I need to stop sleeping with my cousin.

WHAT? GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER. I'm from VIRGINIA, not WEST VIRGINIA. But now that I've gotten every really weird pervert out there stalking my page, I'll continue.

For the past week or so, I've been in Wilmington, Delaware, "helping" my cousin Kate pack up her stuff. By "helping", I mean "sitting around while Kate packs herself", because Kate is VERY particular about how this place gets packed up, and my carefree "every box is marked MISC" style of packing doesn't interest her. So when I ask what I can do, she says "sit there and look pretty." Done.

Since Kate currently lives in a one-bedroom in Wilmy with a couch that really isn't made for sleeping, I have been splitting Kate's bed with her. Any of you who have ever split a bed with me knows that I'm actually a pretty easy sleeper, save a few fights with the sheets in the middle of the night. I don't usually steal the blankets, and if you need me to push over for some room, I do so. I talk in my sleep a bit, but I don't snore.

This "good in bed" (mind out of the gutter again, please) trait must have come from my father's side, because Kate is NOTHING like this. So without further adieu, I present...the most prevalent traits in the modern day BED - HOG.

1. Stealing all the blankets.
When Kate rolls over to her side, she very adorably grabs a fistful of covers under her chin and rolls with them. So cute. Except for the fact that after she does it once, Molly's uncovered.

2. Molly fell off the bed.
Yes, you read that right. Thank GOD I'm the shrimp of the family, because two tall people probably could NOT fit in the Queen-sized bed. I start out most nights on my half of the bed, and as time progresses, my half gets smaller and smaller. If I'm lucky, at about 4 am, I usually wake up to discover that I'm teetering dreadfully close to the edge. If I'm not, I wake up at about 4:15 after hearing a thud of my body hitting the floor. Fortunately, at this point, the bed is just a mattress and box springs on the carpet, so it's not far to fall.

3. The snuggler.
My cousin is so stinkin' cute and loving, she hugs in her sleep. You who know me know that I'm not a big hugger, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm a snuggler in bed - with the right person/dog/stuffed animal. I don't, as a rule, snuggle female humans or anyone related to me. As I said, I'm from Virginia, not West Virginia. My cousin, however, instinctively snuggles whatever's in bed. Including her cousin. How exactly do you push your cousin/bestest friend off of you at 3 am without offending them? It's such a delicate balance. All I know is that she ain't never sharing a bed with my husband. For that matter, Mav, you're never allowed to either, because you do the same thing.

4. The crankiness.
If you wake certain people up from their slumber to avoid their subconscious advances, get some covers back or claim a postage-stamp-sized space on the bed, just take my advice...be careful. They may get violent or yell at you. Because in their mind, they have a natural and human right to snuggle whatever creature is in their bed, take all the room and leave said creature bruised and freezing.

I heart my cousin, but I'm SO looking forward to having my own bed again. In all seriousness, though, moving is going surprisingly well. We've got a few good men helping us out (yep, we brought in the Marines. Well, two in particular...) and we should be packed up and out the door on Sunday. No one's cried yet, and hopefully we should be in our new house on Monday.

Embarrassing is my middle name.

I've asked some friends before to tell me their most embarrassing moments and have come to a few conclusions. First, I think they're lying and won't tell me their REAL most embarrassing moment. Second, I have more embarrassing moments on a daily basis than most of my friends will ever have in their entire lives. I don't mind, things usually roll off my back and I have an enormous ability to laugh at myself. Honestly, I figure that if something stupid I've done gives someone the reason to laugh when they haven't done so all day - well then, yeah, I'll be the martyr and make an ass of myself.

Today, I made an ass of myself.

I went to a doctor's appointment in the morning (both to get an antibiotic for this massive-amounts-of-multicolored-snot-producing bug that I can't seem rid of and to talk about smoking cessation, which I'll tell about later), and instead of going home afterward, I decided to run some errands and just enjoy some sunshine. As I'm walking back to my place, I notice someone bent over, unlocking their bicycle from where it was chained to a parking meter. I recognize the make and model of the bike, the hairstyle, and even the jeans of its owner - my friend Steve, who lives in Center City. Seeing as how Steve and I usually greet each other with a similar gesture, I run up behind him and lay the hardest smack on his ass that I can generate, shouting "HEY good-looking, YO ASS looks FIIIIINE in them jeans!". He turns around.

It is not Steve.

That "want to just die" feeling? If I had been murdered right there, I'd have thanked the gunman. I almost threw up, honestly. NotSteve looks at me like I have just eaten his unborn child - he looks physically and mentally HURT. I turn 50,000 shades of red, and I truly believe I may have had a full-on niacin flush.

"Ohmygod iamsosorry I thought you were my friend, I swear, he has that exact bike and everything, I am so so so so sorry."

And then I notice that NotSteve's GIRLFRIEND is standing a mere three feet away. She looks like she's going to be that murderer that I am ready to thank for killing me. I apologize for another hour and a half or so, and all NotSteve says is "its okay, you just scared me, and that HURT." Girlfriend is staring me down and I'm fairly certain she might stab me with the keys she is holding. I explain that my friend looks JUST like him from behind, he lives in the area, and that he has a similar bike and the same jeans. No one's buying it.

Finally, adding insult to injury, NotSteve says...

"Wait, I know you, didn't you date XYZ (name deleted because he's an asshole) for a long time?"

Oh God.

More people are going to find out.

I am so happy that I am leaving the city tomorrow. Because I'm seriously considering inquiring into admission into the Witness Protection Program.

A note to the Church next door:

Dear Gospel Choir:

It's 1:15 a.m. Molly is sick.

Please shut the fuck up.

Sincerely,
Baby Jesus.

I'm losing my touch.

My friend Chris said I was street smart last week. Chris, I am just now remembering that that statement was made after a few shots of whiskey - I am NOT street smart. While I graduated from graduate school with a 4.0 GPA and college in the 3.75 range, I am amazed at how I don't even notice some things that are right in front of my face.

Case in Point: Loie, the bar that serves drama free of charge with their high-priced drinks.

One of my friends celebrated her 30th birthday Saturday night, and we all gathered at Loie to give Ansley's 20s the so long, the farewell, and the good night. I had been driving back from Virginia since the morning, and I hadn't had anything to eat since my friend John had made me some good old-fashioned country breakfast at 9 am. I needed alcohol and something to keep me awake, so I went for what had worked in Vegas:

Cocaine.

I KID! I KID!

I got Red Bull & Vodka. It worked, I woke up and lost the crankiness. But the downside - the fact that I drank the sweet concoction faster than a Kennedy before last call - was lost on my exhausted body and mind. I got drunk FAST. I was upstairs at Loie, which is this cute little Urban-French-hipster kind of place that I usually know I might get a "Molly, settle down" comment thrown my way. I knew most of the people at the party peripherally, and there were a few that trickled in from the general public. I honestly couldn't see people that well - it's so hip, they make it dark so that EVERYONE looks skinny and ominous. I end up kind of in this nook beside the bar, and I'm next to a guy who I don't even notice or care to look at. He turns to me and says "Hi Molly, how are you?"

I think he's one of Ansley's friends, but I'm busy watching some other people across the wall get another round of shots for a few of us. I try to weasel out of the conversation, as I had no desire to pick up Philly dudes at the bar. I said "good, thanks" and that's about it. He looked at me and says "do you remember me? I think you hate me and I probably owe you and a couple of people an apology..."

Now, I don't hate anyone. Yes, I think poorly of people, but hate is a strong word. I reply "I'm sorry, what's your name again? I can't hate you THAT much if I don't know who you are."

"George."

Right. Scratch that. I do hate people. Well, him. I have good reason to hate him. No, it's not a "he broke up with me" bullshit story - we have seen each other less than ten times in our entire lives. Matter of fact, it's not so much ME that hates him - a couple of people close to me are the ones who'd love to have a crack at him. I don't want to go into what happened, because some people I love would be greatly hurt if I told the whole story. Put it this way. Four friends, two cousins, my mom and my shrink know the true extent of why I hate George, and they agree. He is not even pond scum, because pond scum implies that evolutionary change has taken place. He's in Med School to be a cardiac surgeon - I ask that if you ever need heart surgery, look at the first name of your surgeon and holler at me. I will confirm or deny the last name and personally help you find another doctor and then we will go key his car or something.

Yes, that is how much I hate George. Fucker.

But at any rate. I heard him say his name and carefully weighed my options, of which the following came to mind:

1. Dump the nearest beverage on his head, ala my friend Mary in a Delaware Grotto's Pizza circa 2005.
2. Kick him in the testicles.
3. Stand on the bar and scream to the bar the whole story of why I hate him.
4. Insert other action here that would certainly get me kicked out of a bar, but not necessarily arrested.

I was wasted, but I had to do something. Because that's how I roll.

I chose option 5. Give a dirty look and walk away.

Yes, I've lost my mojo. I didn't even recognize him until he told me his name, which told me that I was more drunk than I had previously believed, and I was at my friend's party, which I did not want to ruin. She lives in Miami now and will probably have a baby in the next year or so. I didn't want to be the anecdote that she tells her mom friends of why she's so happy that she left the single or childless world behind.

I did, however, proceed to text message said asshole a few things that may come back to haunt me later in life. Namely, one in particular that said "Just so you know, you are the one person that I hope dies a fiery death. Soon."

Dipshit texts me back: "lets talk tamarow theres two sides to every story."

George. First of all, it's "tomorrow". Second of all, it's "there's". I think you skipped class the week they taught grammar, spelling and punctuation in medical school. Look into scheduling a make-up session.

I did send him another text message laced with angrier comments. But I'm still a little pissy at myself for not going whole-hog on that one. I'm mainly pissed off that I was so unobservant that I didn't even see him until he was RIGHT in front of my face. I'll be more prepared than this in the future.

I've been out in Philly approximately three times in the past six months, and I've seen him three times. No, he didn't talk to me the next day, nor did I want to hear his crap. We'll meet again, George. I suggest you run.

Because I want to think fondly of Ansley's birthday, here ya go.

Everybody dies famous in a small town...

I'm waiting for some pasta to boil right now - my mom conned me into attempting cooking - so if I get distracted by this and you hear of some crazy house fire in Virginia, tell the firemen to rescue the dogs.

I went to the lake last night, stayed there today and attempted to get a tan with a couple of friends that came over. No real color that I can see. I miss the days when I could afford the tanning bed, although I'm desperately trying to accept my pale natural self. Honestly, I just feel better with a tan, mentally and physically. I got a cowboy hat for a reason the other day - I want to start making myself wear a sun hat in the sun instead of frying myself in the face as well. Yes, that's right, cancer doesn't scare me (just ask the pack of Parliament Lights that comes out on occasion) but WRINKLES - well, when you start screwing with vanity, I listen. So I look slightly trampy laying out in a bikini and a cowboy hat. It's a sweet hat, though, so I don't mind. When I find my camera cord I'll post the pictures.

In case people are wondering, yes, I'm considering moving back to Lynchburg. I moved to Philly for a reason - I had a job there in insurance. While I still have a job there, it's more or less something that travels with me, so I have nothing really tying me to the area anymore. I don't want to raise kids up north (IF I ever have them, and the way things are in this dating market, I wouldn't place a bet in Vegas on kids happening for me), and my roommate will be buying a house and moving to Delaware in the fall. So I will most likely have to move SOMEWHERE. Lynchburg is a better option than it used to be, both because I've gotten older and the city has gotten bigger. So I end up wrestling with the idea. On one hand, it's a slower way of life, much cheaper, lots of family here, and has an art community that I could carve my way into fairly easily through connections. BUT. Last night on the lake it was so quiet I got genuinely creeped out. I got worried that if I go here there's going to be very few people here my age and I'll end up some crazy old lady with 4,000 cats. I'm afraid that I'll end up a hermit. I'm too pretty to end up like that, I'm sorry, but I am. And I'm allergic to cats.

Who knows. My grandmother and dad are all on the convince-Molly-to-come-home bandwagon, and my mom is basically supportive of whatever I want to do. I think it just sort of sucks to pick a place to move to when you don't have like an actual excuse to move there, be it a job, a guy, or for school. No one just picks out Sheboygan and says "let's go!"

I don't know, I think I'm looking for a reason. A sign. An Omen. Someone send me one.

He's Just Not That Into You...

These two little birdies sit out on my deck every morning and I've started watching them...because when you're old, you pick up bird-watching.

The male, on the left, is Andy Warhol. The female, on the right, is Edie Sedgwick. Who knows, though, I do live on the edge of the Gayborhood, so they could be two males or two females. Since Andy Warhol was gay, I figure it's a little appropriate.

What I find interesting:

Edie follows Andy all over the place at first. He barely pays attention to her. They fight a little for food, even the stuff SHE got herself. Then she gets frustrated and goes over to the other side of the deck. Andy flies off. Edie flies off. Andy comes back. Edie's not there. He leaves again. Edie comes back and just chills out. Andy comes back, Edie takes off as soon as he gets there, and Andy takes off again, all sad. Edie comes back again, then Andy comes back again. Edie ignores Andy. Andy tries to get close to her, she goes and plays on the other side, Andy follows. Andy teases her and pesters her until they finally just make up and sit on the deck together and watch the Magic Garden.

This happens every day.

I don't see a nest, so I think they're past the child-bearing years, or maybe they're just a DINK (Double Income No Kids) demographic. Either way...

Edie, stop taking his shit.

Don't waste the pretty.

He's just not that into you.

Take it from me.

I've laid grout, tile and mirror with this guy, he gets a plug

I took a class last fall with the amazingly talented Isaiah Zagar. I'm no mosaic-ist, but I live next door to the Philadelphia Magic Garden and decided it might be a good idea to stimulate creativity, meet people, create some new veins of artwork, all of the above...who knew, I had money burning a hole in my pocket, and it seemed a good way to spend it. It was an experience I can't even explain...but I'll try in a later post. I met some great people in all kinds of creative mindsets. A graphic designer, a couple who owned some sort of paint-your-own-pottery place, one was trying to integrate murals into her work in the Camden County Community Gardens, and - my favorite - a fashion designer based out of Philly. If you're like me - and by "like me" I mean "watches reality television like it's her job" - you may know him...

Jay McCarroll, the enormously talented winner of Season One of Project Runway.

Jay and I spent two days with about 15 others making a big old mosaic mural in a warehouse space in South Philly (Sidebar: part of Zagar's genius must lay in the fact that he somehow has people pay him to do his work...how can I swing that?), and while working, Jay, his sister and I had a grand old time eating Italian deli sandwiches, chatting, gossiping about the state of Britney Spears, and generally creating and contributing toward our collective artistic madness.

Anyway, I ran into him the other night on Walnut Street. Of course, it was right after my roommate and I had cried over a few glasses of wine and conversations about boys, so I got a nice little "Molly, are you okay?". Yes, Jay, I'm fine.

But since I love supporting Philly artists, great design and nice people who cure a hangover by singing "Me Against the Music" to me on rainy, cold October mornings while watching cement mix, Jay gets a free plug.

Jay just launched a new website with cute stuff for sale, has a new film in the Philadelphia Film Festival and has a blog to update you on the hystericalness of it all.

Go check it out...

PS - The picture really has nothing to do with Jay other than the fact that it was taken during Isaiah's workshop. Seriously, that's the guy's HOUSE. Every square INCH of that place is covered in his work.

Today's sign that the apocalypse is upon single women

That's me. I apologize for the I-look-like-death appearance, but I had just gotten back from running. Yes, that's a big ole milkshake-type drink from Starbucks in my left hand, thereby negating whatever I had done to healthify myself by going running.
I wouldn't ever feature myself in this state, but you're at the scene, witnessing my little smirk, courtesy of iSight's built-in camera. I assure you, it may look like a smile, but it's not. It's half-grimace, half-condescending smirk. If you saw it full-on, you'd definitely think I'm bitchy. But whatever.

Let me set the stage. Starbucks. 9th and South. Getting some work done. People-watching. Just now, I had not one, not two, but three young gentlemen pull up and ask me to come converse with them. That's the tame way of putting it.

Actually, it was this:

Enter Minivan. K-Fed One is driving. Wife beater tank. Big-ass silver chain. Yankees fan. I know this because his Yankees hat is cocked to the side in that way that makes me want to smack the ever-living crap out of him, sending the hat flying off into the hereafter. His seat in said minivan is so far back and so low, it looks more like a small bed. K-Fed Two is riding shotgun, and has a slightly different, yet equally obnoxious outfit on. I can’t see their pants, but I feel confident in the fact that they’re nowhere near their natural waist. K-Fed Three, who I’m guessing is the tagalong of the group, is technically riding in the backseat, but is sort of perched in between the two bucket seats in this hot little whip, which I’m guessing is a 1999 Dodge Caravan. All three model citizen teenagers are sporting haircuts that confirm the fact that many hairdressers in certain suburbs make a killing off of the “Growing Up Gotti” haircut.

Yes folks, this van has Jersey plates.

The van’s stopped at the stoplight at 9th and South, which seems to take for-EVER to change. While I’m typing away, I suddenly have that little stomach-turning feeling that EVERY female who has ever walked by a construction site knows all too well – the eyes burning into your I’m-not-looking-anywhere-near-you side of the head.

And then…

“HEY ARMY”

“HEY ARMY GIRL. COME OVA HERE SO I CAN HOLLA AT YOU”

I’m wearing a gray Army PT shirt, so yes, I’m fully aware who they’re serenading. I intently pretend to be both completely engrossed in my computer and deaf.

The cross street light is, of course, not turning yellow in the immediate future, which would set off a course of events that might prompt the soccer-caravan-turned-thugmobile to move further down South Street.

“HEY BITCH WHY YOU SO SNOBBY? WE JUST TRYIN’ TO HOLLA ATCHOU!”

Because I don’t want to divert my attention and thereby risk some other thug in the unseen periphery stealing my very precious and unreplaceable computer, I keep on ignoring them.

This light has to be broken.

And then, of all things…two girls who have undoubtedly skipped school to come to the city meander by on the other side of the street…and I kid you not…

They holler at the Federline Trio themselves. I thought for a split-second that the two groups might actually know each other, but no. The thugmobile PULLS OVER to my side and they all engage in a flirting session that’s still going on as I type this. They’ve already traded Nextel chirps or whatever.

I’m shocked at a few things here.

First. REALLY – does this strategy of shouting at complete strangers at Starbucks from your minivan WORK? Do men actually succeed in picking up women in this city with this tactic? I know I’ve just ripped on them, but I’d like to know why I’m the bitch – that is, if most other women these days are romanced by this kind of pickup. I know a Southerner like me is somewhat of a fish out of water in these parts, but really, I think we’ve advanced a little past this, which I’d consider only slightly above clubbing a woman over the head and bringing her back to the cave.

Secondly, how did this look and attitude come about? You’re what, sixteen years old? My mom raised four boys and not ONE of them wore those kinds of clothes, talked like that or emulated virtual wastes of oxygen like thugs and former dancers who succeeded only by knocking up former pop stars. Do parents in New Jersey actually put their foot down or say – God FORBID – NO to their child when they decide they want to integrate this look into their daily life? I'm all for self-expression, but this is...I don't know.

Finally, directed at the girls who look like they robbed a Hollister store and own stock in LA Looks Hair Gel - while I thanked my lucky stars that they interrupted the gaze of the Gotti Trio in my direction, I wonder - is this what the girls their age are going for? And worse, are they literally stopping traffic to chase these kinds of guys down on a regular basis? Is this specific to the next generation, or is this some sort of sick omen that dating has come to the demand that I allow potential mates (ugh...that just sent chills down my spine, in a very literal sense) to "holla" at me when they use the B-word?

No wonder I haven't had a date in forever.

My new favorite place

I've been here before, but I didn't realize the extent of it until today.
The ING Direct Cafe! It's at 17th and Walnut, right in the heart of shopping that I can't afford. I went in for some free WiFi (I write better while outside my house) and got my standard cup of black coffee. Not because I don't LIKE lattes, cappuccino, mochas or whatever, but because plain ole java is usually the cheapest thing on the menu and I can drink it slowly. With an extra shot it was only $1.50.

A BUCK FIFTY!

Why didn't I know about this before? I thought it was just a BANK. Turns out they have an ingenious marketing scheme - there's only a couple of cafes nationwide, but they serve good coffee, below cost, and just give you bright orange ING swag. I got a stress ball and an egg of silly putty and my free WiFi. They even have computers where you can use their internet for FREE. And unlike the library, there's no random bums or perverts hogging the computers.

For the record, I only know of the bums and perverts because my computer broke down in October and I had to go to the Independence Free Library to check email for a while. My purse looked like I owned STOCK in Purell, put it that way.

I have a dormant-but-still-active account with ING Direct, and since they basically gave me coffee, I will give them a shameless plug....it really is a good company. It's based in Wilmington (about 20 minutes from here), and it's like the Google of banking - everyone who works there loves it so much, I'm almost worried for them should they get a company directive to swig down some Kool-Aid. But they DO make it easy to do banking - as long as you're a customer who doesn't demand tons of TLC, they give you plenty of good benefits - higher-interest savings, high-interest checking, no minimum balances on either, and free stress balls and stuff. I love it. When I HAD money, I used to go to ingdirect.com and set up random accounts that would take $5 - $15 out of my main checking account every week or so - kind of making it painless to save. I'll tell you what - it was a helluva lot easier to ease into self-employment that way.

My dirty little secret? I used to name the accounts very odd names. A sampling:
-Mad Cash
-Go to hell, insurance!
-Received for sexual services rendered
-I swear, I'm going to just drive til the money runs out
-Bribes from congressmen
-Down payment on a house, my ass. I'm buying candy and comic books.

Election Marketing is interrupting my workday.

To the campaign workers of Quinata Johnson:


I haven't voted yet. If you don't move your car - with loudspeakers attached, blaring old music and "VOTE QUINATA JOHNSON" at crazy decibel levels - from directly outside my home, I will vote for whoever is running against Ms Johnson.

The Housing Crisis is B.S., created by the media for election drama.

If you live in Pennsylvania and are registered to vote, chances are you've had about ten bajillion candidates for every office known to man contact you in recent weeks to secure your vote in the primary this coming Wednesday. While I truly believe in the crazy democracy that our founding fathers laid down a few hundred years ago mere blocks from my house, it's a little insane. The kooks have come out of the freaking woodwork, all sudden experts on what this country needs. I've had every snot-nosed art school brat in Philadelphia shoving an Obama button in my face, crackheads blathering about politics at high decibel levels at 4 am outside my window and old men interrupting my sit-on-the-stoop-and-enjoy-spring-fever break by to striking up political conversations. I've made my national television debut while running in a background shot of Independence Mall. Yep, I'm the scrawny white girl in the Georgia T-shirt clearly sucking wind because I'm way out of shape.

Anyone else sick of this yet? I am. Have the election already and pack your news trucks up to move onto the latest hometown of the newest missing pregnant woman whose name probably ends in -acy Peterson.

Not that I don't believe in the process - I really do. I'm just sick of the focus on issues that are no more relevant to the candidate for President or City Dog Catcher than the price of tea in China. Do we care that there's 6 million uninsured children? Nope. Does the media focus on the fact that things that we actually have the wherewithall and ability to solve? Nah. Are we even paying attention to the War, which is what people had been thinking about only months ago? No. We're focusing on random pie-in-the-sky ideals that have no substance (which I won't even touch right now) and...THE HOUSING CRISIS.

CRISIS. Such a big scary word.

First things first. This isn't a "crisis". Cuban Missiles were a crisis. Nuclear warheads parked with a cocked hair-trigger 90 miles away - THAT'S a crisis. The housing market is not in a crisis.

Secondly - and this is big - rest assured, God-fearing citizens. Milton Friedman may be dead, but his teachings are alive and kicking and don't even require all that much except common sense in this point. I don't care what the interest rates are, what CEO at Countrywide is being arrested for whatever transgressions he's committed, or what party is in office - NO BANK is going around snatching houses away from people for no good reason. Banks foreclose for one reason and one reason only. It's simple:

YOU WON'T GET FORECLOSED UPON IF YOU PAY YOUR MORTGAGE.

It's that simple. If you write that check every month, you will stay in your home. The bank has actually no interest (pardon the pun) in "stealing" your house. They'd rather have your money. If you're on a fixed-rate mortgage and work in some state job that you have no hope of ever being fired from, I congratulate you. Keep that bitch on auto-pay and keep working.

If you're not, however, I give you my very minimal advice. I'm not a homeowner, hell, I'm barely making rent, I'm self-employed. I understand that when money gets tight, you gotta cut corners. But really. It's not that hard.

1. Rainy-day fund. Dad tells you to have it, some of us are smart enough to save it. Shit. I haven't done it either. But I also didn't sign a zillion-page document accepting a loan of a quarter-million dollars or more. If you want that house, make sure you can write that damn check every month, even when you finally get your ass fired for surfing myspace during the workday.

2. READ the fine print on what you sign. I find it amazing that people throw fits in the liquor store when they have to give their zip code to buy their cheap $7 wine, citing privacy laws that don't even exist, yet they spend four minutes reviewing a document that is going to affect their income and wealth for the next thirty or more years. That adjustable rate mortgage? Yeah, they ain't kidding. They'll raise it. And they'll charge you more if you want to get out early. And there's probably points on the back end. Don't like those terms? BACK OUT OF THE DEAL. NOW. The loan officer is not your friend, he is making money off of you.

3. DO NOT buy more of ANYTHING than you can afford. Period. Including a house. If you've got ten brats running around and you work at Wendy's, you can't afford a 12-bedroom house. It is NOT child abuse for your kid to share a room, and you will not die if you don't have stainless steel appliances, an in-ground pool and a three-car garage. I shared a bedroom with my sister for the better part of ten years. It was fun, it was like a slumber party every night. Never once did I bitch about it, chances are your kids won't either. Okay, so we drew a line down the room once or twice, but whatever. I'd be a whole lot crankier if I had to clean out my room because we were getting foreclosed on.

4. You don't OWN your job, and you are not entitled to a job. Nowhere during those summer meetings over at 5th and Chestnut did the founding fathers sign anything giving you life, liberty and a cushy secure job with a pension and a gold watch. I got news for you - if you are depending on certain pensions for your nest egg, you're in for a rude awakening. Especially if you have a union job and/or work in manufacturing. You're cheaper in China. Solution? Figure out another career path. Sound scary? Yes, but so is foreclosure. I'm guessing that typewriter repairmen could go on and ON about how their jobs have gone to computers, but they won't...because they're either in new computer jobs or they're in school to get a better set of marketable skills. Find out what you CAN do for a paycheck to pay that mortgage and go after it.

5. Finally, if you get into a pinch - and I mean where you're already DEEP IN the throes of Operation Bootstrap - call your bank. BEFORE that six month past due notice comes. When you're going to be a day late, call them. Work something out. Trust me, they WANT your money, no matter what you can pay. You're better off copping up to it and even saying "look, I love shoes, okay? And Junior can't accept wearing non-designer shit." The bottom line is that you gotta own up to it and figure out a way OUT of it so that you can prevent the situation in the future.

Now that you've all sat through my Economics lesson, feel free to go buy artwork and keep me paying my own rent.

And go vote on Tuesday based on real issues, because no candidate for any office can make it so that we don't have to pay a mortgage. At the least, go vote so these CNN trucks can get the hell off my running route.

How come I'm a witness at the worst possible times?

1 am, earlier tonight:

I’m sleeping like I haven’t slept since...I don’t even know. We’re talking sleep like I’m at Mom’s house. Sleep that Ambien would use in marketing techniques. Sleep that coined the term "beauty sleep". It was great.

Until...there arose such a clatter that I sprung from my bed to see what was the matter.

I hear "YOU BEST TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF HER!" and "you PAY your FARE!" I stick my head out the window like the old lady nosy neighbor and what should I see but a cabbie grabbing this girl by the scruff of the neck. Meanwhile, as she’s trying to elude his grasp, her friend is...I kid you not...beating the man with an umbrella. Like she’s just gone wacky and shaved her head like some bipolar pop star from Louisiana.

Since there’s some idiot Penn student literally staring at them and doing nothing, I call 911 and tell them to send some cops because there’s a fight between a man and a woman in the middle of South Street. The dispatcher, having never had to actually answer a phone because, as we know, Philadelphia is just SO SAFE that 911 is just there in name only, acts like I’m telling her that martians have landed and they are stealing all our cheese. Has no idea what I’m talking about. Finally, she says "okay, I’ll send some police over there..."

Meanwhile, a black Escalade pulls up behind them. As its a one-way, Escalade blocks off traffic without ANY thought, and the driver gets out. The gentleman is a HOUSE. He probably played for the Eagles when they were good. He’s GIANT. And he’s holding a Mag-Lite flashlight. It’s probably urban legend, but I had heard a story once about a guy from my hometown who beat someone so severely with one of those that he got ten years for it. So I impress upon the dispatcher "yes, please send someone, because a dude just pulled up and is about to cause some blunt force trauma with a Mag-Lite."

I break here because - I do have to say - police response around the Bella Vista section of South Street is remarkable. When a man tried to break into our house while we were at home, there were 15 cops in my living room in less than 30 seconds. And I mean that literally. Philly ain’t feedin’ them no donuts, those bike cops can PEDAL. That or my mother was right - if you smile at police officers and wave to them on the street, they will be way more apt to help you when you need them fast. These guys were on my block in less than a minute, with both ends of the block blocked off.

But I digress.

In the time that the Escalade driver has attempted to separate all parties with threat of injury, Cab Driver has literally pulled this girl’s weave out. Her friend Britney’s still beating him with the now-broken umbrella. Cabbie still wants to be paid. And Colonel Mustard is doing what he does best, barking at the commotion because he’s cranky and got woken up from his sleep. When the cops pull up, I go outside in my Superman sweatpants and four cops go "did YOU call us? Because I have NO idea what the hell is going on..."

Suddenly Brit-Brit drops the Umbrella, the-Wall-with-a-mag-lite SERIOUSLY says "oh I can’t do no cops I don’t know if I got warrants" and takes off, Cabbie drops the weave and the chick who’s gotta book a hair appointment tomorrow just PUKES. And they all look at me, the 95 pound blonde girl in the sweatpants for a 12 year old boy, and go "YOU SAW IT, TELL THEM WHAT (he/she/they) DID!"

I should note that the cops could not have cared less about the Escalade Man’s statement about possible warrants and having left the scene. One cop takes the umbrella from Britney (GOOD move) and takes her over to talk to her, another holds the drunk hair-challenged girl’s "hair" back while she pukes some more, and another talks to cabbie. The last cop comes over and goes "can you give me any idea what just happened? This is like a cartoon..." and I tell him the story.

In the end: zero arrests. Zero cab fare paid. I got woken up for that. And the best? They ALL thought I must have said something to the cop to make the OTHER party look like they were just walking to church, because they were convinced that the other party needed to go to jail.

Someone told me recently about how the filmmaker David Lynch wrote about how Philadelphia taught him about the roots of human evil because of the dark and sinister things like this (and much worse)...so much so that when he would walk to the 7-11 for something, he carried a big wooden stick with nails in it for protection. I ain’t getting THAT far into it - I do, after all, live in a decent area - but really. This story comes with a few life lessons, Philadelphians:

1. Pay your cab fare. If you’re drunk, consider the fact that he took you the long way to be compensation for the fact that you might puke in his cab. You just can’t argue a cab fare when you’re hammered. And by the way, do not throw out random insults about the native country and/or immigration status of your cab driver. The man was a legal refugee from Sudan, honey, and he has probably seen the worst things humanly possible done to entire villages of people. He is doing a job and making an honest living in the greatest country on Earth. Show some respect and maybe a little compassion and/or human decency. But with that being said...

2. Don’t hit a woman. Don’t pull her hair. Don’t grab her. Idiot Penn students won’t, but people like me WILL call the police when they see a man putting his hands on a female.

3. Let things slide. Bad stuff happens to good people sometimes. Don’t throw a fit about it at 1 am.

4. If there are 5 officers of the law called to a scene of a disturbance that you are potentially a DIRECT cause of and they DON’T happen to arrest you, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when you were swinging an umbrella or pulling $200 worth of extensions out less than 5 minutes before. Shut up and walk away. And don’t yell about how that bitch in the superman pants just lied to the cops, because she COULD have, and you’d ALL be going to jail.

5. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t wake me up again. I can’t get back to sleep now. If you’re going to start scrappin’, take it over to Pine Street or something. The rich people love a good show.

Only in Philadelphia.
The city of brotherly love indeed.