Mighty Girl
My face.

contact: maggie at mightygirl dot net

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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

We arrive at the car rental agency and they only have white cars. This is a problem because Bryan will not drive a white car. They remind him of his parents' cars. We wait, in the cold, while the car rental guy retrieves a beige car. This, apparently, is sufficiently psychologically comforting. We settle in.

Me:What's this barbecue implement doing in the back seat?
Bryan: You're kidding. You've never seen an ice scraper?
Me: Where would I have seen an ice scraper?
Bryan: I don't know. Movies? National Geographic?
Me: Right. What movie prominently featured an ice scraper?
Bryan: When Harry Met Sally.
Me: When?
Bryan: When they were scraping the ice off the windshield.
Me: That never happened.
Bryan: Okay. Fargo.
Me: When?
Bryan: When William H. Macy is scraping the windshield and he starts freaking out and beating the car because he knows they're gonna catch him.
Me: ... Are you enjoying your beige car?

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Scenario: The N Line is packed and quiet. Passengers are jammed against each other, the windows, the doors.
Characters: Two men in their early thirties. They are strangers.

Guy 1: Man!
Guy 2: (Gives a low whistle.)
Guy 1: I saw someone assassinated in London. I have a healthy respect for crowds.
Guy 2: (Raises eyebrows, refrains from eye contact.)
Guy 1: Oh yeah. POP! Then the guy just took off running.
Guy 2: (Shifts uncomfortably.)
Guy 1: Respect the crowds.

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In the city, sometimes you'll smell something in the air, and you're not quite sure what it is. At first you think it's a savory smell--Chinese food, or maybe pizza. Then, when you inhale deeply, you realize it's the stink of something profoundly rotten, so rotten that you can taste it in the back of your throat.

I hate surprises.

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An excerpt from Fussy, where Mrs. Kennedy is having a conversation with her little boy, Jackson:

"Me, driving: You know what? I think Iím lost.
Jackson, in back seat: Well, Iím not lost on my side.
Me: Seriously, I don't know where the fuck we are.
Jackson: Don't say that.
Me: Sorry.
Jackson: If you say words like that to me, I'll learn them.
Me: Sorry, sorry."

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A priest takes flight.
A snail edges off the faucet.

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Two twenty-something women chat over coffee.

This friend of mine knows this girl who's always like, "What's your favorite color? What's your favorite kind of car?" Like, she doesn't engage in conversation, she's just always asking who your favorite band is or what you're going to be for Halloween.
Like, next year?
And do you totally go on with it, or do you laugh?
Yeah. I go, "My favorite color is blue, what's yours?"

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In conversation with the cab driver, the subject turns to crime.

Me: There seems to be a lot less crime in this area lately.
Cabbie: No. I been robbed twice.
Me: Really?
Cabbie: Yeah. Two times with knife.
Me: Oh no! What happened?
Cabbie: Nothing. Guys just wanted my money.
Me: That's terrible! Were you hurt?
Cabbie: No, no.
Me: Did they both get away?
Cabbie: Oh sure! But one of them, he run in front of my car and I hit him. Stupid asshole.
Me: You hit him with the cab?
Cabbie: Yeah. He take my money, I hit him. Broke his leg good.
Me: Whoa! Did you get your money back?
Cabbie: No way! He had a knife.
Me: So you just drove away?
Cabbie: Yeah. He rob me, he get what he deserved.

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On the main strip in Vegas, there's a billboard of a Hindu god with many hands. Each hand contains something holy: slot machines, dice, cards, a snow globe, a coffee mug, a showgirl. The slogan reads, "Souvenir Nirvana."

About a hundred feet farther, there's one with Jesus on it, but he only has two hands, so he's holding a tiny prostitute in one hand and a martini in the other. The slogan reads, "Heaven on Earth."

OK, all of that is true except for the part about Jesus. It's actually a billboard of Buddha.

Kidding again! Vegas would never do that to Buddha and his lucky, lucky tummy.

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Whoa. Has anyone read this month's issue of GQ? I'm referring specifically to "The Forbidden Word," which is ostensibly an article about the devastating affect of the word "cunt" on the female psyche. In actuality, it's this amazing outline of the author's own insecurities about his virility, and his open rage at the feminist movement. It's super creepy and seriously fascinating in a "how is this a cover story in a mainstream publication" sort of way.

Also GQ has it listed in the Advice section. Sweet! Check out this solid "advice," fellas:

"When I find myself cornered by a woman, my very masculinity in jeopardy, there is something more important than love: making her feel filthy and subhuman."

"Use it and you have every right to fear a call to the police within five minutes. 'That's it,' you can imagine your partner saying. 'I'm packing my stuff and going to a shelter.' Even worse, most shelters would probably take her."

"Maybe men should be grateful for this word, still capable in a way that nothing else is of turning back the social clock to a time when women's self-esteem didn't impinge on ours."

"Back in the '70s when I was young and feminism was a strange new force in my tiny Minnesota town, I remember my sense of puniness and dread as one by one of my buddies' mothers became aware of their talents and potential and started doing things like taking night classes in Journal Writing and Sketching the Male Nude. Houses that had been spick -and-span for years suddenly languished, with toys all over the living room and half-eaten TV dinners in the trash cans. Something big was happening. Big and bad."

"'You shouldn't roll over like that,' my buddy said.
'I know. I know'
'They don't respect it,' he said.
I asked him what they did respect.
'When you call them a selfish cunt,' he replied.
That night, my relationships with women changed."

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