting detritus in our trashcan with a sinking feeling. But still, a glimmer of hope remained. Perhaps it only fell sort of on the top? Maybe it just got caught in the (nearly sterile!) crinkles of the plastic toilet paper wrap? Well, maybe if I just pick up the wrapper (without the results of my earlier topiary endeavors falling on the floor) I’ll be able to see it better.

….aaaaand No.

Ok, well, maybe if I just pick up this one piece of toilet paper I’msureIhardlyused I’ll be able to see where it is. No? Ok, that other piece doesn’t look too dirty. Ew. I spoke too soon. Ok, well, I’ll just pick up that next one…

And so it went. Until I had carefully reconstructed in reverse the Formidable Assemblage of Disgusting Detritus. And what did I find? Lots o’ hair, lots o’ goo, lots o’ disgusting crap—and no needle.

The moral of the story?

H&M should f*cking learn to make shirts we 34Ds can wear, too. B*stards.

I have no less than three fabulous, entertaining, intellectually rigorous blogs ready to be fleshed out and edited to a fine sheen that I in my infinite benevolence could bestow upon you Right Now.

If I weren't so fucking irritated.

I. Hate. Taxes.

I don't want to hear about procrasti--SHUT THE F*CK UP ALREADY. Don't. Wanna. Hearit.

Why is it that the only two things we can rely upon to be there for us during the course of our lives are death and taxes? Why couldn't it be a satisfying career and a healthy sex life? Or a benevolent government that doesn't fritter away our hard-earned dollars and spend our social security savings and good cholesterol? Or a nice ass and an unerring ability to determine whether food is still ok to eat? Or good cell phone reception and a short commute? Why why why?

I just want something to believe in!

Also, people who "don't have a head for math" should be provided accountants by the federal government free of charge. And then we'll, like, write the thank you notes for your wedding gifts, or something. For a nominal fee.

I just want to know: If everybody has to do taxes, why aren't they more fuzzy? Why aren't they color-coded? Why don't I get a star sticker when I finish? Why aren't the different sections each associated with a Disney character? Did you fill out your Bugs Bunny? Yeah, I'm almost done with it. I just need to get the numbers from my Bambi and I'll be able to turn the whole Goofy in.

I guess what I'm asking is WHY AREN'T THEY IDIOT-PROOF? Come on people! I can't be the only moron out there!

...

Hoookaaaaaay then.

Guess I'll go read up on my tax law. I can be a CPA in addition to being a Certified Self-Grocery Checker and Personal Travel Agent for Me. I can put that hat on too! I will cheerfully wear it while attempting to squelch any gruesome fantasies about the untimely deaths of people whose relatives do their taxes for them! I don't resent them one bit! I embrace my adulthood and the neverending to do list of bothersome, repetitive, time-consuming, semi-meaningless chores that accompanies it! Yes indeed.

Woo-ooo! I've hit a thousand! A thousand and six people have checked out my blog! Or 5 people have checked it out 200 times! Or I've checked it a thousand times at work and 6 other people have happened onto it!

Woo-ooo!

Winning quality no. 2 of Phoenix, Arizona (after making California look damn fine): Instead of turning on my space heater, I can now just walk outside. What's not to love about 93 degrees of relentless, stultifying heat? It's cozy.

How far is heaven?
Is it behind the Denny's?
Is it in the want ads next to the Executive Assistants section?
How far is it, exactly?
Is it next to Azerbaijan?
Is it a former Soviet socialist republic? If in kilometers, please provide conversion metric.
How far is heaven?
Did it get thrown out with yesterday's headlines? Is it sitting in the trash next to the orange peels and juice-speckled Saran wrap?
How far is it, would you say?
Can I walk there? Could I jog it? Would you say it's a lifestyle option, or just a trend like the grapefruit diet?
How far is heaven?
Is it farther than Mexico?
Did some Mexican steal it and ship it to Belize where it's now accessible to the adventurous traveler who still likes to be pampered?
Does it have wheelchair access?
How far is heaven?
Does it have a nice view?
Did it fall into a crack behind a soda machine?
Did some grubby kid pick it up and stick it in his pocket with a half-eaten gobstopper? Will it fade in the wash?
How far is heaven?
Should I get out my hiking gear?
Do I need to bring my own pillow?
Do you have twice daily turn-down service?
How far is heaven? Should I Mapquest it? Can I stop by on my lunch hour or will I have to take a whole day off? Do you have any brochures?
Do you sponsor press trips?
How far is heaven?
Do you have any recommendations from satisfied clients?
Have you employed state-of-the-art security measures? Do you have wireless?
How far is heaven?
Is it owned by GE?
Does it get belly-button lint?
Do you have a customer service number?
Would you be interested in partnering with Starbucks?
How far is heaven? Do you serve those mini martinis?

Please let me know via e-mail.

Well, I've finally discovered the secret to losing weight and feeling more confident about your body: thin mirrors.

You know how some mirrors make you look all bulbous and disproportionate? (Victoria's Secret, are you listening?) Those are Fat Mirrors. You want to stay away from Evil Fat Mirrors. They reflect a severely distorted, flabby, torso-foreshortening, pseudo, ugly, fallacious image. Evil! By contrast, Thin Mirrors, oh heavenly creation, are to be pursued and obtained and evermore jealously guarded at all costs.

As with many great discoveries, this one arrived by chance. I don't know what I would have done if this house hadn't come with 'em. Except go on a diet. And who wants to do that. Ew. Ug. GAH.

This house has other great features, of course. Like a diving board. But having the neighbors see me pop above the fence at regular intervals is definitely far inferior to feeling hot every day as I walk out the door eating my breakfast of chocolate chip cookies or leftover pizza or a stack (yes, a stack) of those golden bites of goodness, Keebler Club Crackers. What I have discovered, after several months of empirical research, is that you cannot look fat in these mirrors. Easter candy for breakfast? Cheetos for lunch? Pasta with cream sauce for dinner? No problem! A whole package of Swoops for after-lunch snack (i.e., a Pringles can worth of chocolate)? Lunch for break fast, Carl's Jr. for lunch, and helping no. 2 of pasta with cream sauce for dinner?--No no, eat more! You're practically wasting away, you ravishingly undernourished creature! Every time you feel fat or bloated, these mirrors are there to remind you that you are slim, slim, slim! You feel all-powerful, untouched by the hand of fate, the sour hangover of consequences!

Until you go to Scottsdale. Ah, it's just like the OC. I definitely missed the plentitude of unnaturally perky boobies and hos who wear lingerie that seriously covers their ass by a hair's breadth out to clubs and size zero $200 jeans. It's charming, remember?

Thank goodness for the Thin Mirrors, so you can come home and listen to their soothing whispers as you fall asleep with a Thin Mint in your mouth.

By the way: know what's even better than a Swiss dark chocolate bar? A Swiss dark chocolate bar that has sat in your car through the freezing temperatures in Minnesota and then the hellish temperatures of ghetto-land that you forgot about for several months until one day when you were driving home, and you discover that it has become so soft that you can squeeze it out of the wrapping like toothpaste. Mmm.

Don't worry. I'm not fat. (It's my Greatest Achievement, remember?) So I can revel in my addiction.

By the way, I'm sure you've noticed the straight quotes and inferior en-dashes in this post. They torment me, too. Feel free to e-mail protests to Microsoft, the b*stards who make you subscribe to what should be a god-given, inalieable right: MS Word.

Quote O’ the Day:

“We don’t need a 14-month inquiry producing 601 pages at a cost of $10 million to tell us the data on arms in Iraq was flawed. We know that. When we got over there, we didn’t find any.”

—Maureen Dowd, on the recent presidential commission’s report on U.S. ingelligence failures, from the The New York Times.