Debbie Does Drivel

When I actually sit down to write my mental meanderings...and then re-read them...I do find that I am one anxious, fearful gal.
To that end, here's the latest:
I've been guilty of racial profiling.**
I am so spooked by the threat of bio-terrorism, that I fear some rogue Islamic fanatic here in San Diego will take it upon him (or her?) self to experiment with Anthrax, botulism, smallpox or what-have-you and release the toxins in say, a local movie theater, shopping center, workplace.
In keeping with this obsession, I've tried to be hyper-vigilant to catch these perpetrators before they act.
That means, on Saturday, while in the movie theater for a "Don't Say a Word" matinee, I became convinced that the Middle-Eastern man who came in late and sat behind us was going to release an insect bomb full of Anthrax during the movie.
So, I got up to go to the bathroom so I could get a good look at him on my return. I then sat upright in my seat and pretended to talk into a mini walkie-talkie so this guy would think I was a special forces commano chick who was on to him, and was alerting the militia to his presence.
I then fiddled around with my ear (to properly position the spy ear phone enabling me to hear my special commando instructions).
I also kept looking to my right and pretended to give secret signals to some unnamed militia man.
Oh, yeah. I also tinkered with my cell phone to make it look like I was sending text instructions to law enforcement officials, and then looked intently into my purse (location of said cell phone) to receive my own instructions.
All of this was intended to keep this guy on his toes and make him think he was going to be captured shortly.
Meanwhile, Kev was blissfully unaware that I was about to save the world.

So that was Saturday.

On Sunday, while we were shopping at Costco, I started trailing two Arabic men who were wandering around with an empty shopping cart. I thought this was unusual (we were in Costco, after all, where you always fill you cart with stuff you don't really need). Plus, they had no identifiable shopping course...but instead were erratically walking around the store.
So, I followed them for awhile. I watched them surreptitously, until they put toilet paper in their cart. I them figured that if they were on a suicide mission they would not need tp. Unless, of course, they needed it to mop up with in heaven after sex with the 72 virgin concubines.

Kev, again, was unaware of my clandestine mission until I told him what I was up to. He blamed my behaviour on the fact that I had watched "Spy Kids" earlier that day.

He doesn't yet know that I hold my breath while walking outside to and from my car so I don't inhale any Anthrax microns possibly released into the skies over SD. I'll tell him that part later...

**not that I condone this type of thing...

My friend Mike organizes an OTL (beach softball) tourney every year to benefit breast cancer. He organizes other tournaments too, but I don't pay attention to those, because I'm a girl. Anyway, lately he's taken to making CDs as a sort of tournament favor for the players. I have a few of these CDs he's given me, and they are good...but not really my type of music. (sidenote #1: this is the man who begged to hear Bryan Adam's "Summer of '69" at my wedding because he thinks it's a great song). Usually, there is not one female artist on these CDs and I've taken to noticing that he rarely, if ever, listens to women singers.
So, I, being me, gave him a hard time about this. (sidenote #2: I love to tease him...and he always falls for my jokes, esp. the one when I tell him he has a booger hanging from his nose).
Consequently, he invited me to put my money where my mouth is and come up with 8 songs for his benefit tournament this Saturday. Given that the event is played by females, for females, he thought he should have a female perspective when it came to the music. Yes, he should.
I do not know one femaley female who jams to Summer of '69.

I took on the task with wild abandon. Sunday night I sat cross-legged on my bed with a portable CD player and every girly CD I ever owned, and tried to define some sort of playlist.
I knew I would be discriminated against. Men do not tend to like the girl music I do (for instance, Kevin thinks the Bangles' "Eternal Flame" is good stuff).
I like the folky, acousticky, naked soul, de-fluffed arm of women's music. (But, for the record, I can also find redeeming qualities in the hip hop, country, even hard rock flavas.)
ANYWAY...I knew for a FACT that Mike would not bond with my selections. But I forged ahead nonetheless and picked songs that meant something to me; tunes that have at one time or another, moved me, spoke to me, rocked my teeny tiny boring non-flava'ed world.

I dropped off the CDs and playlist at Mike's office this afternoon. I cautioned him to give each song a chance. Or two. I searched his expression when he reviewed the songs, and I think I'm up for a battle....but we shall see. We shall see, my sisters and me.

Here, then, are my soul songs:

"Horses" Rickie Lee Jones
"Whatever It Takes" Sinead Lohan
"Itchykoo Park" M People
"I Still Believe In You" King's Road
"Together Again" Janet Jackson
"Good Mother" Jann Arden
"Get Out the Map" Indigo Girls
"Amazing Grace" Ani DiFranco

I struggled against putting "Basically" (Murmurs), "No Souvenirs" (from a great early Melissa Etheridge album), and "Precious Little" (Eleanor Macavoy) on the CD...but for one reason or another, they didn't fit my "theme."

This whole exercise made me believe I could organize a Lilith Fair ripoff here in SD. Ah, the delusions of the ego (as addressed so succinctly in Jann Arden's "Good Mother").

This is how 30-somethings celebrate Halloween in San Diego (one of the most vanilla and boring of the 15 largest U.S. cities):

--Go to a thrift store at 5PM on Saturday to find a costume.
--Find something two sizes too small and decide to make it work, and hide from your husband who is gallavanting around the store with a curly blonde wig, pink bathrobe and clip-on earrings.
--Make three additional stops (Party City, Target, Poppy Liquor) and listen as your husband debates between the red or hot pink Lee Press-On Nails, nude or suntan knee-his, and plastic or glass bottle of $1.99 gin.
--Hide from husband when he demands you apply even more blush to his already rosied cheeks.
--Go to a party and actually seek out the host/hostess to inform them NOT that their bar is well-stocked, but that they did an absolutely FAB job decorating the house for the holiday.
--Continue to hide from husband as now he is "coming on" to every male there between hacking, croupy coughs such as you'd expect from alcoholic housewives.
--Wonder why your husband thought an "alcoholic housewife" is a valid Halloween costume.
--Wonder why everyone else thinks it's funny too.
--Wonder why no one has said anything about your pre-fab gypsy costume.
--Remember that once you were creative and would never have dressed as a gyspy for Halloween, but would have been something like an alcoholic housewife.
--Go to another party and eat two bowls of Doritos.
--Get good and drunk and threaten to kick the kimoned ass of some stupid chick dressed up like a Geisha, who had your husband and his friends thrown out of the party.
--Vow to act your age next year.