"Sweet" Seats At The Georgia Dome
Nice view.
Look at that Dome. Isn't it sexy? It has to be the sexiest dome I've seen in a while.
So, my good buddy and sales rep boyfriend Patrick is about to pop my cherry. My "first NFL game" cherry, that is. Of the wide variety of cool (and occasionally stupid) things I've done in my lifetime, I have never been to a pro football game. Can you believe it? I can't even believe it, and I'm me.
Not only did he offer up 4 tickets and a parking pass to the Falcons-Vikings game on Sunday, but he also neglected to mention (and I neglected to ask, until I picked my tickets up from the receptionist at work this afternoon) that we are in his company suite. Sweet!
I have been dying to go to a Falcons game ever since I moved here, and despite my agency handling some Falcons business, comp tickets seem to be few and far between, so I am jumping at this opportunity to tailgate on a lovely Sunday afternoon and watch some hot, sweaty muscular guys tackle like it's nobody's business.
The fact that we get to eat good food and drink good beer from the luxury of his suite (which I hear is amazing). The tickets were like losing my virginity. The suite part was like losing my virginity to a longtime crush and having my crush tell me he loves me. Score.
I will be back on Sunday or Monday to report my Tom-Cruise-jumping-on-Oprah's-couch experience at the game. Until then, peace out.
He'll Ask Me To The Prom, Right?
So tonight, I worked a little later (as I've been doing lately) to pull together some last-minute information for a HUGE client presentation we have on Monday. I left work, hit the gym, and called my sister so we could meet up, as she's heading to Boston tomorrow morning for a long weekend. She asked me to pick up some dinner, because she was super hungover and tired, and being the dutiful sister I am, I headed to my local Southern barbeque to get some pulled chicken and slaw.
I walked into Pig 'N Chik (quirky little name, but the BEST Southern barbeque known to man, and most certainly a "must-go" in Atlanta), and ordered my takeout. As I looked around the restaurant, I spotted a really cute boy and immediately began batting my gym-sweaty, mascara-less eyelashes at him. I wondered what high school he went to.
And then I caught myself.
F*ck, I'm clearly not 17 anymore, am I?I've found this happening a lot lately. I'll notice a cute boy at the mall or behind the counter of some store, and immediately transport myself back to my teenage years, where I'm wondering if maybe I could ask for his number and prank call him a couple thousand times.
And then my friend Reality gives me a swift kick in the ass and reminds me that my parents are hoping for a marriage in the next couple of years, and that I can hear the faint tick-tock of my biological Swatch watch. (And I would give you a swift kick in the ass and remind you that I am close to...uh...erm...neither one of those right now.) But for the love of God, I am in my mid-twenties, and I am still eyeing 18 year old guys?! As far as I'm concerned, I am the Mary Kay LeTourneau of my generation, and that frightens me.
Although I'm sure I could still teach an 18 year old guy a thing or two.
More Picture Pages
I haven't posted any pictures lately, so here we go. I think it breaks up the monotony of the text a little bit. Enjoy.
The fabulous group shot that would only be more fabulous if the rest of us had our eyes closed.
Ahhh...me and my partner in crime. We love each other lots and lots. If I were to ever take over the world, or audition for "The Amazing Race", I'd want Matty with me all the way. He's super strong and he will beat up other boys for me. And if that weren't enough, he looks like Ray Liotta in "Goodfellas". Sometimes I tell him to "get out his f*ckin' shinebox". It's fun.
Update: After reading this post today, Matty commented the following: "Why didn't you write more about me?", "Tell them I'm really, really, really, really, really good-looking", and "Can you hook me up with some poontang?" To address your concerns, Matthew, 1. I just wrote more about you, and am publicly declaring my love for you, which is a big deal in itself, 2. He is really really really really really good-looking, and 3. I will sleep with you, but only if you stop calling my area a "poontang".
If we were a sandwich, I would be the...well, the middle stuff. At this point in the night, it was 3:30, and we were all a little tired of drinking. I think. Maybe. I can't remember.
A Pack of Lobsters and One Bad Seahorse
About six months ago, I met someone and fell over myself. From moment one, I was incredibly attracted to the guy, and after one conversation, my intuition kicked in (or perhaps indigestion, I'm not sure), and I decided that if this guy was to ever show an inkling of interest in me, I would club him, drag him back to my lair, and never let him leave. The only problemo with this potentially fabulous situation is a 5'7", 34B girl with brown hair and brown eyes and cankles, otherwise known as his girlfriend. Of a year. And a half.
I've met said girlfriend on numerous occasions, and I think it's fair to say that we really don't like one another. After all, he has mentioned me to her many times, so she sees me as competition, and I see her as the road block to a potentially incredible relationship. We have butted heads in the past, and if it weren't out of respect for my guy friend, I'd knock her the f*ck out if you put us alone in a room. (I could tell you a million stories as to WHY I would knock her out, because I usually wouldn't scrap unless I had good reason, but I ask you to trust that I do.)
Admittedly, I egg it on quite a bit. After a very long and complicated misunderstanding a few months ago, I began calling my dream boy my "lobster". A lobster, for those of you who didn't follow "Friends", is a metaphorical moniker for a soul mate, as lobsters spend their lives finding one mate and then die. (And that's the abridged version.) When she found out about the lobster, she was...well, irate. He, of course, loved it. I, of course, came off looking like the boyfriend-stealing bitch. Whoops.
Although nothing has ever happened between my lobster and I, I would be the first in line if his relationship with this girl didn't work out. Actually, I'd be the second. (I'd let someone else deal with the rebound.) I think he knows this. And so while I live my life and do my thing, and he lives his life and does his, we remain friends. But my disdain for his lady friend (and her disdain for me) remains rather obvious.
Friday night. An acquaintance of mine is moving to Charlotte, and threw herself a goodbye party. The entire crew of the 10-12 of us that go out every weekend was there. (My lobster and his girlfriend were not.) Now, I love Humpy, Matty, Krista, Mario, Mike, etc. I really do. They're a great crowd to hang with, and I always have fun with them. I love them. I'd take a bullet for any one of them (well, most of them). But let it be said that they are not exactly the best influences on me. They tend to let me do what I want, which is usually to make a huge ass of myself, when in some cases, I should be put in restraints and cut off from the liquor. (Sometimes it's funny, like when I serenaded everyone with my medley of Britney Spears, changing all of the words around and using Mike's last name in every other word.)
After a long, two-vodka drink shower at home earlier that night, I headed to the party with aforementioned friends and it only got worse. Drinking ensued, mayhem occurred, and next thing you know, I was on my trusty Samsung making phone calls like the ass that I am. I decided, in a very foggy moment, that I should call my lobster and let him know that he didn't belong with his lady friend. Yeah, I know, dumb idea.
In my stupor, I dialed his number and it went right to voicemail. So I say this, "Lobster, it's your lobster. I've been thinking, and your girlfriend is a seahorse. Seahorses are bad." Then, realizing that I made absolutely no sense and that I essentially implied that his girlfriend was all wrong for him (not to mention her cankles, but thankfully that stayed in my inner monologue), I hung up. I turned back around in my chair to find three people laughing hysterically. Shit.
I decided, half an hour later (Or was it an hour later? For Christ's sake, I was drinking, not on Quaaludes...I should remember this, but I don't) to call back and apologize. By this time I was way drunker (which I know isn't a word, but whatever), and I ended up saying, "Lobster, I am calling to apologize. Your girlfriend isn't a seahorse, but...well, she is, but...um, shit. I'm kidding. I was going with an Under the Sea theme and it went awry. Goodnight."
My lobster, who usually calls me back within a day, if not a few hours, has not called me back. I think it's time to bury my head in the sand.
According to "Jim"
In an homage to Aaron Karo (whose live standup I'm going to see next week!), enjoy:
Everyone has probably had, is currently having, or is unfortunately doomed to have a love-hate relationship. You know, a relationship that starts out like an innocent little train ride and then meanders its way up and down a rollercoaster-like path until you get off five years later with mussed up hair, heavy breath, and what I like to call "rel-ame", or relief that it's over, quickly followed by shame that it ever even happened.
Of all of the love-hate relationships I've been in, I can assure you that none is as volatile as my relationship with "Jim". Ever since I was a flat-chested ten year old girl with a poufy Afro and tortoiseshell glasses, I've struggled with my relationship with Jim. And sadly, this is still the case today.
I have never been naturally athletic, and it's sad, because for all of the general competitiveness, compulsiveness, and ambition that I hold in my pinky finger alone, I have never been able to channel it into the healthy habit of visiting the Jim. I played tennis, I played lacrosse, I played kickball in Jim class (even if the only reason I was ever picked first, if at all, was because I was friends with whoever was chosen captain), but it never really "stuck". I envy anyone out there who have been working out consistently, day after day, for years on end, because it takes a lot of discipline and stamina to do so. Discipline and stamina that I only seem to have when it comes to work, my social life, or skills of a sexual nature.
Jim and I have been friends, on-and-off, for about 10 years. My Jim habit has always gone in the way of bipolar spurts where I work out five days a week for a couple of weeks on end, followed by three months of "rest" - in other words, gluttonous eating like a sloth and what some might consider a marriage between my ass and any available couch. Unfortunately for me, maintaining good health cannot be achieved by my two-weeks-on, three-months-off approach to my Jim.
But recently, I have started to reconcile with Jim in a major way. I have started to compromise with, and sacrifice for Jim, because I realize that I really need him in my life. And ever since we made peace a couple of weeks ago, I have never felt better, and have been sleeping a lot better at night.
Jim does funny things to people, though. I thought I'd share a few observations here:
Why is the inner thigh machine always located in the most public area of the Jim? I went over to use it last night, and found that it was conveniently facing a slew of abdominal crunchers. So as I straddled the machine, legs wide open, crushing fifty pounds of weight between my thighs, I busted some freckly-ass, pudgy kid trying to get a little voyeuristic Penthouse action in with his crunches while I am nobly (is that a word?) working out. I shot him a polite "f*ck you" and kept my concentration on the wall behind him.
Meathead guys at the Jim are crazy. They can bench 250 lbs. of weight with any part of their body (elbow included), but their necks can't support their heads. They look like bobblehead dolls to me. Do any other women out there seriously find this attractive?
The best situation is when you're on a machine in a long line of machines, and you get stuck Stairmastering next to a short, scrawny guy that is competing with you. Oh yes, he'll look over to match your speed, your resistance, and your heart rate - and raise you. If this were a f*cking race, cowboy, I would have signed up for the Boston Marathon. Keep your eyes somewhere else (but not on anyone on the inner thigh machine, please).
Trixie Fondas will always be all over Jim. You know who I'm talking about - those dumb bitches with the perfect bodies that have never worked out a day in their lives, and go to the gym solely to talk on their cell phones, reapply their makeup, and make you feel bad about yourself. I just have one message for those bitches: osteoporosis. May you be blessed with it in your old age.
There's always at least one person who is obsessed with the medicine ball. This person believes that any and all fitness goals can be achieved using the Ball. They'll sit down in the stretching area with the Ball, doing crunches, then bounce up and down on the ball, doing cardio, then move the ball to the weight area, lifting it over their heads like they're lifting barbells. The Ball people are crazy. Stay away from them. They're like the gym equivalent of the dad in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" who sprayed Windex on a body part any time he was sick.
Finally, I would highly recommend against using the "use Jim for the smoothies" approach to dealing with your own personal Jim. My plan was to treat myself with a smoothie after each workout, as a prize for being so good. I went through that phase in college, and ended up at the Rec Center every day - not to work out, but because I was addicted to the strawberry smoothies. How "re-lame".
Allow Myself to Interview...Myself
In lieu of anything particularly interesting or noteworthy, I stole this from
Bethany, who stole this from someone else, who probably stole it from someone else. It's an incestuous blogosphere, friends. Let's take a look back and see what I was doing...
10 years ago…
I was a sophomore in high school. I had just come back to my public high school after a yearlong stint at a private boarding school 20 minutes away. My freshman year – between required sports (field hockey, basketball, lacrosse), grueling study hours (required in the dorm from 8-11 each weeknight before “lights out”), and a required self-sufficiency which expanded way beyond my 14 years of age (laundry, grocery shopping, and living away from home) – had left me drained. I was looking forward to getting back to home-cooked meals, no roommate who did ‘shrooms and played Hole’s “Celebrity Skin” cassette every single day, and a shred of f*cking freedom. I had just started tennis season, and was well on my way to the admission that I was
bad with balls. But hey, I loved it. Still do. I had a big crush on this junior guy at school, and spent hours talking to him on the phone, watching the 1995 Indians take it to the World Series…and almost win. Ahhh, the good old days…when the Indians actually even made it into contention for a championship. How times change.
5 years ago...As a junior in college, I had never really felt better. I had just changed my major, narrowly escaping Finance 301, and had just spent the summer at school, taking classes to catch up, drinking for three months straight, and having a lot of sex with my boyfriend, the Midget Troll. At this point, we were a good year or so into the relationship, and practically living together. I was with him so much that I never spent any time at the sorority house I was supposed to be living in, and spent any and all time away from class living in a dirty four-bedroom apartment with four other guys. Oy. And his roommates were f*cking crazy. They stole plants, food, and even their Christmas tree that year from Kroger, bought a “Fry Daddy” home deep-fryer to make their own French fries, and found it necessary to smoke bowl after bowl and watch cartoons every Saturday morning. Six months later, I moved to Chicago for an internship, dumped the guy, and started being the sassy, independent bitch I am today.
1 year ago...
Around that time, I was living in Chicago, working. I was wondering what the hell I should do with my life because I was ready for a change. I wanted to move to Atlanta, but I was scared. I was scared I wouldn’t find a job, and scared that maybe I wanted to move for the wrong reasons. I wasn’t sure that boredom was a good enough reason. On that actual day – and don’t ask me how I remember this - I had my first real date with
Jerry Maguire. It was quite nice, actually. We went out to dinner and then to a vineyard. We also curiously ran into one of our old teachers, who was clearly with a woman who was not his wife. Admittedly, one of the best parts of the date had to be my outfit. It was a cute little lacy camisole, a pink corduroy blazer, Citizens, and heeled alligator-skin boots. Quite trendy. All in all, a good day.
Yesterday…I woke up at my sister’s house. Apparently, after watching TiVo and eating dinner, I passed out in her guest room. She made me an omelette with swiss cheese. I came home, drank two cups of coffee, watched four fifteen-minute episodes of “Laguna Beach: The After Show” on demand, watched “My Fair Brady” on VH1, and headed to the gym. After 40 minutes on the elliptical and a grueling inner-thigh workout, I went to Target to buy some tank tops and socks. I came home, Humpy came over, and we watched “The Upside of Anger”, and then sleepytime.
5 snacks:• A banana with peanut butter
• Fruit Roll-Up
• Triscuits
• A sliced up tomato with salt
• Carrots
5 songs I know all the words to:Last Goodbye – Jeff Buckley
• My favorite song since 1996 – I can’t get enough of it. Jeff Buckley’s voice was absolutely dreamy.
Shoop – Salt N Pepa
• Made myself memorize all of the lyrics to this in 1993, and tried to copy all of the dance moves from the video. I definitely went through a period where I wanted to be Spinderella.
Dress You Up – Madonna
• The best Madonna song ever, by a large margin. Also known as one of the few songs on Earth that could find me at the depths of despair, on the breaking edge, and inevitably put a shit-eating grin on my face.
Poison – Bel Biv Devoe
• Again, one of my favorite songs, and chock full o’ good advice: “Never trust a big butt and a smile.”
Such Great Heights – The Postal Service• Such Great Writing is what it should be called. Who doesn’t want to know all of the lyrics to this?
5 things I would do with $100 million• I would donate some millions to Hurricane Katrina relief. Honestly! $100 million is a lot of money. Who really needs every single penny of that to live comfortably when you can use a portion of it to help other people?
• I would invest a good portion of it in a very diverse portfolio. Some in mutual funds, some in solid stocks, and some just to play with.
• I would buy my parents the cruise they take every year, as an annual gift.
• I would hire the finest heterosexual personal trainer that money could buy to get my ass into insanely good shape, and I would probably sleep with him. A lot.
• I’d treat myself to the car I’ll eventually buy anyway, a fully-loaded
Acura TSX.
5 places I would run away to:• Lucerne, Switzerland
• Sardinia (never been, but it sounds cool)
• Yemen (also never been, but I love the word “Yemen”. Yemen, yemen, yemen.)
• Venice, Italy
• Capetown, South Africa
5 things I would never wear:•
Uggs• Mom jeans
• Leg warmers
• Clear stripper heels (I second Bethany on this one; for reasons, please see “Chris Rock: Never Scared”)
• Patchouli-scented anything
5 Favorite Current television shows:• Laguna Beach
• The O.C.
• Real Time with Bill Maher
• Law & Order: SVU
• Property Ladder (on TLC)
5 biggest joys:• Traveling to new places
• Reading a good fiction novel
• Meeting interesting people
• Singing in the shower
• Making people laugh
5 favorite toys:• The iPod
• The laptop
• The text message function on my cell phone
•
The Razor scooter at work•
The unmentionable one that I got from the tranny redhead5 biggest non-joys:• Anything I’ve seen on the news lately
• The ab machine at the gym
• Feeling lonely sometimes
• Not having enough time to relax during the week
• Fighting with my parents or my sister
And now, a break from your regularly scheduled programming for some political commentary. (And for more thorough, accurate coverage, I would urge you to check out a few links on my sidebar.)
I don't know much about politics. I willingly admit this. Like most of the rest of America, I read the headlines, form my opinions, and foam at the mouth - silently. I tend to shy away from fact-driven debates, if only because I'm a total smartass, and I only love to argue when I know that I am accurately citing facts...but I always second-guess my political accuracy. However, I had a very long discussion with my Dad this weekend, who stated that he is worried about my generation and the generations after me. He said something that really stung me, shook me to the core. At the end of our conversation, he said, "Your generation will be the first to not have a better quality of life than those before them. My parents had better lives than theirs, your mother and I have had a better life than our parents, and I had hoped that you and your sister would have a better life than we do. But with all that's going on in the world, I fear that this won't be the case."
Anyone who knows me personally - who knows my educational background, my career, my interests - knows that I can talk media and advertising for days. I am probably not the best person with whom to ask a quick question, because with that one little question regarding how I buy an outdoor billboard in a market, I will have your head spinning with TRPs and DMAs within five minutes. I can't help it - I love my work, I find it totally engaging, and I just assume that everyone else thinks it's as interesting as I do.
To that end, my graduate program background is in both public relations and advertising. In school, we always had the die-hard PR people and the die-hard advertising people. They are two very different disciplines, nevertheless very competitive with one another. I have always believed in the importance of PR as a supplement to a larger-scale marketing effort, but have never been of that crazy ass school of thought that some progressive scholars in my field proclaim, which is that advertising is dead. But when I come home at the end of a 10-hour work day, having busted my ass on a plan that will probably be revised, or shot down, or worse yet - nixed entirely - at least I can sleep tight knowing that my field isn't f*cking up a nation.
The fact of the matter is, public relations has become so pervasive, and used so manipulatively in this Administration, that I'm not sure anyone truly has their facts straight. I have a lot of conservative friends - friends who have served in the military, or have had family members who had...people who have made fantastic arguments in favor of going to war, of protecting national interests, of granting tax cuts, of deferring judgement to the states...people that I love and respect very much, and who have every right to their opinions. But in spite of all of this, I can't help this nagging feeling that I have in the pit of my stomach. I can't shake this feeling that tells me that our world is very different now than it was six months ago, a year ago, five years ago. I don't feel "safe" in it - at least not in the way that I used to - and I don't think anyone else does, either. And it's not just because I'm an adult now - financially independent and more forward-thinking than I ever have been. It's because we are surrounded by frightening circumstances, and governing bodies who care more about pointing fingers and shifting focus off of the real issues in the name of "maintaining good public relations". And I learned that public relations is about maintaining honest, mutually-beneficial communication with every group that you ever come into contact with, not smiling and waving to the cameras. PR is about being proactive, not reactive.
There are a number of factors that come into play in what has shaped our world today - Court retirees and deaths, Islamic extremists, more destructive hurricanes in the past year than in the past 10 combined - but none of these factors can be attributed to the actions of one person, or one Administration. I truly believe that George Bush is an emotional, compassionate person, but a very misguided, unlucky President. And when he is giving the media cookie-cutter, optimistic soundbytes in the midst of a national tragedy, and when America is watching Oprah in the hopes of some empathic-inducing truth about what is really going on in New Orleans and Mississippi - well, you have a problem.
We have a problem.
Please check out the link above - it's a very interesting editorial from this week's Advertising Age discussing the government's misuse of public relations. Let me know what you think. I'd appreciate any thoughts or comments that you have.
The Humps, The Lovely Mountain Lumps
It's amazing what a little mountain air will do for a person. I am freshly-returned from the very lovely, very underappreciated Asheville, North Carolina.
Hold up.
Asheville?
Yes, North Carolina. Due to some unfortunate circumstance, or basically, that whore Hurricane Ophelia, Savannah had to be postponed for another time. Which I suppose is just as well, because as much as I love that town, I have some mixed feelings about it. I was very sorry not to be able to go to The Lady & Sons though, which is the restaurant owned by my personal non-sexual crush, Food Network chef Paula Deen.
Anyway, we ended up at a five-star resort, The Grove Park Inn, which was pretty f*cking awesome. Right smack in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains, it has been open since 1913, and housed a gazillion Presidents, Grant Hill, Eleanor Roosevelt, and my personal favorite, F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think he used to hang out at the bar and hit on chicks. Or just lose his wood and pass out, I'm not sure which.
The resort is very reminiscent of Kellerman's resort (from "Dirty Dancing"), prompting me to announce, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" - the minute we stepped into the main ballroom and twirl around for a couple of minutes. Stupid, but I couldn't help myself. I also couldn't help myself from yodeling, "Riiiiiiiicolaaaaaaa" at the top of my natural-born lungs while walking in the thick, wonderful mountain air. What can I say, I was expressing my oneness with nature.
We spad (spa-ed?), ate like pigs, and slept. It was good times. And then I came back nice and refreshed, and ready to rock on these posts. So bring it.
Nobody puts KA in a corner.
Holiday in the Sun
I am exhausted. Is anyone feeling me on this right now?
My best friend from college was in town this weekend, and while we had a great time, I left this weekend more exhausted than when I went into it. Good thing I am going on vacation on Thursday, to vacation from the vacation. Needless to say, posting will be light this week, as I will be in Savannah with family.
Regardless, I have a few fun anecdotes to share. First and foremost, I was proposed to on Friday night. Granted, it was 2 am, and granted, it was a drunken proposal, but my ego demands that I suck that up like Paris Hilton on any given boner. (Sorry for the vile reference, not sure where my mind is at today.) I had to say no, but it was still nice. Way to start the weekend off with a bang.
Beth arrived on Saturday morning, and it was pretty much a whirlwind from there. We went out to dinner with a number of my friends on Saturday night at a great place called Two Urban Licks. I had the pleasure of running into Dairy Queen there, who, as luck would have it, moonlights as a host. (Hmm...franchise owner/host...that makes as much sense as Bill Gates moonlighting as a Calculus tutor, but I digress.)
Later that night, while out and just buzzed enough to make an ass out of myself, I was shooting pool next to a decent-looking guy when "Your Body is a Wonderland" came over the speakers. I sort of tripped over to him, and in my best sarcasm-laden, flirtatious voice, said, "Hey - your body is a wonderland." He looked at me with a blank stare on his face and replied, "No...ehhh...no ingles." Great. The f*cker didn't even speak a lick of English. So, being the smartass I am, I replied, "Su cuerpo es un tierra de wonder." Let me give you a tip - don't try translating a random John Mayer lyric into any other language - it will definitely get lost in translation. He looked at me carefully, raised his eyebrows as if he knew what I was asking for, and pulled a pack of gum out of his pocket and offered me a piece. I walked away and stopped talking to strangers for the rest of the night.
Sunday and Monday FLEW - between shopping, watching movies, drinking heavily, and going to see the Braves pummel the Mets (ha! HA!), I am back, albeit briefly, to say hello. There's actually quite a bit to say, but sadly, not enough time to say it. So I'll save the good posts for when I get back.
I strongly encourage all to have a great week.
Hurricane Relief - Please Help
At the much-needed urging of Bob, I am going to take a break from the usual posting and use this blog for the greater good. If you are here, and reading, I am going to take that as a sign that you want to hear what I have to say. I'm sure any naysayers I have would argue that this is too little too late, but I really don't give a f*ck about the naysayers, so let's discuss.
This hurricane has completely ripped up the Gulf Coast. You've heard the reports, you've seen the footage. These people have absolutely nothing, and this part of the country is in a state of anarchy, as far as I'm concerned.
Some of the commentary I have read on other blogs discusses why or how this could happen. I am not going to speculate, and I am not going to offer a solution, but I am going to urge you and everyone you know to offer relief for Hurricane Katrina in any way you can. I, myself, cut a rather large check to the Salvation Army, and am planning to donate goods to relief shelters. Please, please, please do the same. Anything helps, even if it is just a small amount of money - it is still help. Your money will put clothing on children's backs, and bring basic needs to a lot of people who really need your help.
Thanks for hearing me out.
