Mighty Girl
My face.

contact: maggie at mightygirl dot net

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You'll also find me here:
Mighty Goods
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ReadyMade Magazine Blog
The Morning News

I read:
Bryan Mason
Heather Armstrong
Matthew Baldwin
Sarah Brown
Heather Champ
Matt Haughey
Eden Kennedy
Jason Kottke
Merlin Mann's 5ives
Obscure Store and Reading Room
Post Secret
Andrea Scher
Melissa Summers
Evany Thomas

I finally posted my Bali Blogs. Perhaps in another two months I'll post some travel photos, I'm feeling ambitious.
10:37 a.m.
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I got this from Salon--which means most of you have already read it--but it's about a local girl, so I feel some responsibility to spread the word. A San Francisco artist is working on what she calls the bush project. She's asking women to shave their pubic hair and send it to her in little baggies for use in an art installment protesting George Bush's election. Her roommates are displeased.
11:27 a.m.
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My friends and I were watching a profile of Buford Furrow (the guy who shot five people in a Jewish community center) on "60 Minutes II" last night. The anchor had such an Einsteinian moment that all of us burst into simultaneous laughter:

"When Judge Cody released Furrow, she ordered that he continue on his medication, stay away from alcohol and never touch a firearm again for the rest of his life. These were big changes for a heavy drinker, a mental patient with a passion for guns."
3:47 p.m.
Three unrelated things that, when combined, represent my current mood:
  • When my nextdoor neighbor is frustrated, her preferred relaxation method is screaming and raining blows on her 12-year-old daughter. She was particularly frustrated this morning. I emerged from the shower to call 911.
  • Left for work and ran into a sweet boy I met a few months ago. He introduced me to his very new girlfriend and absently shared the story of how he'd asked me out and I'd said no. Was forced to exchange awkward small talk with them for my entire commute.
  • Parted ways with the new girlfriend and waited on the curb next to an Asian woman. A homeless man passed us and leaned across me to face her, "We're just playin' with the Chinese. See-ya-later!"
    9:16 a.m.
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Who are these women who come to clubs wearing fishnets, come-hither skirts, appropriately obvious tank tops, and... laptop bags? I know they didn't come from work, so I have to wonder what the hell is in that bag that they must have with them at all times. I watch as they order Cosmos and sway on the dance floor, trying their damndest to look carefree and nonchalant. This effect is difficult to achieve, no matter how much body glitter you've applied, when you're hunched under the weight of a 30 lb. bag.

It perplexes me, but I have theories. Perhaps this woman must carry a full arsenal of concealer, base, blush creme, liner, lipstick, and shadow every time she goes out. Maybe she has an alternate outfit stashed in there (say, some snow pants and ski boots in case the weather turns). Maybe she thought it would be too risky to leave the severed human head in her car. A little advice, ladies: lipstick, and $50 bucks fits in your pocket. The head goes in your freezer.
9:39 a.m.
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What's more crass than a billboard for liposuction services? A billboard for liposuction with a horrible catchy phone number: 1-800-GO-4-LIPO! Like you're just gonna drop by after you've run some errands. "I'll be back in a bit, honey. I've got to grab the dry cleaning, maybe go for lipo." Are these billboards a California thing? I take that back, they must be a California thing. I've seen them for breast implants too, but the phone number was so chilling that I've blocked it. I think it was something like 1-800-SO-PERKY, or 1-800-GET-FIRM. Ugh. UGH!
9:59 a.m.
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A cutting from Mark's site.

"Ingested today:

- 2 cups of coffee (with cream and sugar)
- 1 Snickers bar
- 9 Wintergeen Altoids
- 2 Spearmint Altoids

It is now almost four in the afternoon and the walls are starting to look furry. "

2:03 p.m.

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"Georgia O'Keefe was not a flower painter." (From the introduction to a book of her paintings titled One Hundred Flowers.)
3:06 p.m.
When the sky is blue and clear in San Francisco, it's cause for comment. "Such a beautiful day," I said. Then I felt something flutter over my feet. I looked down at the swirling newspaper and napkins littering the sidewalk. I stepped delicately over a discarded condom. "Yeah," he said. "It sure is."
10:45 a.m.
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Yesterday we got to go home early because of the power shortage. Rolling blackouts are the Californian equivalent of snow days.
2:01 p.m.
The best headlines from this month's Martha Stewart Living:
  • Putting Baking Stones to Use
  • Why Scald Milk?
  • Arrangement of the Month: Forsythia Fan
11:52 a.m.
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Subject: Med school epiphanies and my bony ass.

"I learned how to calculate my body mass index today. There's overweight, obese I, obese II, and obese III. After that, there's just a picture of Jabba the Hut.
Take your weight in lbs. as the numerator. Divide by your height in inches, squared (e.g. if you're 60", that's 3600 inches squared). Take this number and multiply it times 703. If its greater than than 25, it's time to get your fat ass to Gold's (me). If it's less than 18, it's time to get your bony ass to Sizzler (you)."
3:23 p.m.
From Accidental:
"100 Ways to say I LOVE YOU: I'm still waiting for "100 Ways to say LET'S JUST BE FRIENDS," or "100 Ways to say IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME." Or how about "100 Ways to say I DON'T REALLY LIKE YOU, BUT WE CAN STILL HAVE SEX." That's the clincher, in my book."
10:05 a.m.
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From Magnificent Melting Object: "Rasbliutto means 'the feeling you feel for someone you once loved' in Russian."
3:11 p.m.
I did the Geary Street pub crawl for St. Patrick's Day. My friend and I were standing in a sea of drunken green men, and I mentioned that I wanted to get rid of my gum. An earnest looking young man held his hand out below my mouth. I pulled my eyebrows together, but he just nodded and pushed his palm closer to my chin. So I gave a "your idea, buddy" shrug and spit my gum into his hand. He dropped it and pushed on through the crowd. He dropped it on my shoe.
9:42 a.m.
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Those of you who don't live in a big city should know that bike messengers are cooler than you. They don't care about getting hurt, they don't care about getting dead, and they don't make eye contact with anyone but the brethren. Their style is a sort of studied rejection of trends: Frayed jeans hacked off at the knee, old T-shirts, gravel-conditioned helmets, and the standard tattoos and piercings.

Imagine my surprise then, when I saw vanilla-collegiate guy sporting a Timbuktu bag with several messenger tubes protruding, and the identifying walkie-talkie attached to its strap. He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, a pair of short-leg Gap khakis with cargo pockets, and some Van-like biking shoes. Beh? I had to resist approaching him. "Excuse me sir, do you have a tattoo on the inside of your lower lip? No? Perhaps a tongue stud? Some faint facial scars? No... Sweet mother of God. Is that gel in your hair?"
12:13 p.m.
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We just launched Web Techniques Daily (ie: the Web Tech Blog). I'll be posting there pretty frequently, so if you want to see what I look like in semi-professional mode, head on over.
2:45 p.m.
This has been around for awhile, but have you seen Heavy Metal Parking Lot? This guy took a video camera into the parking lot of a Judas Priest concert in the '80s and interviewed concert goers. The best part is when a girl tells the camera that she's 13, the guy standing next to her says he's 21, then he gives her a deep, tongue-intensive kiss for the camera. I've rarely experienced something so simultaneously chilling and hilarious. Well, maybe that "Making of Growing Pains" thing I watched a few days ago, but still.
10:39 a.m.
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Astute observation from Strangebrew: "If I can only give you one piece of advice, it's this: don't put a unicorn lover in charge of the decorations."
2:52 p.m.
There are good people and there are bad people: Thief steals man's $15,000 artificial leg out of car. Also, teachers are citing 6 year olds for sexual harassment now. Ow. Someone make it stop.
9:55 a.m.
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From: A guy who reads my blog
Subject: Bloggers say the darndest things

Damn, I like your site, it's pretty funny. If only you had more substance to it. A better lay out would be cool too, but yeah, just saying you have a fan.

Hi, thanks for the note. I clicked around your site a little bit. Just like you, I'm a big Slurpee fan. Jesus, we're like the same person. Well, except that I'm not big into "dressing up like a ninja and tagging your mother's bearded biscuit from the back." But I'm funny that way.

[Now he's plugged me, and I've plugged him. I'm sitting back and saying a little prayer to the absurdity gods that I get audience overlap with a site that has a "Bitch of the Week" feature. Rad.]
2:14 p.m.
My knee is knee shaped again. When I stand, I no longer feel extraneous fluid rush down my leg. These are good things. For those of you who don't care, here's some Etch-a-sketch art. Callous bastards.
9:18 a.m.
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"I'm a sensitive guy. Some guys drink beer and write their name in the snow, I drink herbal tea and write haiku poetry in the snow."
(The Very Strange World of John Saleeby)
12:46 p.m.
Mark's friend had just interviewed Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours. Mark was kind enough to send me the interview, soon to be published in Abercrombie and Fitch Quarterly (Beh?), and it had one line that particularly struck me: "I still find myself walking on a street I walk every day, looking around and thinking, 'My god, it's like this.'"
9:20 a.m.
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Subject: On distaff and my bony ass.

What is it with men and baked goods? A man may be impressed by your brain, or your body, or whatever, but if you walk into the room with an apple pie, his eyes roll up into his head and his mouth starts frothing. It's like, "Well I knew you were hot, but I didn't know you baked.."
It speaks to our lizard brain. It is hard to starve with a woman who bakes. A woman who bakes can compensate for myriad detrimental evolutionary traits, such as narrow hips, an waistline that suggests infertility, and a brain that is too smart or too dumb for her prospective mate. Baking is tantamount to survival. Additionally, very few men have the moxie, time, or inclination to bake. Baking is a place that is solidly in the woman's world. Women bake, lap dance, look pretty on game shows, heal, and mediate. Men bust broncs, and philosophize. Just the way it is.
You have such an odd, offensive little take on things. Remind me never to bring you cupcakes lest you request a lap dance.
Your butt would poke holes in my jeans.
4:28 p.m.
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Nyotaimori -- The practice of eating sushi off of the body of a naked woman.
3:14 p.m.
Dan Bistline is self-appointed mayor of Church St. I know this because there's a sign in his window:
Church Street
Pop. ?
Dan Bistline, Mayor

Dan Bistline has also printed up a quotation for each pane of his three-sided window:
"You are a good and kind person."
"Jump and a net will appear."
"There are no truths, only stories."

Dan Bistline annoys me.
10:39 a.m.
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Nothing screams invalid like an hour spent watching "Growing Pains, Behind the Scenes." Yeah. Should I perchance ask for Jell-O or a good book of crossword puzzles, please just pretend like you didn't hear me.
10:25 p.m.
I just returned from knee surgery. I am currently doped up enough that if we were in a bar, all of you would look very attractive to me. Wheee.
1:42 p.m.
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I hesitate to post this so soon after the bumper dumper link, but who am I to let good taste override your entertainment? I hereby present stuff people have crammed up their bums. The site comes complete with x-rays and medical reports. There are the standard bottles and phallic vegetables, and then there's the guy who made a cement cast of his anus and the person who crammed a kangaroo tumor.
3:13 p.m.
Litotes -- understatement in which an affirmative is expressed by the negative of the contrary (as in "not a bad blog" or "not unhappy")
9:57 a.m.
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So I got an electric toothbrush, which is charmingly efficient. You push a button, it brushes your teeth for exactly two minutes and beeps at intervals that indicate when it's time to change sectors. My teeth are shiny and new--they do the little lens flare thing when I smile. The only problem is, my new toothbrush sounds very much like a vibrator. My roommate has begun to avoid eye contact with me when I leave the bathroom.
2:37 p.m.
One of the tastier things I've seen on BART: a fake nail someone peeled off and dropped to the floor. It was a pale, opalescent pink and there were bits of real nail clinging to it. There's a poem in that somewhere.
12:49 p.m.
Supreme Court allows KKK to adopt a highway "The Klan requested a half-mile stretch of Interstate 55, one of the routes used to bus black students to county schools as part of court-ordered desegregation efforts in the St. Louis area."

What is this? Like people are going to drive by and say, "How nice, honey. The KKK is helping keep the highway clean! Look how upstanding they are in those crisp, white sheets." If they're launching a PR campaign, it's going to take a hell of a lot more than a highway sign to change my ideas about the Klan. I can just see the brochure, "Forget about the lynchings, now we do bake sales! Burning crosses? That's so 1952! Now we're into BBQs by the lake and squash tourneys for charity!"
10:31 a.m.
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The best press release/meeting request I've ever received. (I've anonymized the name and company so I don't humiliate anyone publicly):



John Smith
President & Managing Director
3:18 p.m.
“The Bumper Dumper is not just a luxury, it's a necessity.” Mighty Girl--bringing you the technology that shapes your world.
2:08 p.m.
Stuart, author of the ever-chewable Sylloge, creator of the 5K Contest, and witness to a murder, sent me a description of his favorite party in reference to my marker-fight post below.

"It was held when I was in grad school. Two friends invited about 30 people, arranged so that any one guest knew only three or four other people there. We were told to wear all black clothing. At the door, instructions were posted: we should take a drink in a plastic cup from the small bar provided; the apartment had a foyer which served as an "airlock": we were to enter the foyer and close the external door before opening the internal one. It was a "dark party".

Inside, there was absolutely no light. They had rented thick industrial carpeting which was affixed to the walls to prevent any light from getting in from outside. The stereo, containing two 120 minute mixed tapes on autoreverse was similarly covered. A thin rope was provided as a guide for entry into the bathroom and it really was perfectly black. It made no difference whether you had your eyes open or closed.

Because you never knew if there were people around, except for when you were constantly bumping into them (everyone was on the floor and had to crawl) and because most of the people were strangers, there were some interesting conversations. My hearing became very acute. It was bizarre to speak to someone when I had absolutely no idea what they looked like. Faces were felt.

After 5 hours or so, the lights were flipped on, which hurt. But wow, it was strange. And very interesting. Best party ever."
10:39 a.m.
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Dear San Francisco Sidewalk Users:

I have tried to be patient owing to your obvious dearth of intellect and corresponding need to be coddled like a small child. However, I am only one woman. If one more of you nearly blinds me with a hideously oversized beach umbrella that you insist on using in the rain, I shall beat you mercilessly about the ears with my laptop bag. When you are sufficiently subdued, I will appropriate your monstrous "umbrella," snap it shut, and make a kebab of your brethren who will by then have gathered, slack jawed and mewling, to watch your fate unfold.

Thank you.
12:02 a.m.
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Subject: Dave responds to an inquiry about his health.

Yes, I feel much better today. I'm not sniffling and sneezing anymore, but I do have a splitting headache. Also, I saw these strange lights in the sky last night, my bedroom window is broken, I woke up on the balcony, and my ass is on fire. Weird.
12:26 p.m.
I have messy party ideas. Example 1: Cover the garage in plastic bags, make about 300 pounds of mashed potatoes, pass out some goggles, and stage a massive food fight. Example 2: Make a mud hole in the back yard and pit my friends against each other in teams. Very few parties I've been to couldn't use a little more texture. But I know what you're thinking, it's the same thing all my friends say. "You want to have mud wrestling in your backyard? You want a bunch of people to come over and smear food on each other?" Yes. Yes, I do. All of us are adults here. (Adults coated in a creamy layer of mud and mashed potatoes, but I think we know when to say when.) Anyway, my point is that marker fights sound just as cool. A lot less cleanup and no kinky undertones.(Via Strange Brew.)
9:52 a.m.
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I've been collecting silhouette photos.
3:04 p.m.
Overheard: Young Love on the J-Church
Characters: Badass prepubescent boy slouched in his seat, practicing tough face. Sassy prepubescent girl stands in the aisle near him.

Her: Stop stepping on my shoe.
Him: Huh. Huh.
Her: HYUH! HYUH! (Mocks him with corresponding "this is how inbred you look when you laugh like that" face.) Stop stepping on my shoe!
Him: I ain't.
(She shoves him. His head rocks back and bumps the bus window.)
Him: HuhHuh. I ain't. (He isn't.)
Her: HYUH! HYUH! (Exaggerated threatening face, raises hand to hit him. He flinches, holds hands up to shield face.)
Him: Huhhuhhuh.
Her: Why you run from me when I try to hit you? You afraid? Afraid of a giiiiiirl?
Him: Nah. I ain't afraid. Huhhuhhuh.
(He makes a face. She makes a face. He makes a face. She makes a face. Both gather their things to exit at the school stop. She kicks at the backs of his shoes as he shuffles off the bus.)
Her: Go dawg.(kick) GO! (Kick) Go dawg. (kick) Go dawg. (kick)
Him: Huhhuhhuhhuhhuh.
9:49 a.m.
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