Fun fact of the day -- the underwire from your horrible pokey bra makes a surprisingly effective cat toy.

I've never really been an air-show sort of girl. Yeah, a plane, another plane, lots of loud planes, whatever.

I'm even less into it now. Now, when I hear jets screaming over Chicago, or when I see a huge, low-flying airplane hovering over the skyline, I get freaked. I need to remind myself that there's an air show. That these fighters and jets and cargo planes and whatever are just practicing for the air show. No, really, it's ok. You can start breathing again.

I'm glad I'm not downtown in my old office. That office had possibly the best view in the city -- north on Michigan Avenue, west on the river, and east out over the lake. The damn planes come right at it. Gah.

OK, either we have a new mormon in the basement, or I accepted a misdirected package. I'm waiting to find out which it is.

Also, I have now officially stopped trying to keep up with the names. I just changed their entry in my address book to "Mormons."

Update: It's a new mormon. By "new" I mean he's been living here for two weeks. Sigh.

Stupid creeping existential agnst/ennui. Ruined what would have otherwise been a perfectly good day.

I just got a mailing from my high school. Ok, who ratted me out?

Wilmington Friends apparently cannot keep its website active. What's the matter, folks -- are you too busy forcing hapless students to participate in competitive sport to maintain your site? For shame.

Side note: On vacation, Laura mentioned that she thinks I hold grudges. She used my antipathy towards Friends are evidence. Let me clarify -- it was a great education. The teachers, for the most part, were fabulous. There were people there who really cared about me and kept me sane and who I owe everything to. I made some incredible friends there. I have no idea what would have happened to me if I'd gone to another school, because at least there it wasn't the kiss of death to be smart. I would definitely consider sending my hypothetical kids there, because I do think I got a better education than I would have at most other schools in the area

Unfortunately, I came at the worst possible time -- nothing in this world is more soul-destroying than a tight-knit group of 13-year-old girls bent on your annihilation -- and into one of the more divisive classes. And I still think the competitive sports requirement was inspired by Satan just to cause me pain. And there's no way in hell I'm going to be giving money to that school when they're spending it on sports centers instead of paying their teachers decently. And a blue kangaroo is a stupid mascot. And the Quakers is ridiculous name for a football team. And I've been consigned to hearing oat jokes for the rest of my life, or explaining that no, the Shakers were the ones who swore off sex and made the furniture, not the Quakers, it's different, really. And maybe I don't want to share my feelings in a meeting. And consensus is a crappy way to run a newspaper. And what made jeans sooooo hideous that we weren't allowed to wear them? And volleyball people, volleyball, ohh, the horror, the horror....

So yeah, I have no idea what Laura is talking about.

Oh, hey, Amy -- here's the picture of Lotti's ring:

Lotti's response to my telemarketer grumble:

Hi! I have some good news for you re: today's blog. Remember how much I used to love making crank calls, then was so cruelly thwarted by the invention of *69 and caller ID? Well recently I figured out a way to enjoy the same high of crank calls without the threat of legal entanglements -- fucking with telemarketers.

I used to also see them as a terrible annoyance, but here's the thing... They are calling and disturbing you in the middle of dinner or whatever, and, because they are being "monitored for quality assurance," will get their asses canned if they're not nice to you -- NO MATTER WHAT. So those two factors now spell my opportunity to try out all my character voices and bad jokes on them, and they really can't do shit about it. It's really pretty cool, and leaves John and me in hysterics for a good 20 minutes afterwards (or just me if I'm home alone).

I'm glad you're using your powers for good instead of evil, Lotti. And I'm sure Mr. Butz, Mrs. Butz and all the little fannies appreciate it too.

[Note to my British-English readers: Fanny doesn't mean the same thing here. It means arse. So calm down.]

During one of my broker periods of college, I actually was the person who called you during dinner. Not, I hasten to add, as a telemarketer -- please don't send me hate mail. No, I worked for a survey organization. I know how sucky it is to be cold-calling complete strangers, so I never have the heart to be outright cruel to telemarketers, even if they are annoying.

That job was where I discovered just how damn fast I talk when I get nervous -- I don't bother to breathe. I had a couple of people ask if they paid me to talk that fast. Nope. Just me.

I figured out how fast I talk all the damn time when I moved to Hong Kong. Every time I opened my mouth I had to remind myself to sloooowwwwww dowwwwwwn or no one would understand me. It was very annoying. Keep up, people!

Random pissiness for the day:

1. One of the few problems with working from home is that you're actually around when the telemarketers call. Stupid telemarketers.

2. Explain to me how my Amazon order with supersaver shipping and my Amazon order with super-fast overnight delivery showed up on the same day. Harumph. Also: For the love of god, Airborne Express, if you're delivering a box to someone in this neighborhood, ring the frickin' bell. I would hate to think of someone making off with my Economist Style Guide. (Actually, Angie had a Fed-Ex from the Gap stolen off her front porch out in Evanston -- she was annoyed, but also amused at the thought of some larcenous kid opening the box expecting cool clothes only to find maternity pants.)

A couple of quick hits, as it's late and I'm tired:

If you're in Chicago, go see Lotti's show -- her portion is called "Fear Itself", and it's a funny-as-hell take on fear and anxiety in this day and age. It's part of a program called "Battle Scars" in Live Bait Theater's Fillet of Solo. (Beth Ann Bryant-Richards' piece is called "Daddy Died For His Country" -- also quite good.) It's running Fridays and Saturdays until August 24. Go see it now.

I got a message from someone calling him/herself "Death Quaker." Said Death Quaker is thinking of starting "The Religious Society of Fiends." I'm so there. Death Quaker is apparently born and raised Quaker, unlike me (I'm just a Quaker-educated poser.) Apparently the name came about thusly:

A friend named me it because despite my pacifist upbringing I tend to like to play violent video games and read comic books and the like... for some reason he was disturbed when I was sitting in front of his computer screaming "DIE DIE DIE!!!!"

Obviously a person after my own heart.

Speaking of screaming at violent bloody mayhem on the screen -- just got back from a Girl's Night Out at XXX, the Vin Diesel spy flick. Good big stupid fun. There was much pointing and laughing and cheering and cringing and saying "well that can't be a good idea." It's all about explosions and extreme sports and wisecracks and scantily-clad females writhing. You know, the usual.

I know I'm supposed to check my brain at the door, but I had a couple of problems with the leaps of logic required for a couple of scenes. Yeah, yeah, I know, "logic" and "Vin Diesel flick" should not be mentioned in the same sentence -- actually, the two concepts should probably not be contained in the same brain. But anyway, here are my quibbles (in white, so I don't ruin the surprise for anyone):

I was willing to suspend my disbelief for the snowboarding-in-front-of-the-avalanche bit. Yeah, I know, impossible, but cool. The part that bugged me: OK, you got a gazillion tons of snow and ice careening down a mountain. Fine. It's headed for this tiny, flimsy little communications tower and this reinforced concrete bunker. So what does Our Hero do? He leaps his snowboard to the tippy-top of this gossamer-thin comm tower and clings for dear life. The gazillion tons of snow and ice crash down around the tower and then completely demolish the reinforced concrete bunker below it -- tears it to pieces. Nothing is left. But hey, look what's still standing -- the comm tower! And Our Hero was not torn limb from limb when he tried to hang on despite the tons etc. at his back. Whee!

Now this part just bugged me on principal. You have this deadly biological/chemical weapon that can wipe out cities in a heartbeat. The only thing that can neutralize it -- water. So what, pray tell, do you think would be the optimal device for delivering this agent? Planes? Trains? Automobiles? Crop dusters? Cans of Spam? Weather balloons? Candygram? All valid choices, but NOT what the supervillain decides to use. No, he puts the missiles on a submarine -- you know, a water-born vehicle. What the hell?

I still recommend the movie if you're into brainless fun and big explosions. It's laughable, but amusing. It helps if you goo with people who are into the point-and-laugh school of moviegoing. Fortunately, that's just what Girls' Night Out is for.

And hey, Jordan, thanks for being the Grill Bitch. You cook a mean turkey burger, my friend.

OK, a little more France stuff, then back to real life. Sigh.

The barge we were on was the Clair de Lune, on the Canal du Midi. This is probably the nicest, most luxurious trip I will ever take (especially considering I'm now a freelance writer and not likely to make big bucks on stock options.)

They have a guest book passengers write in at the end of the trip. Some people get very creative, pasting in collages and such. We mocked these overachievers. Then we drafted out a couple of top-10 lists to go into the book. What can I say -- the Jersilds are a competitive lot.

List one: The Top 10 dinner conversations (as overheard by Anna, much to her confusion)

10.The Jersild family trait of making things up as they go along.
Really -- we all do this, but Dad and I are more prone to it than the others. I guess the propensity to talk with great authority on topics about which you know absolutely nothing is an occupational hazard of journalists and lawyers.

9. Why doesn't this boat have an atlas?
Over the years, I've gotten much better about admitting when I'm actually talking out my ass. Tragically, my sisters now suspect absolutely everything that comes out of my mouth. The instance in question was Laura's plan to visit friends in Moscow and then pop down to Kiev. I said they're really far away -- like, New York to L.A. far. Ok, the actual distance was a guess, but they are really not close. really. We raised the question to Dad, who said, with great confidence, "1,000 miles." "Really? How do you know that.?" "I don't. I just picked a number." See? See? It's not just me!
(Just so you know, we were both wrong -- it's about 469 miles as the crow flies. But it's more than 13 hours driving, according to MapBlast. That counts as "Very far away," as far as I'm concerned.)

8. Ich bin ein Jelly Donut
Andi told me about this one. JFK actually got it a bit wrong in his famous speech at the Berlin wall -- A Berliner, apparently, is a jelly donut. To say "I am a a resident of Berlin, or one with the people of Berlin", it's just "Ich bin Berliner." My dad loved that. And used it as the launching point for a rant on how journalists would never give W. Bush the benefit of the doubt like that. True. but I still contend Dubya's an idiot.

7. The mysteries of the Pastis
I won't go into this. Suffice it to say, my mom is far too observant.

6. Ruth Ann Minner
One of my rants was on how you can't succeed in politics anymore unless you were attractive and photogenic, and that's a problem for everyone, because it means a lot of brilliant, qualified people don't get to serve because they're fat or bald or have bad teeth, while vapid, "good-looking" people like Dan Quayle and Joe Biden and such get elected. I contend this is especially expected of women, but men suffer from it too. My sisters brought up Ruth Ann Minner, the governor of Delaware, to refute me. I say she's the exception that proves the rule.
Anyway, we figure it will confuse the hell out of the next people who take the trip, because I'm guessing very few people know the name of the governor of Delaware. (Hell, I didn't.)

5. Anne Se.'s illustrious family history.
She was our guide and her father is the count of Toulouse and, um, something else. Cool.

4. Iguanas, armadillos and fearless grandmothers.
Note to self: Do not screw around with Jorge's family, especially after hearing the graphic tale of his grandmother's encounter with a recalcitrant iguana. Let's just say grandma went into the house with a broomstick and can out with iguana bits. Yipe.

3. Did this tablecloth begin its life as blue?/How does she fold those napkins?
There was a laundry incident. Anna was very apologetic, but we just thought it was funny as hell. (yes, the tablecloth was meant to be that color.) As for the napkins -- tuxedos, fleur des lis, roses and more. A different fold every dinner. And she learned them from a book in French!

2. Magnificent woodwork.
Inside the barge. Really, we have no idea how they cut those curves.

1. Possible ways to smuggle Nicholas into the U.S. so he can cook for us all the time.
Oh my god, could that man cook. I hate fish -- I don't eat salmon or tuna or anything -- and he made it taste great. Ditto the lamb, shrimp, beef, quiches, tarte citron, tarte aux chocolate, pastry swans on sugar lakes, and the amazing fireworks-laden cake for Dad's birthday. Wowie.

List two: Top 10 moments

10. Walking and biking the canal.
We slept on board the barge, but could get off to ride or walk wen ever we wanted. it's beautiful.

9. Discussing everything from politics to religion with Regis, a random passer-by.
Jorge was much better at speaking to the locals. First, he's not an introverted Northern-European type, and secondly, he's fluent. I tried to strike up a conversation with an old man on the canal who was walking (and swimming) his dogs, only to realize that I have the French conversational skills of a three-year-old. Sigh.

8. "It's fish time!" -- Nicholas.
Jorge lived in Montpellier when he studied in France, and one of the dishes he loved were these tiny little fish, fried and eaten whole (similar to acedías fritas, if you're into tapas.) Nicholas hunted them down and fried them up for us. He was so happy to find someone who knew and liked Southern French food.

7. Drinking and relaxing in a small-town cafe.

6. Nicholas enthusiastic cooking lessons.
Seriously. This guy was so into cooking that he shared his recipes with Laura and Amy, in french, at the end of the trip.

5. Keeping score on Laura and Jorge's French skills.
Both teach French to middle-schoolers. Both are fluent. Occasionally they'd disagree on a matter of French language. Anne Se. and Nicholas were happy to referee. The score: Laura 1, Jorge 2.

4. Champagne on the ceiling.
And it wasn't me who did it!

3. Discovering mom's fabulous petanque skills.
She kicked all our asses.

2. Hiking Anne Se.' s mountain in record time -- then seeing an elderly man on a mountain bike who put us all to shame.
I talked about the hike up the mountain. Even I made it faster than most -- but I was trying to keep up with my mom, who is a demon walker.

1. Every other moment on the boat.

It really was a fabulous experience. If you win a lottery, take this trip -- it was amazing, and everyone on board was incredibly good to us.