UNPRECEDENTED! . . .

They did it. They did the unthinkable. It has never happened before in the history of NHF. But the run has ended, and they finally did it. They threw a successful surprise party.

And I was the big sucker at the receiving end of it! ARGH!

PIcture me thus ....

... I am having a normal Saturday. Well, mostly normal. I sleep in late after an evening of faux-debauchery with my parents. As I'm stepping out of the shower -- literally, just stepping out of the shower, my doorbell rings. Omma is passing through the neighborhood and decided she wanted to check out my latest furniture additions. She proceeds to plop herself on my sofa and watch The Golf Channel. I continue to get ready for a busy afternoon of running errands and attending a baby's first birthday party.

... I head to Bloomingdale's and return $196 worth of pantyhose. Unworn leftovers from Banana's wedding. Don't ask. The saleswoman looks at the stack of unopened pantyhose packages. Looks at me. Looks at the pantyhose. Looks at me. "Was there a problem with these?" she asks. "No," I reply plainly and succinctly. She looks at me. I look back and smile. Hey, the return policy dictates merely that the pantyhose be unopened.

... I desperately need a cup of coffee and am quickly starting to feel the effects of withdrawal (scary -- caffeine is a drug), but I'm already late for the par-tay, and I have no idea how to get there. Thankfully, my pals have come through for me, so I slowly navigate my way to the correct set of condominiums. The baby is cute, the food is good, and the hostess serves coffee! Hallelujah!

... At the close of the party, JKA states that she's going to the mall. Facing a quiet evening alone, waiting for Ha and Dr.Y to return to me from Boston, who am I to say no? I just have to be home by 9:00pm. We head out into the fog, and JKA suggests that we stop by my place first so that I can leave my car and we can travel in one vehicle. Feeling extremely sleepy and lazy, who am I to say no? We spend a leisurely evening at the mall, and decide to finally leave to grab a bite to eat. I am so thankful, for I am hungry and thirsty and nearing grumpiness. We hit the highway and we pass the first possible exit that would lead me towards home or food. We continue on the highway and pass the next possible exit that would lead me towards home or food. This horrendous pattern continues for about three more exits, before I realize we are nowhere near my house or food. And JKA shows no signs of stopping.

... I am now utterly confused. And hungry. And thirsty. Sadly, I am so easily distracted that I am vastly entertained by JKA's extensive trove of stories. Heck, even her normally taciturn husband is chattering away at me from the back seat and keeping me entertained as well. Between chuckles, however, I continue to look out the passenger side window to wonder "where the HECK is she taking me?" My attempts at obtaining an answer to this question are met with "so then, my MOM was telling me ...." Who am I to say no to a good story?

... We finally pull onto Camp Capio's street. My normally wily mind, now numbed by caloric deprivation, finally starts to think "Oh. Maybe J2 and Camp Capio are doing something for me. A nice, quiet dinner would be nice. How nice." That, and "FINALLY I GET TO EAT SOMETHING." Imagine my absolute shock when our climb up Camp Capio's driveway culminates in a massive gathering of all the cars of almost all my friends from NHF. WHAT THE!!!!!

... My first statement upon getting out of the car: "Take me home. I don't want to go in there." For I am instantly embarrassed. And my embarrassment deepens upon entry into Camp Capio, for there they all are, part of the only successful surprise party in my short memory at NHF.

And the best part?

THEY ARE ALL IN COSTUME. And good ones, at that! We've got The Man in the Yellow Hat with his son dressed as Curious George. We've got a monk ... wearing a humongous Afro that jiggled as he walked. We've got a Chef and a Bloody Doctor with their baby, a French cow (only because she wore a beret). We've got Austin Powers and Felicity Shagwell with their twins, the mini-pirate and a little red devil. We've got a set of M & M's, and a karate master, accompanied by Friday the 13th's Jason and a Care Bear who looks more like a pink piglet. And Halloween just wouldn't be complete without a cheerful orange pumpkin, nicely filled out by Nan's lightly-pregnant belly.

And then there was me. After I picked my jaw off the floor, blinked away my tears, let my blush subside and sipped my first birthday drink (for which they purchased the most enormous bottle of Grey Goose I have ever seen in my life, they put me into my costume.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Yup. This is me. They did this. They made me be the foul pole from Yankee Stadium. Sigh.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

THE WEDDING OF 2004 . . .

The whole big cabal, properly buzzed on champagne. Yeah, we clean up okay.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Just some girls who don't look like they normally do. Gasp! Makeup!

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Just some guys who don't look like they normally do. Gasp! Shirts are tucked in!

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

The deed is done ...

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Honeymoon baby? We thinks not ...

YAY FOR ME! . . .

I discovered today that although my Judge would love to have me return to continue my clerkship, that will have to happen after the woman to whom he offered a one-year position starting in the fall of 2005 leaves. That means I have to putz around for at least one year, perhaps two. What should I do? Can I conceivably enter another legal position, only to leave after such a short period of time (although taking into account burnout, one year = a lifetime)? Maybe I can try something totally new and leave law completely for a year ... work at the local library? Apprentice with a baker? Take classes at the Culinary Institute of America, or Columbia School of International and Public Affairs, or NYU Law, or the Institute of Culinary Education? Be a nanny for a year (with commensurate salary and benefits, naturally. I have a lifestyle to uphold. [Oh, please.])? The possibilities bounced around my brain all day long until I was dizzy.

Or that could have been residual codeine.

But then I came home to find that my precious Elsa Peretti sterling silver cross necklace -- that which was lovingly given to me upon the occasion of my birthday several years ago but then was brutally ripped off my neck by a clingy Noodle -- was fixed and in an inconspicuously-wrapped box, waiting to lay its coldness and warmth against my collarbone once more. I am complete.

But then, my family and I went to Baden-Baden in New Joisey, in the heart of weird New Joisey Korean-ness. The land where "no smoking" is greeted with (a) looks of confusion; (b) disbelieving guffaws; or (c) "f*ck you"s. We gorged on Korean-style fried chicken, perfect white cubes of pickled turnips, sliced jalapeno peppers (I don't really know when and how jalapeno peppers became part of Korean cuisine, but I can dig it), spicy stir-fried squid and vegetables, and white noodles in savory sauce. And a cosmopolitan. And a pitcher of cheap beer. And lots of second-hand cigarette smoke. (Incidentally, our waitress carded me when I ordered the cosmo and beer because, as she later said, "I thought it was weird that with three adults at the table, a fifteen-year-old was ordering the drinks." I'll be thanking her when I'm fifty.)

But then, we talked about golf the whole time. I, slightly buzzed, made Omma recount to Appa my perfect (ok, near-perfect) form, my long drives, my intense putting concentration, my quickly-improving short game, my ability to listen to directions and do exactly as instructed. Then, still slightly buzzed, I made her do it again. Then I lectured Appa that he should keep his right arm stuck to his side during the follow-through, that he should keep his eye on the ball and not be so intent on watching it fly, that he should not rush through his putts, and that he should listen to my golf tips.

But then, I drove my parents home -- it's my birthday dinner, but I'm still the designated driver -- and ordered some new EZ-Pass tags for all of us. After all, only APPA would get two speeding tickets for zipping through an EZ-Pass lane and get all of our tags -- which share an account number with his -- SUSPENDED.

But then, Omma handed me my new Calloway 7-wood -- the one with the shiny metallic blue big head -- and of course, I had to grip it and start swinging it around my parents' foyer. And naturally, I gouged an inch-long wedge into our newly-painted hallway wall. Naturally.

But then, I departed my parents' place and went to the local Mobil station, where I pumped an absurd FORTY DOLLARS worth of gas. That was just stupid. Drivers shouldn't have to pay for gas. Or parking. And the passenger of the Volkswagen Jetta in front of me danced around the vehicle as gas flowed into his car. DANCED. ENTHUSIASTICALLY.

But then, I came home, and proceeded up the steps leading to the building's main doorways. I nearly had a heart-attack as I looked up to reach towards the door handle and saw that SOME IDIOT had placed a ghoulish wolf's head on top of a stuffed body wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and SAT THE DAMN THING on a folding chair right by the main doorway. WHAT THE!!!! I looked around to make sure no one had heard my terrified squeak, and I tempted fate to lean in and make sure the ghoul was fake (what would I have done if it moved?!). And then, to my utmost chagrin and embarrassment ... I BACKED IN TO MY BUILDING so that I could keep my eyes on the seated ghoul at all times. It would really have sucked if it had been real and it jumped me from behind while I was opening my mailbox.

But then, it occurred to me that my crazy neighbor -- the bunny lover -- might have placed that ghoulish decoration at the entrance. It's just something she would do and think was charming. I stuck my tongue out at her door and scowled as I walked by.

But then, I'm now home and thinking "in a couple of days, we turn the clock back one hour and gain an hour of time, so I could pretend that I have one more hour of time now, and putz around do something and watch another hour of TV and lounge for one more hour and wake up late tomorrow morning because 10 o'clock will really be 9 o'clock. Right?"

Weirdness ... you can't chalk it up to the full moon, because that spectacle (which, naturally, I missed) is long gone. Nay, my friends! It's my birthday weekend, and it just doesn't get any weirder than this!

Yay for me!

HELP ME! . . .

I need a decently-paying attorney position (with benefits) for ONE YEAR, in the metropolitan New York area.

HOOK ME UP!

24/7 . . .

Considering and lifting up those of the Soybean variety ...

EVERYONE'S A MARTYR . . .

Interesting -- or rather, "INteresting" -- article in today's New York Times about the no-longer angst-ridden Boston fans.

They who can no longer whine and bitch and complain about being the underdog team with no World Series championship in eighty-six years. Wah, wah, wah, moan, moan, moan. What is wrong with them? Now they're complaining about not having anything to complain about?! Oh, kiss my Yankee ass.

But here's a bone I'll throw to you misguided Bostonians: I have full and utter confidence that you will have to wait another eighty-six years for any sort of baseball satisfaction. So there. Now go and complain in peace. Jeez.

***

HI POT, I'M KETTLE . . .

Another tidbit from today's New York Times, this time discussing the lose-lose situation Europe faces in the upcoming American presidential elections.

If Shrub wins, he still won't have Europe on his side (and Europe can forever scoff at our collective stupidity in voting him back into office).

If Kerry wins, he will ask Europe to be on his side, and Europe will still say no, and America will still hate Europe and refuse to eat French fries in the Congressional dining hall. And Europe can still scoff at our collective stupidity for it knows that French fries are actually of Belgian origin.

And we will still be stuck in Iraq because ain't no way we're getting out any time soon.

Sigh.

***

GOTTA SEE . . .

Birth
Ray
Closer
Ocean's Twelve
Sideways
I Heart Huckabees
Kinsey

HOW COOL IS SHE . . .

From today's New York Times ...

PUBLIC LIVES: Tough and Capable (Even of Spelling Habeas)
By JAN HOFFMAN

Just about everywhere you look these days, there's Eliot Spitzer, the New York State attorney general, starting a swordfight with yet another industry. He's drawn blood from securities analysts, investment bankers, mutual fund managers, insurance brokers and, on behalf of restroom attendants, restaurateurs. Next up, the wind has it, are some major record labels. The very mention of his name rattles chief executives (and gladdens the hearts of white-collar defense lawyers).

What you don't see is the very smart, very tough and rather short woman who's got Mr. Spitzer's back.

That would be Michele Hirshman, whose name rarely appears in print and who is Mr. Spitzer's first deputy. Since 1999, she has been the person whose office adjoins his, who is briefed with him or in his stead and has complete license to argue with him. She's the one who challenges, advises and signs off on the investigations that catapult regularly into the headlines. For the 600 lawyers in the state attorney general's 15 offices, Ms. Hirshman is gatekeeper, teacher and moral and legal authority. She even double-checks the news releases for accuracy.

So what kind of person can we expect from a woman whose pre-Spitzer career was spent mostly as a high-level federal prosecutor for the Southern District of New York, nailing corrupt police officers and politicians? Whose résumé, at 46, still says of her B.A. from Rutgers College: "Summa Cum Laude with Highest Departmental Honors in History, Rank 1/1564, G.P.A.: 4.0"? No-nonsense, buttoned-up, careful, humorless, possibly even dour?

But here's Ms. Hirshman, in her Lower Manhattan office, giving a tour of her tchotchkes. "I'm a little superstitious," she is saying, holding up engraved beads. "My mother-in-law gave them to me during the Transit P.B.A. trial" - involving union officials and lawyers at New York City Transit who were charged with racketeering.

"I call them my 'girl beads,'"she says. "The first one says 'clarity.' I used to carry my girl beads in my pocket every day to court, and on the days when my suits didn't have pockets, I'd lend them to the female F.B.I. agents. Once in a while the male F.B.I. agents got to play with the girl beads, too."

Now she's pointing to an inscribed photo of Pierre N. Leval, who was then a federal district judge, for whom Ms. Hirshman clerked fresh out of Yale Law School. Ms. Hirshman, who turns out to be warm and even effervescent, talks quickly, with highly animated hands and features, abbreviating sentences with "buhbuhbuhbuh" rather than "yadda-yadda." She recounts that during her first week with Judge Leval, he said to her gravely, "This is how you spell 'habeas.'" Laughing at herself, Ms. Hirshman seems unusually self-effacing for someone whom even defense lawyers grudgingly describe as extraordinary. "You know how I had spelled it? 'Habeus.'"

At this moment, Mr. Spitzer, a thin, angular man who all but shoots off electrical sparks as he bursts in, borrows her for a consultation, tossing off, "Michele is the one and only indispensable person is this office!"

Who better to run the office of an elected state attorney general than the inimitably capable Ms. Hirshman. She has respectable credentials - in her final years as a federal prosecutor, she was chief of the public corruption unit, leading, among other cases, the exposure of 19 New York City police officers in the 30th Precinct in Manhattan for narcotics and extortion offenses - and no apparent desire to enter politics.

SHE has her priorities. During Mr. Spitzer's investigation of stock analysts, "I was interviewing Sandy Weill" - that would be Sanford I., the former chief executive of Citigroup - "and I had to leave early to take my son to Hebrew school for a special event. It's very bad not to show up when your kid is expecting you!" (Ms. Hirshman is married to Russell G. Pearce, a professor at Fordham Law School, and they live in Brooklyn with their two sons. Because of conflicting schedules, she says, family dinners don't happen, but around 9:30 Monday through Thursday nights, the four of them gather for what they loosely define as "Torah study.")

"People always say, 'How do you feel with him as a boss?'" says Ms. Hirshman, referring to Mr. Spitzer, a seemingly constant presence in local and even national headlines. "Hey, he's smarter than I am, he works harder than I do, and he treats me well."

Oh, come on!

She relents. "I give better summations than he does."

In Ms. Hirshman, Mr. Spitzer found an extremely bright and hard-working lawyer with a longstanding commitment to (as her father, a college administrator, and mother, who ran laboratories for Planned Parenthood, taught her): "Leave the world a little better than it was before."

As an investigator, prosecutor and supervisor, she has long maintained: "You must believe the person is guilty, that you can prove it, and you do prove it. And those questions should keep you up at night. And if you can't sleep, then you shouldn't prosecute that person. People who exercise power should do so carefully, fairly and sensitively. Because you are ruining that person's life, so you better be right."

And what of the occasional criticism that Mr. Spitzer's cases gallop onto turf that belongs to other authorities, like the Securities and Exchange Commission?

"I believe that if you have evidence of wrongdoing and the law authorizes you to address it, you should," Ms. Hirshman says. "And you don't have an obligation to tell the S.E.C. about it first."

OH NO YOU DID NOT . . .

... just kill Leo off of "The West Wing"!!!!

DISGUST . . .

The arrogance and self-absorption of some doctors -- nay, some medical STUDENTS -- never cease to amaze me. And the worst part is, she didn't even have the balls to give me the honest reason why she wanted all that information from me. Who's making ethics jokes now?

GRIPPED . . .

I am gripped by a cold.

But more importantly, thanks to Hooch and the pull of the Motherland still alive in me, I am gripped by "Lost." I refused to watch for a few weeks because the first episode I watched freaked the living daylights out of me. The second half of the premiere episode was spooky, eerie, confusing, violent and contained almost zero background music. Moments like that is when I hate living alone, although come to think of it, if I had someone here with me, he probably would have found my freaked-outedness very funny and would've tried to scare more of the living daylights out of me by doing something like jumping out at me from the shower stall when I sat down on the toilet to pee during a commercial break. That's just not funny.

In any event, the fact that each character is further developed in each episode (clever, people, very clever) and the fact that two of the main characters speak Korean in the show -- mostly sans subtitles -- now have me totally hooked. But aside from those two elements ... the other thing that has me hooked is the fact that the Korean man speaks Korean very strangely. He has clearly learned Korean just for this show, and his inflection is weird and stilted. He still speaks Korean more fluently than most of the Korean-Americans I know, but compared to the complete fluency and fluidity and nuance spoken by his female counterpart ... well, he just makes me laugh. And in a freaky show like this, I need some laughter. (Oh, also, she's a great actor and he is not.)

Back to my cold. The best thing about being a pharmacist's daughter is the ability to get the good stuff. Now, now, don't freak out. I'm no drug addict. I haven't even ever inhaled -- not that I'm a prude about it because I've surely done other stupid things in my life. But I sure have indulged in a little codeine-laden cough syrup now and again, and tonight was one of those "agains." Hee. I am so, so woozy now. Even typing on Bob right now, I am unsure if I am making sense. But who needs to make sense when my cough will be gone in the morning, right? (And I think I'm saying "but" too many times. This is why they say to not operate heavy machinery.)

Oh wait, back to "Lost." May I also say this ... I love that there are Korean or Korean-American actors on the show. It's such a small statement to most of the nation, really -- an ensemble cast, characters who don't speak much, unknown names. But to me, it's huge. People who look like me and talk like me. People who are in a place where someone like me could never have imagined being, even five years ago. People who are not considered "fringe" or "indie" -- nay, this is mainstream broadcast television. It's pretty cool. Reminds me of a conversation I had with DYC a long while back ...

IDLING . . .

I am so idle right now. I'm watching Audrey, the meteorologist on CBS News at 11, and noticing that she has very 50's-ish helmet hair. Weird. Just gave props to Banana for a seating arrangement well done. I do believe that is an art. You want people to have fun at your wedding, but if you put everyone with just their friends, then you inevitably end up with the "random person" table, and they know it. That's just not nice. Having all the wedding party at two tables is so cliche, and it's only by luck, anyway, that many of us in this wedding are already friends. You want the right people to be sitting near the bar (like I said, Banana did well). You want to mix ages and backgrounds, but make sure your guests are sitting with someone they can still talk to. So difficult, but as ever, Banana did a good job. Two snaps in a circle. I had a small box of orange juice for dinner, for I was still bloated and slightly gassy from my enormous linguine with garlic and oil lunch. ENORMOUS. And gassy. My TV stand was delivered this evening. It's much simpler than I thought it would be, but after five hours, it's like it was always here. I like it. Lots of storage space. My cookbooks finally have a home (don't ask why my cookbooks are in my media unit. They just are.). My living room does look ultra-Korean now, at least when you're looking at the unit head-on. Must be the low profile, the enormous television, the chrome-toned electronics and the bamboo plant. I like it though. It's me. People may not think so, but it's totally me. I don't know what to do with myself. I have a very busy day -- weekend -- ahead of me, and I should be going to sleep so I can get an early start, but ... why is there no baseball on television? Why am I not watching an eleven-inning game with one eye barely open? Oh right. The season is over for the Yankees. Riiiight. Omma told me that she picked up my birthday present today: a Callaway Big Bertha 7-wood, the beautiful one with the humongous shiny metallic blue titanium head. Titanium. The frames of my glasses are titanium. I think. Or some other really light-weight metal. I better hit the ball better, the head is so big. I'd be a fool if I missed my shots with this huge thing. Gary Sheffield just spoke the phrase "the situation we was in." Sigh. Boston and St. Louis in the World Series. For the next ten days, I am a Cardinals fan, for I want to see Boston crash and burn as never before. I worked out, vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom, threw out all my garbage and recycling. I rolled the three pounds of cold cuts and cubed the four packages of cheese for us to chomp down between camera shots. They, along with mini-gherkins, Wheat Thins, brie and two bottles of champagne, merely await transport into JKA's capable hands. I've packed for my brief night in Hackeysack with Soy-o-rama. I wrote a precise list of everything I need to do tomorrow. Now I'm here. Idle. I'm so idle.

IT BE DONE . . .

Well ... what can I say. I feel strangely mellow and philosophical about the Yankees' blazing loss, the spectacular fizzle, the pathetic blow. What good is a three-game lead when the fickle gods of baseball decide things upon their own whim and fancy?

I hate Boston. They suck. They will forever suck. They will never have a "rivalry" with New York, because there is simply, logically, no comparison between the two teams. Not in numbers, not in wins, not in championships, and certainly not in players' levels of cleanliness. I hate Boston fans. I hate them all, and not a single fan is exempt from my deep and utter hatred. They all suck too, and perhaps they suck even more than the actual Boston players, because they insist on the "rivalry" with New York, not even having the intelligence necessary to know that a "rivalry" assumes parity between two parties. No parity here. Boston sucks.

But. But. BUT. They won the ALCS this year. They took the pennant. I can be facetious and say that this is a tease for them, for they will lose the World Series, and they will never be back in this position again, not for another nearly twenty years. But that would be unfair, as unfair as the unfair baseball gods. No, they won it fair and square. They pitched well, they hit well, they played well. They drove us to the very end, forced us to play hard, and we ... I don't know what we did. We lost.

The season is finally over for me. At least until mid-December, I can now save my money and let it accrue for application towards future games, $20.00 parking spaces, $7.00 Premio sausages, $6.50 Beck's, $4.00 cheese fries, and perhaps next year, I'll even try those strange things known as Dippin' Dots. Next year, I'll be back, and I'll let Steinbrenner rip me off all over again at the concession stands. And I'll be cheering harder than ever, for my pain runs deep and vengeance soothes my Yankee-lovin' soul.

DOCTOR, DOCTOR! . . .

My agita, heart palpitations and shortness of breath have reached new heights. On the one hand, I LOVE that I can hear "Who's your daddy!" even over the voices of the stupid Fox announcers. On the other hand ... is a seven run lead by the wretched Boston Red Sox really necessary? Even more, can it be possible?

I suppose anything is possible, and I am a great believer in things that are outside the realm of possibility ... but this, I cannot abide. Thankfully for my blood pressure, my boys are still in the game. The comeback kings, they who have come back from behind in more games than any baseball team in history ... they're still here, they're still playing, they're still on the board. (Incidentally, "Who's your daddy" is getting louder, and I think -- I swear -- I hear C's voice screaming the loudest, just because he thinks it's hilarious.)

I don't care that Johnny Damon looks like Jesus but I hate him anyway. Lord knows, Jesus didn't have some stupid Neanderthal look about him; nor did He have weirdly groomed womanly hair. Ick. I shudder to even conjure up Damon's image in my mind. I don't care that David Ortiz is a boil on the butt of Yankee fans everywhere. I don't care that we have five more runs to tie it up, and if we do, this game could go on forever. I just don't care.

My boys are still on, they're still fighting. No, they haven't been the best team all season, and no, they haven't been as stellar as they've been in the past. No, they haven't always warmed the cockles of my heart, and no, I don't think Steinbrenner always uses his money wisely. But here they are and they're still fighting. They're looking nappy, slimy Pedro in the face and spitting in it. I LOVE THIS GAME.

HOW'S YOUR BOOB? . . .

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Ladies, check your boobies! Quit smoking! Stop drinking so much! Exercise, or exercise MORE! Take your supplements and eat lots of dark, leafy greens! Go to your gynie and get examined! THIS AIN'T NO JOKE.

And if you (and you men, too) want to do more, check this out, excerpted from October's SELF Magazine ...

***

I WANT TO HELP!

If you want to fund scientific research ...
The Breast Cancer Research Foundation (www.bcrfcure.org)
The Breast Cancer Fund (www.breastcancerfund.org)

If you want to fund help for a specific group of women ...
Young Survival Coalition (www.youngsurvival.org)
Breast Cancer Resource Committee (www.bcresource.org)
American Breast Cancer Foundation (www.abcf.org)

If you want to fund patient-support programs ...
Living Beyond Breast Cancer (www.lbbc.org)
Y-ME National Breast Cancer Organization (www.y-me.org)

If you want to fund prevention and education programs ...
National Breast Cancer Foundation (www.nationalbreastcancer.org)

If you want to fund it all with one donation ...
The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation (www.komen.org)
Avon Foundation Breast Cancer Crusade (www.avonfoundation.org)

***

I NEED HELP!

Information ...
Breastcancer.org
The Breast Cancer Research Foundation (www.brcfcure.org)
FORCE:Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered (www.facingourrisk.org)
National Cancer Institute (www.cancer.gov)
The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation (www.komen.org)

Support ...
American Cancer Society (www.cancer.org)
AvonCares Program (www.cancercare.org)
Living Beyond Breast Cancer (www.lbbc.org)
Young Survival Coalition (www.youngsurvival org)

Empowerment ...
Facing the Mirror With Cancer (www.facingthemirror.org)
National Digital Mammography Archive (www.i3archive.com)
Y-ME National Breast Cancer Organization (www.y-me.org)

Laughter ...
"Humor After the Tumor," by Patty Gelman
"Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy," by Geralyn Lucas

***

I WANT TO SHOP!

www.bsweets.com: $25 for bonbons; 20% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
www.redenvelope.com: $95 for a pet carrier; 10% to City of Hope
www.tumi.com: $250 for a wool tote; 20% to the Komen Foundation
www.loccitane.com: $35 for soothing shea butter; 15% to the Komen Foundation
www.marnierocks.com: $275 for a choker necklace; 50% to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center
www.polo.com: $69 for rainy-day wellies; 10% to Ralph Lauren's Pink Pony Fund
www.newbalance.com: $60 for sneaker slides; $5 to the Komen Foundation
www.carolee.com: $55 for a pearl charm bracelet; 5% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
www.denimday.com: $12 for a 'One Cause One Cure' baseball cap; $5 to the Komen Foundation
www.betseyjohnson.com: $44 for a 'Courage' tank top; 20% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
www.thesak.com: $69 for a shoulder bag; 10% to the Komen Foundation
www.keds.com: $30 for limited-edition sneakers; 100% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
www.sutterhomeforhope.com: $5 for a bottle of white Zinfandel; $1 to select breast cancer charities
www.tweezerman.com: $18 for pink ribbon tweezers; 50 cents to breast cancer research
www.rockport.com: $80 for hiking boots; $5 to Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston

Ferragamo: $135 for a key chain; 15% to the Komen Foundation
Burberry: $995 for a water-repellent silk trench coat; 40% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Jimmy Choo: $495 for a pair of stilettos; 15% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Cartier: $3,900 for a Cartier Tank Divan watch; benefits the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Nanette Lepore: $340 for a fur stole; 100% to the Young Survival Coalition
DKNY: $39 & $18 for camisole and panties, respectively; 20% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Estee Lauder: $22 for shimmer lipstick in Elizabeth Pink; 100% to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Coach: $398 for a mother-of-pearl watch; $100 to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Lacoste: $60 for Touch of Pink fragrance; benefits the Young Survival Coalition
Wilson: $13 for 15 Hope golf balls; benefits the Breast Cancer Research Foundation
Hallmark: $6 for a set of 'Cards for the Cure' note cards; 10% to the Komen Foundation
Avon: $3 for a bottle of pink nail polish; 80% to the Avon Breast Cancer Crusade
Wacoal: $58 for the Awareness Bra; $2 to the Komen Foundation
Bloomingdale's: $35 for the Lilly Pulitzer scarf for Ford; 100% to the Komen Foundation

BREAK IT UP . . .

Damn, a security issue at Yankee Stadium. Yankee fans are throwing baseballs and debris onto the field in disgust. The umpires are afraid for their lives. They're conferencing with the heads of security, the police chief, the head of the grounds crew. Francona wants to pull his players from the field so they won't get hurt. Cops in riot gear are coming out, kneeling all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed around the perimeter of the diamond. It's a police state in the South Bronx tonight, my friends.

Jeez, Yankee Stadium is full of thugs tonight.

(I LOVE IT.)