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Who will you miss more Tim Russert or George Carlin?  It's like Princess Diana and Mother Theresa.  Once I flew back to Ithaca on the same plane as Henry Rawlings, the President of Cornell University.  It was so depressing, I couldn't help but think that if the plane went down I would be the Mother Theresa out of the two of us.

Did you know that most toilets have a birthday?  Doubt me.  Walk into your bathroom, lift off the cover of the toilet tank and check for a date stamp inside the tank.  It's like eggs or milk.  If there is a date - and there usually is - snap a picture and send it to www.toiletbirthdays.com - bringing toilet humor to a new level.

Check out my toilet investigation - Girl in Bathroom at Bar!!

It has been revealed that a story concerning 'Adolf Hitler dolls' going on sale in Ukraine and aimed at children was a hoax. Many news outlets picked up the false story, including Wikinews.

Also fooled were BBC News, The Telegraph and other major publications (Like ME). The story quickly spread as various media outlets quickly picked up and passed on the falsified report. Now news services have been forced to retract the story.

and Barbie is still single! 

A Ukrainian toy company is making it Springtime for Hitler with it's launch of a 16in Hitler doll - complete with moveable arms to reproduce Hitler's infamous salute - will first go on sale in the capital Kiev.  The doll comes with  a selection of outfits including "early days Adolf" (brown shirts and jodhpurs) and "wartime Adolf" (a grey double breasted tunic, black trousers and simple Iron Cross medal).  There's no move to produce an Ava Braun doll, but why bother when the perfect Aryan specimen already exists --- BARBIE --   a perfect tall blond with blue eyes, no body fat and an assortment of careers ranging from astronaut to teacher to even President is single and available.  Himmler, Goering did nothing compared to what dating Barbie will do for paving the way to world dominance.   But why would Barbie want to pair up with this racist mass murdering dictator?   Barbie has been facing some fierce competition from those multicultural Bratz dolls and let's not forget that damn Dora the Explorer.  Things have been shaky with Ken for years and GI Joe is way to busy fighting Al Queda to pay her any attention.  A few verses of Edelweiss may be all it takes before Barbs's is goose-stepping her way into Adolf's arms.  Let's hope Skipper can talk some sense into her before it's too late! 

If Jesse Martin didn't lock 'em up on TBS each night as Detective Ed Green on Law and Order, there is no way I would ever catch some zzzs (It's either back-to-back episodes or a sleeping pill for me).  With a show that has been going and going for over 18 seasons, changes in the cast are inevitable.  Until now, Jerry Orbach's departure as Lenny Briscoe is the only "write-off" that made an impact on my life.  I could care less that Arthur Branch left so Fred Thompson could run unsuccessfully for President.  But tomorrow night Jesse is leaving for good and I will miss him - or at least as much as you can miss a guy on television.  Where is he going? I don't know -- but I wish him the best of luck... maybe next up is his version of the Singing Detective (the man can sing... check out RENT!) 

So for those (that's right, that means my MOM and Amy D in Shanghai!) who are confused on who came from where and when - Check out the Law and Order Character Flow Chart (yes, I am a committed fan!)

"In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups -- the police who investigate crime.....

...the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories."

With two hours left to file income taxes, I can't help but think of all the expenses that are written-off as legitimate  according to US tax code.  What about the costs that aren't monetary, but certainly were incurred for  business and educational purposes.  What am I talking about?  Emotional write-offs.  Unlike straight business expenses, like client dinners and utilities, costs associated with love are not recognized at time of payment.  Usually it's months and sometimes years before the line item deduction is brought to light.  In this tax season I underwent an emotional audit. of the fiscal years of  2001 and 2002.  During this time, I lived in England and Japan with my British boyfriend.  At the time I thought I was living abroad of out of love.  I wanted international intrigue (the highest earned income), but without the hassle of having to pay for a vacation ( lower tax bracket ).  By dating an ex-pat transferring from the UK to Tokyo, I had amassed the greatest write- off that effectively increased my deductible allowing for a huge return that sent me on a worldwide adventure.   What was the result of the audit?  Traipsing through the Alps and across Spain was rewarding, but the truth is we would have never lasted as long if we lived in Brooklyn.  

Alas, creative accounting isn't for everybody, but damn it's worth a shot if you can stand the knowing that the truth eventually catches up with you just like the IRS.

I used to have a monthly Metrocard, but then I got a Mini Cooper.  My transformation from straphanger to road warrior didn’t happen with a single trip to the dealership.  There was a two-year gestation period, which began when I was evicted from an illegally subletted rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan and ended this past June when I picked up my shiny black 2005 Mini with Hawaii license plates at a auto shipper’s depot in New Jersey.  With a dark golden tan and every intention of “driving with Aloha,” I jumped into my tiny chariot, stuck my new EZPass on the windshield and headed for the Holland Tunnel.  

“You’re a long way from home sweetheart.  Why did you ever leave?” commented a Port Authority Officer, as I rolled through the toll at the Holland Tunnel with my windows opened.  

I smiled at the question.  Pizza, family and a fear that my skin would soon turn into a leathery hide were the short answers.  The long version involved my desire to have a different future that what was available to me living in middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Nine months and thousands of dollars in parking tickets and gas later, I was still zipping through the tunnel and up and down the streets of New York.  Due to work and financial reasons I was living in Jersey and though I still had a Metrocard, I used my E-ZPass more.  Each time I popped the car into third instead of taking public transportation, I could feel my carbon footprint swelling.  I knew Al Gore was disappointment in me, but it wasn’t convenient to take the train.  I once cared about air quality and our dependence on oil, but my interests shifted when I learned to drive a stick shift.  Had joining the car culture resulted in bankrupting my civic duty?

I thought about this as I drove to Brooklyn on Tuesday morning to dogsit a German Shephard for the next week.  Was there any hope for me?  What would it take for me to change my ways?  And then I heard it on NPR… Congestion Pricing.  Mayor Bloomberg’s plan to charge most drivers $8 to enter a zone below 60th Street had been approved by the City Council and now the bill was headed to Albany.  Oh my God!!  I certainly couldn’t afford this additional tax.  I was going to have to do things differently and the sooner I transitioned the better.

This was my motivation for leaving my car in Brooklyn later that day and running my errands the old fashioned way.  By the time I boarded the M14 crosstown bus I was exhausted.  I boarded the crowded bus on Avenue B and was grumpy that this would be the first of many legs on my long journey back to Brooklyn.  Luckily, I spied an unoccupied seat in the back of the bus.  I was impressed that I hadn’t lost my ability to maneuver through a maze of straphangers holding large shopping bags and generally not interested in moving towards the back of the bus.  I didn’t even flinch when one older woman dressed completely in leopard print nonchalantly flicked a cockroach off her bag.  Please that thing was tiny, in Hawaii those buggers could fly.  Finally, I made to the empty seat. I took my bag off my shoulder, loosened my scarf and prepared to sit when my would-be neighbor stopped me in mid squat.
    
“No, No!” he warned, pointing out the mysterious red liquid splattered along the edge of the seat. 

“Oh, thanks,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief and annoyance that I was saved from staining my clothes, but I was out of a seat.

“Here take my seat,” he offered. 

I smiled and said, “thanks.”

I was overcome by the kindness of this stranger.  His refusal to stay quiet had made a difference.  I very easily could have been wiping red gunk off my rear while trying to stem the rage bubbling within.  Instead, the warmth of appreciation filled my heart as I looked over the crowd on the bus.  I had been missing so much while I motored around in my protective solitary bubble of steel.  Sticking to my schedule had removed from experiencing the magic of New York - connecting with the people.

I settled in and began to read the paper, something I was unable to do while driving, when I was forced into action as a young man, with a large oak paddle, tried to sit in the contaminated seat.

“Don’t sit.  Look!  There’s dirt,” I warned. 

The paddler smiled, but I had no time to acknowledge his thanks for I was warning another passenger.  My euphoria for the loving citizens of New York faded as I realized my knightly neighbor’s gift of a seat was not strictly chivalrous.  By taking the seat, I had unwittingly accepted a new responsibility.  It was now up to me to explain to passengers that the empty space, which looked so good from afar, was really a mirage. I very easily could have returned to reading my paper and never uttered a word of caution again.  However, I could not accept that I was a person who would knowingly allow someone to sit in grime.  Even though I yearned for the carefree days of driving solo in my own car lost in my thoughts, I felt compelled to carry on.

As new passengers boarded the bus at Second Avenue, I prepared to alert all potential sitters to danger.   A man in his sixties, carrying several arrangements of flowers that I assumed were for delivery, headed straight for the empty seat.  My warning was met with a look of doubt.   He removed his glove, ran his right index finger over the mystery droppings and rolled the residue between his fingers. 

“It’s greasy,” he announced, giving the final word on the state of the seat. 

All the surrounding passengers nodded in agreement.   His desire to sit seemed so great that I offered him my seat.  He immediately declined and it became clear that he was not interested in taking any on any more responsibility.

My involvement with the dirty seat came to an end as I prepared to exit at Seventh Avenue.  A previously warned man, holding a McDonald’s bag, took my seat and carefully laid out
napkins over the offensive area.  Once again, the torch had been passed and perhaps through the innovation of the napkin coverlet the dirty seat saga would come to an end.  I left the bus relieved that there were no victims on my watch. 

As I got off the bus and headed to the 2/3, I was relieved that underneath my gas-guzzling exterior I was still community minded.  I passed through the turnstiles and hurried down the stairs to the uptown train.  All the transfers were an inconvenient truth to my reality, but driving all the time cost me more than the tolls and taxes.  It kept me from experiencing the true New York moments that kept this city from becoming just another strip mall.  Though I knew I wasn’t about to give up my precious Mini, the environment, my wallet and my sense of humor had given me all the reasons to shift to a more responsible way of getting around.
 

Back on the beach!

I like bulldogs and I like Hillary Clinton.   I admire her fight-to-the-finish persistence that to many seems calculating and annoying.  I know she can get the job done, if not by diplomacy then by using her shrill voice each day to nag special interest groups into going her way (I know this works since I was raised by a woman with such a voice).  Yet, I didn’t vote for her.  Why?  Simple, I fell for a tall dark gentlemen and the vision for our future together.  When he was done I stared into his eyes and while singing “Yes We Can,” I pulled the Obama lever and simply left my girl behind.   

This isn’t the first time I’ve turned my back on a girlfriend for some handsome stranger and a dream for a united future.  In each of those cases, I soon woke up from my love-induced haze to find only broken promises.  I’m not equating Obama to a certain Irishman with pugilistic tendencies (aka ex-flame), but I have sobered up from his awe-inspiring rhetoric.  After almost eight years of turmoil and ineffective leadership, I want America to be more than a nation where you can find a hot shower and a McDonalds with ease.  To do this we need more than charisma. We need a President who will deliver results and I believe that person is Hillary. 

Convincing myself that my voting snafu didn't matter because Hillary carried New York didn't help assuage my guilt.    After two months I needed to let go, but how?  This morning as I read the NY Times, it hit me.  Giving Hillary my money is even better than my vote.  Peace descended over me as I typed my Mastercard’s digits on a secure server, much as I imagine it would if my plane touched the Bosnian ground in '94.  I hit submit and in the words of another tall great black orator I was "FREE AT LAST."

Go Get ‘Em Girl!  Sorry for ditching ya’ back in the booth, but you know how it goes… you did marry one of those sweet-talking fools.