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One of my favorite characteristics of WordPress is a little gadjet that lets you see how people Googled to your blog. For instance, today I can see that someone Googled “cocaine stash necklace”, and that my blog was in the results. I have no idea why, but it is.

Other recent good ones:
How to sleep with my brother“: made me shudder and wince. I’m guessing the reader had blue skin and was from Arkansas.
Trashy campgrounds“: again, where is my audience?
Zionist feet“: I had no idea the kinds of things that people get off on these days.
What if feels like to be depressed“: Ouch, I’d like to think that my recent writing has become a bit more chipper.
Champagne dress, what color shoes“: Let me forward you to a nice girl named Molly, she’s much better in that department.
Cop bondage“: Seriously! When did this blog turn into Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down or Caitlyn Does Kentucky?
Trashy Jersey girl“: Hey! We’re not all trashy!
I want to talk Caitlyn“: Fine, send me an email. Unless you’re a creeper, don’t do that.

I have had people google the weirdest things to find this blog, but the one that bothers me the most? When people Google “Caitlynintherye”. II get between 6 to 20 people a day doing this and it honestly is the biggest tease. So I’m demanding (actually asking and stamping my feet until I get my way) that those few lurkers come out here. I mean, not the people who want to have sex with their brothers, just the people who search for “caitlynintherye”.


“When does compassion, when does morality, when does caring come in? I just hope that one day that people will realise that peace is a far better path to follow.”

My Opa always used to use the saying that it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. I thought of that saying a lot yesterday, though not used in the traditional sense.

As I was driving home from New York yesterday morning, I was listening to David Davies interviewing Desmond Tutu on NPR.  Tutu, Davies said, had been recently linked to a poll that had been conducted in America concerning the top humanitarian celebrities.

Now, if you don’t know much about Desmond Tutu you should do minimal research or read his books. Tutu has spent the majority of his life in dedication to protest. A line he said, roughly transcripted, was that in every case he was for justice, against injustice. He wholly opposed apartheid, brought together a league of churches to protest the segregation, and received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984 for his related work. There is absolutely no way that you can see or hear him speak without being moved.

Davies laughed when he mentioned that Tutu had been placed third on the poll in which Americans named the top celebrity humanitarians. Ahead of him? Angelina Jolie and Bono. I felt a wave of embarrassment for all Americans when I heard that- how in the world have we named Jolie and Bono ahead of someone who spent years protesting segregation, oppression, and wicked customs? Someone who has been jailed repeatedly, had his family targeted, had his life targeted?

Now understand that I’ve had a long-standing dislike for Jolie. Aside from the fact that her acting is subpar (have you ever seen The Good Shephard? I cringe.) I hate the fact that I’ve heard “oh, like Angelina Jolie!” as a common response to saying that I want to adopt. I want to adopt an orphaned refugee, and have said that since I was six, and somehow that links me to her. A friend once argued that she brings awareness to the fact that children in other countries need to be adopted as well. That’s great, but the people that she’s swaying would only be doing it for image sake. Is that ever enough reason to adopt a child? A sudden wave of a thousand Lucille’s from Arrested Development?

I think that what I’m trying to say is that there are numbers of people that I would have placed on that list before Angelina Jolie and Bono. Kofi Annan. Nelson Mandela. Coretta Scott King. John Hume. Elie Wiesel. Woodrow Wilson. All famous names, all great humanitarians. And not known for making out with their brothers or keeping a glass encasement of their lover’s blood on a necklace. People that didn’t decide that they need an image other than “sexy but creepy”.

I’m just going to throw this one right out there- do people consider themselves to be in public or in private when driving in their cars?

In the time span of driving to the gym today (approximately ten minutes) I saw at least five people picking their noses. And not just the casual hands swiping at the end of the nostril; I mean that the entire tip of the finger was lodged inside. Scraping. I felt nauseous by the time I’d even gotten there.

This is something I’ve picked up on lately- most people consider themselves to be in a private setting when driving in their cars. I’ve seen people in business suits in a Mercedes picking their noses, I’ve seen grandmothers digging for gold. And it’s not just nose-picking. Last week when driving to New York (and stuck in terrible traffic on Staten Island) I saw a couple turn their car into a bedroom. Maybe they got a kick out of the voyeurism, maybe they just didn’t care that dirty Brooklyn cab drivers were watching with me.

I admit- I’ve completely changed clothes in my car before, including shirts. I’ve even been pulled over for “indecent exposure” once when I was changing after being soaking wet from kayaking. But what is it that makes us think we’re invisible in a hunk of metal and windows?

I read an article about two weeks ago in the New York Times that through me for an absolute loop. What with my life being a mess lately (flu, crew, classes) it slipped from my mind. But the other night driving home from class, I heard a piece on NPR about the same topic. I usually listen to NPR to calm down when I drive but the topic came up, and the next thing I knew my knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

The topic? Hurricane Katrina tours. Tours that, for a heady price, will lead people through the demise of a once beautiful city. I googled it the instant I came home, the first link reading “Hurricane Katrina- America’s Worst Catastrophe- Bus Tour Through New Orleans: An eyewitness account of the events surrounding the most devastating natural disaster on American soil!” For around forty dollars, you can take a bus to see the absolute destruction and turmoil that still sits in New Orleans.

I know that America is all about capitalism. We’ve gotten to a point where a celebrity’s private parts are exposed, and the next day the picture is being sold on a t-shirt. We capitalize on destruction; we thrive on violence. I’m so disenchanted with this side of America, this perverse obsession of finding monetary gain in something so horrible.

Maybe it’s just too soon, maybe it just doesn’t seem to have the depth of respect that I feel it needs. After all, we’ve turned Gettysburg and Chattanooga into historical landmarks. I’ve personally paid to walk where thousands of men were killed in battle. So where does the line get drawn?

We have an exam tomorrow for this class and I am the unofficial “go-to” for notes. I take rather meticulous notes, which I transfer to Word after class and email to the people who’ve missed. One guy has missed two classes to travel for work and was severely behind. I emailed all of the notes and a study guide I’d made for the exam. 

This afternoon I received a short email from the guy that threw me for a whirl. In short, it said “Thanks for the notes, can I take you out for dinner and a drink tomorrow to thank you for your effort? I promise not to argue about Duke. Let me know about dinner.”

 This guy, who went to University of Maryland, and I argued on the first day of class because I’d been wearing a Duke hat. It went something like this:

Him: Duke sucks, Paulus sucks
Me: Maryland doesn’t even deserve to be considered a rival. I can see UNC, but not Maryland.

Now here’s the kicker: the guy has a girlfriend! Two weeks ago he was telling us about how they were serious. I think I have some weird way of attracting guys with girlfriends/fiances/wives without any intention whatsoever. I fell for it once, and I’m never doing that again: I’ve learned my lesson.

I waited a bit to email back, mostly because I was way to into the Duke, Maryland game. When I finally did, all I said was “No thanks, take your girlfriend out tomorrow (Valentine’s Day). Just catch me up on notes if I ever miss. And by the way: Go Duke 

Setting: My dad and I are sitting in my living room watching a Jim Gaffigan sketch. He’s on his computer playing with Google Maps (his new obsession). My mom is in the other room grading papers.

Dad: Hey! Hey! Look what I did. [jabbing his finger excitedly at the screen]  I found all of the pancake houses in America!
Me: Why would you want to look up all of the pancake houses?
Dad: Because what happens if you’re traveling across the country? You need to know where to get pancakes.
Me, to my mom: Mom, I think we need to get Dad into a home NOW.
Dad: [Perking up] Do they have pancakes there?
Mom: Tell him they only have waffles in most homes.
Dad: Shit.

So it was before 10:30 am this morning that I was speaking to a cop who was threatening to arrest me. And I was screaming at him.

I woke up really early this morning because I figure that I’m sick of feeling like a pathetic girl from one of Tennessee William’s plays. I walked the dogs with my dad, then we went over and voted (I am a good citizen). I then decided to head over to the gym and knock out my run early. The adrenaline must have hit me because I kept running and running, despite the fact that my four mile mark had passed without me feeling tired. At one point I remember thinking “Ok, I should stop now” but then I had a flash of Peter’s face in my head and I kept going.

I finally left the gym, but the adrenaline was still pumping through my body. It was like I couldn’t stop twitching. The drive home from my gym is a fairly long stretch, on which there’s a Women’s Health Center. I never usually look at it, but today I couldn’t ignore it. There were women with posters. Posters with pictures. You know the kind that I’m talking about. There was blood, there were bodies. There were biblical quotes. At the red light I finally wrenched my glare away from them to notice a child in the car next to me. He was staring, huge eyes gaping at the pictures while his mom was talking away on her cell phone.

I threw on  my blinker and got into the next lane and pulled into the clinic’s parking lot. I must have been red in the face, but two women looked past that and came to meet me at my car. “Are you here to abort a child, or are you here to join us?” They smiled so sweetly, as if asking whether I wanted brownies or cookies at the bake sale. They must have seen my eyes flash because their smiles sat fixed.

And then I started screaming, started telling them how inappropriate it was to show such pictures, where children were watching. “Well hopefully one day they won’t have an abortion then,” one of them said to me. These children are hardly old enough to know what sex is, let alone what an abortion is. “Women who abort are killers and should be placed in jail,” the other said. They were trying to hand me papers, pamphlets with more pictures. I turned around and headed back to my car, where I opened the trunk. Found a cardboard box full of uniforms and ripped it. Took a permanent marker, wrote “It’s a woman’s right to choose” on the white side. I joined the women, stood in front of them. Held my sign in front of the crude pictures.

The nurses inside must have been watching, must have heard me screaming. A few of them came outside on the front steps to watch, to clap. But one of the anti-abortion protesters must have called the police, who were there within a few minutes. The next think I know, I’m being pulled aside and being asked if I had been physical with any of them. The women said that they felt fearful of me, that I was threatening him. The cop said that if it came to that I would be arrested, tapped the handcuffs on his hip.

Another cop car pulled up, the cop pointing out that traffic was slowing because everyone wanted to watch what was happening and that it was a potential danger. The best solution was to disband all of the protesters. One of the nurses grabbed my wrist while I was walking back and thanked me. I told her that it’s not that I believe everyone should have abortions, or that I think that they are always the solution, but that I think every woman should have a choice to whether or not she would if the situation arose. And it wasn’t that I thought the protesters weren’t allowed their own say- but that it was inappropriate to show images where children would see it, where women who chose to have an abortion were seeing it. To have women already going through that, and then having to face it on their way out.

When I was in my car, one of the protesters approached the window of my car. My jaw was set, the way I look when I am livid. She tells me that she hopes I can find God, that I obviously have a guilty conscience and that I need to sort things out with God before I can move on with my life.

I was sitting on the train today quite literally thinking of things that I wanted to write about on here. I knew that I wanted to talk about shaving a guy’s head at the bar yesterday while drinking with coworkers, and I also knew that I wanted to talk about how the new guy and I had our “relationship” talk. It was while I was thinking of these things that a man sat down in the seat diagonally in front of me.

From the start I knew he was sketchy. He was wearing these tight gray thermal shorts that clung to his body, an aspect that will be important. He was also wearing a tight black cotton t-shirt. It must have been a few minutes before I realized that his thing was, ahem, enlarged under his shorts. The tightness of the shorts made it so that it was like a cucumber wrapped in saran wrap. I giggled.

It was when he looked over at me and started touching himself that I started to freak. Stroking himself while leering over at me. It got worse- he pulled out one of those clerical finger covers and a package of finger cots:


Yeah, I didn’t know what they were either. Apparently they are used in medical, clerical or food industries to cover cuts on fingers for sanitary means. They resemble eeny-weeny condoms.

He takes these things and starts holding them against his penis as though comparing it. I mean, I guess that would make any guy feel good to think that his penis was gargantuan. For the next three stops or so he keeps rubbing himself while leering at myself and three other girls on the train. One of those three stands to get off at the stop before mine and he starts going nuts. Sweating, the whole bit. I am looking around desperately at this point to try to catch eye contact to see if I’m the only one who notices. And I am.

At my stop I get off and start running towards the conductor’s end of the train. A few construction workers on the track ask me what’s wrong, I explain quickly, and they stop the train. Within a few minutes the police are there, I tell them the exact description and his seat in the specific car, and they take off down the track. The two other girls from my car get off and ask me what happened- when I explain that he was, um, masturbating while staring at us, they freak out. “Oh, he just got off the train and took off running as soon as the conductor mentioned that there was an emergency situation.”

Apparently the conductor didn’t follow protocol and left the doors wide open on the cars while announcing over the loudspeaker that there was a situation. Idiot. By the time the police got there he must have at least gotten around the block.

I ended up spending about an hour and a half filling out police reports (Really? You’ve never had to fill out a report detailing a stranger’s penis in detail?)

And to think that I wanted to write about shaving heads and relationships!



I got a call this morning from the police officer who questioned yesterday. Apparently they have a match on my description to a guy who has reportedly raped three girls and attacked four others. I really had been thinking that maybe I exaggerated what had happened but now I’m really glad I did everything the way that I did. This morning a police officer met me at the train and escorted me to work, and then met me again when I was taking the train back home. It was extremely uneventful, if you ignore the fact that we hit a bird going 60 miles an hour and the front window was smeared with the body.