Mighty Girl
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contact: maggie at mightygirl dot net

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7.31.01
Have you ever been mesmerized by your monitor, so deep in concentration that you can't look away? And say you needed Chapstick while the monitor glowed seductively. Would you reach into your desk drawer blindly and feel around until you found it? OK, good. Now how close would you actually come to applying the glue stick to your lips?
6:24 p.m.
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7.30.01
Graffito on the train: "No fear of Funk."
10:17 a.m.
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7.27.01
Brief conversation with a girl whose name is a noun:

Me: Hi, I'm Maggie.
Her: I'm Jubilee.
Me: What a happy name.
Her: You think so?
Me: Yeah, like, celebration, party...
Her: Huh. I guess I never thought about it that way.
10:21 a.m.
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7.26.01
I was having a pleasant afternoon, when I grabbed some Chinese food for lunch and my fortune cookie ambushed me, "You lead a double life and enjoy pretending to be something you are not." Youch. I know fortune cookies rarely tell your fortune, but when did they start telling you off?
2:45 p.m.
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7.25.01
"Traditionally, the same actor plays Captain Hook and Mr. Darling."
— The Picture Book of Peter Pan (c. 1930)

Does anyone else think that's creepy?
2:30 p.m.
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7.24.01
Overheard: Theological discussion at Firefly.
Scenario: Two characters from a Woody Allen movie swap neurosis at the next table.

Him: I'm just worried that I'll never taste the joyous nectar of true Dharma. Because I'm fucked up. And I know I'm fucked up! And there's nothing I can do about that.
Her: Yeah.
11:16 a.m.
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7.20.01
It was like something out of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel--we fell in love when the butterflies were mating. I drove home between fields of corn, and hundreds of yellow butterflies chased one another across the road. The setting was idyllic, the relationship proved less so. He was an entrepreneur without a lot of extra time for romance, I was too young to be thinking about happily ever after. A year later, I was upset, and disappointed, and ready to call it quits. Driving home one night, I realized the butterflies were mating again. I smiled and watched two of them dance around each other. Then they hit my windshield.
10:36 a.m.
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7.19.01
The only really funny five-word Webby speech was Google's: "Google gives great... search results."
11:15 p.m.
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7.18.01
The New Yorker's fabulous blurb about "Riverdance" on Broadway: "Not the Lord of the Dance with his shirt off and the leather truss. The other one."
12:20 p.m.
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7.17.01
One of my favorite love poems:

I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.

—Akahito
12:22 p.m.
I've been doing some impromptu modeling around the office, which tends to happen when you work in a building full of trade publications. Anyway, I finally (finally!) have my very own banner ad:

It's for the WEB2001 Conference, and as you can see, I'm totally a guru. You'll also find an itty bitty me on the catalog cover:

And you can kind of see my butt on the June edition of Intelligent Enterprise.

11:14 a.m.

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7.16.01
Me: That poor girl. If she's alive, she's in some hotel room right now going, "No, Noooooo!"
J: What is up with the Bon Jovi one on the right?
Me: No one's going to go into hiding looking like that.
J: (Mock news-broadcaster voice:) Levy may have recently joined a big-hair rock band from the early eighties.
10:03 a.m.
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7.13.01
Evan says: "If one were to try, I bet one could discern at what points in the last three years I've had a girlfriend based, not on the content of my blog, but simply by analyzing the number nights in a given month I'm making posts between the hours of 1:00 AM and 5:00 AM. I let you figure out the correlation. (2:04 AM)"

In other words, he's free man, ladies. But for how long? Let the frenetic email flirtations begin!
11:22 a.m.
A small slice of my 4th of July family reunion:

Me: You've got a big hunk of something in your teeth.
My sister Raina: (Smiles winningly, and moves her face closer to mine.)
Me: Ugh! Stop it.
Raina: It's sexy.
Me: (Running my finger seductively over my peeling sun burnt shoulder.) No, this is sexy. Mmmmm.
Raina: I'm going to keep one of these teeth things at home, so I can have one ready when I go out.
My cousin Ryan: You've got a collection of dried chives.
Me: I think Madonna had one of those, hers was 14kt. gold, though. She's into those felt syphilitic moles now.
Ryan: There's a whole line of possibilities. Like fake boogers.
All: Gahh!
Me: 14kt. gold fake boogers!
Raina: That reminds me! I have a story.
Me: Do we want to hear this?
Raina: It's not about boogers.
My cousin Ben: If it's not about boogers, I don't wanna hear it.
Raina: So I come home from work and there are tampons all over my lawn. I guess the kids found a box of my tampons and they were playing with them. I'm running around totally embarrassed scooping up tampons before the neighbors see.
Me: What the hell was the baby sitter doing?
Raina: She probably just thought they were playing out front. Anyway, Trevor comes outside the next morning and says, "Where are all my pop guns?"
11:10 a.m.
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7.12.01
I just came across a magazine ad for women's deodorant that screams,"TURN SHY RECLUSIVE ARMPITS INTO VIVACIOUS DIVAS." Sort of makes you jealous of all those vivacious-armpit girls.
11:50 a.m.
7.11.01
How perceptions are formed:

My hands felt sticky, so I went to wash them. There was a woman plucking her eyebrows in front of the mirror. I washed my hands and then figured that I might as well use the bathroom while I was there. When I came back out, she was still plucking away. I washed my hands and left. Hence forth, she'll think of me as that wacko OCD girl who has to wash her hands before and after peeing. But she's the one plucking her eyebrows at work. Freakshow.
3 p.m.
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7.9.01
Two people I don't particularly want to know better:

  • The woman on the freeway with the "This car protected by angels" license plate frame.
  • The guy who was chosen to be on MTV's "Becoming Blink 182" and said, "In my whole life—19 years—nothing has come close to matching this. I don't know if anything ever will."
    1:42 p.m.
  • Et tu, Webvan? Oh, how the Web hath deserted me. I feel so alone.
    11:08 a.m.
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    7.6.01
    Apparently a geriatric beefcake calendar has made its subjects porn stars in their convalescent complex. The women won't leave them alone. This quote is fabulous:

    "They have gone hysterical," she said, since the calendar was first circulated through the complex. "They don't care if those men are 80, 90, 104 - - as long as they're breathing. And those men are now so conceited. They press their pants, they're putting on ties, their teeth are clean."
    4:53 p.m.
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    7.5.01
    Waiting for the fireworks at Fisherman's Warf, I was watching the kids around me. The little boy next to me (not yet three years old) had a few of those white tissue-paper bits that explode when you throw them against the ground. He would get up on his tippy toes, reach one arm up as far as it would go, then slam the tissue paper against the pavement. As his total height—including the reach of his arm--was no more than about three feet, he wasn't always successful. But when he was rewarded with a small pop, he'd scream:

    FIE-YYAAAAH! FIE-YAHHH!

    Then he'd tug on his parent's pants, mimic the great force with which he'd heaved the tiny explosive and say, "Fieyah go BOOM!"
    10:59 a.m.
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    7.4.01
    Only in San Francisco does someone compliment a particularly spectacular fireworks show by saying, "Man, we should've taken ecstasy."
    11:50 p.m.
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    7.3.01
    I thought he was only interested in friendship. Then he said, "I like your shoes. Are those new?"
    A few days later he said, "Those pants look good on you. Those are my second favorite , after the black ones."

    My theory is that, unless I'm wearing red leather trousers with flames up the legs and/or buttless chaps, a straight man who has favorite pants is up to something fishy. A man who has a runner-up favorite pair of pants and comments on my shoes...maybe I'm wrong about the straight thing.
    2:06 p.m.
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