After a 12-hour workday (whew!) I retired to Shoebox Manor last night for a toasted turkey-and-cheese sandwich, steamed green beans and carrots, and the last half hour of some Extreme Makeover follow-up special.

But with 100+ channels at my disposal, I could find nothing worth watching afterward, so I popped in disk 2 of my new Pirates of the Caribbean DVD to see if I could get it to work. (Disk 2 has all the cool extras like behind-the-scenes footage and the blooper reel, but last weekend when I watched the DVD with Paul and his friend visiting from SF, the disk wouldn't let me toggle through the menu, so we couldn't watch any of that stuff.) I still couldn't toggle through the menu last night, but in my frantic button-pushing I discovered the disk would recognize my random button -- so I watched a lot of the special features in total random order. Which was better than not at all, I guess.

This morning on the train I was minding my own business listening to show tunes and reading my New Yorker when this woman stumbled on in a floor-length fur coat with two HUGE and awkward-to-hold (especially in a fur coat) boxes. Normally I offer my seat to everyone with children, fetuses, packages, handicaps or other impediments to standing -- unless they're reading Bibles. But today I amended my list of people who don't deserve to sit to include fur-coat wearers -- especially floor-length fur-coat wearers. I'm no PETAphile, but fur coats are becoming increasingly gross to me. (And yes, I have a leather coat, but it's dyed black so it doesn't make me look like a taxidermy project -- and this is my blog, so I get to harbor my own hypocrisies here.)

Ironically, the New Yorker article I was reading was interrupted by a full-page stopfur.com ad with a picture of a cute little animal and the headline "She needs her fur more than you do." I read that spread extra slowly, making sure Fur Coat Woman could see it as she glared down at me through her pelt.