1: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says:
“…but beyond this, I do not think we can safely go.”
(from the introduction to George Eliot’s “Middlemarch”)

2: Stretch your right arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?:
My cute husband’s woobie. (no lie!) He is lying on the bed reading a People mag he found there, and making savagely disparaging remarks about Paris Hilton…along the lines of, “I wouldn’t fuck her with Dick Cheney’s dick.”

3: What’s the last thing you watched on TV?
The Sopranos. I think that Tony Soprano is, bar none, the richest, most fully-realized character ever to grace the screen of a television. He is powerful, he is vulnerable. He is treacherous, he is tender. He is ignorant, he is PURE GENIUS. He is bent on total destruction; he is on a Holy Quest for THE TRUTH. He is sublimely flawed; he is mythic. And I would bang him in a New Jersey minute — and so protective of him do I genuinely feel, that when that bastard FBI agent made that shitty comment about him tonight, sneering, “Why would a gorgeous broad like her wanna fuck Barney Rubble?”…it actually broke my heart just a little.

4: WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is:
10:23

5: Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?:
10:05

6: With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?:
My sweet, nine-year old baby boy reading aloud from his school writing journal. When asked what he feared the most in the world, he wrote, “a jackal…”

7: When did you last step outside? what were you doing?:
I was coming home from a delightful morning of KICKIN’ dim sum and a trip to the local fromagerie with Gregory; that was yesterday. Since then, I have pretty much been writhing in achiness and bed-ridden with a higher than usual fever. (Of course, those of you who know me well, know that I say “higher than usual fever” — being that I have been sportin’ one of unknown origin for THREE GOTTDAMNED YEARS.)

8: Before you came to this website, what did you look at?:
An essay I am working on about TDG; ten years ago this week, and all that maudlin, Gen-X jazz.

9: What are you wearing?:
My most favoritest creamy, yummy, and cozy light blue and white long cotton nightgown; my favorite striped, creamy panties from Vic’s Secret (yeah, yeah, yeah…ALL YOU ANTI-CORPORATE PURIST COCKSUCKERS CAN GO FUCK YOURSELVES. Victoria’s Secret panties RULE.)

10: Did you dream last night?:
How’s this for odd? I have dreamt — for the past two nights — about ! My sneaking suspicion is that this temporary dream-stalking has been brought on by the bobbed, British, and DROP DEAD GORGEOUS three year old with whom I became obsessed, and consequently followed throughout the store at Trader Joe’s on Friday; her name was Vivienne.

11: George Bush: is he a power-crazy nut case or …
A Cum-Guzzlin’ Cock-Holster <—in supreme honor of my girl

12: Imagine your first/next child is a girl, what do you call her?
Wednesday

13: Imagine your first/next child is a boy, what do you call him?:
Pugsley (Now you need to imagine that I am NOT having anymore children. This muff — quite literally — is done.)

14: Would you ever consider living abroad?:
PLEASE. I think this question, when posed to MY seditious ass, should be: Would I consider staying here in the states with the politcal climate heading towards fascist, fundie oblivion the way it so clearly is? (If truth be told, I am checking housing prices in Vancouver, Toronto, Dublin, and Belfast, even as we speak.)