But occasionally, even a hometown cheerleader like myself is amazed at some of the goings on in the City of Brotherly Love:

* A one-year-old baby survived a fall from the third floor window of a residence in a Philly neighborhood. How was this child so lucky? The baby fell smack dab into a big old pile of trash, which prevented more serious injury. The next time you're strolling by a three-story building, look up and see just how far that is. Then try to imagine just how much trash you'd need to cushion a plunge from that distance. (And while you're at, try to imagine who was watching that one-year-old when it tumbled out the window...) Who says litter is a nasty plague? Here's a new motto: Let your garbage pile-up, save a life!

* North Philadelphia community activists were miffed because SEPTA, the city's transportation system, was going to put "C.B.Moore Ave." on signs for a bus route instead of "Cecil B. Moore Ave." Cecil B. Moore was a well-known lawyer and civil rights activist in the 1960s who had a major street in North Philadelphia named in his honor. Some people thought it was disrespectful to have a shortened version of his name on a bus. Perhaps I am an insensitive brute, but in a city where the F-word is loudly heard as a frequent verb, adverb and adjective; houses are literally falling down; kids can't get an education; and people are murdering one another on a daily basis, I hardly think that a bus abbreviation is THE most disrespectful occurrence of the day.

* After a rash of bank robberies and a murder were committed by men dressed as Muslim women, one disgusted local Muslim cleric questioned: "Whatever happened to the mask?" in reference to the ski mask that any proud criminal would wear back in the good old days. I don't know, sir, some lowlifes just ain't got no respect for tradition...

* OK, this one is from Ocean City, NJ, a full 90 minutes from Philly, but it involves a true Philadelphia numskull. When this guy lost his cell phone on the beach at night, he had the bright idea to drive his car on the boardwalk so that he could use the vehicle's headlights to help him locate his needle in a sandy haystack. Did I mention he was drunk? Surprise, surprise! Unfortunately, he lost control of his car while exiting the boardwalk, damaging a railing, part of the decking and his reputation as a self-respecting citizen. Not sure if he ever found his phone, which would have come in very handy when they allowed him one call after throwing his sorry butt in the pokey.

Bold, Brazen Articles.

That's what nuns used to call kids when they misbehaved.

But that phrase could apply to Catholic Church leaders who reprimanded the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, the largest umbrella group of nuns in America, for taking positions that "undermine church teachings on the priesthood and homosexuality, while promoting certain radical feminist themes incompatible with the Catholic faith."

The Philadelphia Inquirer reported that "Conservative Catholics have long complained that the majority of sisters in the United States have grown too liberal..."

Yeah, because if there is one quality automatically associated with nuns, it's liberalism.

And exactly who are these super conservative Catholics who think that nuns have gotten too radical? As a lifelong Catholic (if not a very good one), I'm fairly certain that, like Rick Santorum, Catholicism doesn't need to become more conservative. It's like the time my sister and I drove through a Kentucky Fried Chicken takeout window and the KFC employee asked us if we wanted our chicken EXTRA crispy. "Dang," we wanted to say to the lady, "Have you seen this chicken? Just how much crisper can it get?" Some things just don't need to become any crisper - or more conservative. I long to tell the conservatives and the Vatican to leave the damn nuns alone, for God's sake.

Of course, like many Catholic school alums, I have mixed feelings about nuns. True, they did occasionally beat their students, but then again, back in the day, they'd put a 24-year-old nun in front of a classroom packed with 80 third graders and expect her to maintain order.

But I also remember many kind sisters and one of the first points I learned from a nun was this simple gem: "God is love."

Today's nuns are out of the classroom and working in the trenches. I volunteer at an AIDS hospice/residence that was founded by nuns and is still staffed by a nun (or two). While the ranks of nuns are dwindling, those that are left seem to be working with the poor, the disadvantaged, the ill, the forgotten and the homeless in America and abroad. If you want an example of a nun who is a modern day saint, just Google Sister Mary Scullion from Philadelphia.

Perhaps some of today's nuns' "liberal" views come from the fact that they are in the front lines of humanity, ministering to actual people, not pontificating from an office decorated with priceless antiques and artwork.

Need I mention that the Church is awash in a priest pedophile scandal that makes even the most devout Catholic cringe in disgust and shame?

Of course, that is what makes the nun scolding so maddening. Is the Church trying to deflect attention from their wayward sons by berating their hard-working daughters for having an opinion? Haven't they been treated like second-class handmaidens of the Church for long enough?

Maybe the Church higher-ups should stop acting like Bold Brazen Articles.

If I recall correctly, the Sisters definitely don't take too kindly to that kind of behavior.

The monster who killed 77 people in Norway is now on trial and boy oh boy, does he have a starring role in this televised mayhem. Seated in a little dais in the courtroom, this creep is allowed to provide minute details of the bloodbath, including how he perfected his sharpshooter skills by playing violent video games such as Call of Duty: Modern Warfare while living in his mommy's house and taking steroids to build the physical strength needed to slaughter a large number of human beings.

Despite these confessions, he claims no guilt, swearing that he massacred the masses to keep his country from "Islamic colonization." Since he has already pled guilty, the point of the trial is to determine if he is criminally insane. I thought it would be terrific to save the Norwegians a ton of money and angst by sending them a unanimous global message: YES, HE IS DEFINITELY WACKADO - LOCK THAT SUCKER UP IMMEDIATELY SO WE DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO HIS BLATHER ANYMORE.

Then last week in Norway, his countrymen did it for themselves. But instead of just ranting about the defendant's illogical beliefs, the Norwegians decided to fight fire with unity, peace and power: Despite a heavy rain, they simultaneously gathered in public squares across the country to sing "Children of the Rainbow," a version of a song by folk singer Pete Seegar. The deranged right-wing gunman claims that this very song made immigration acceptable in Norway and generally weakened the moral fiber of the entire nation. (He must have watched tapes of Adolf Hitler speeches for inspiration.)

Yes, the trial is maddening because it provides a madman with a pulpit to spout his venom. We have seen this public airing of maniacal views with other killers and we will no doubt witness it again, even though it is positively infuriating.

But this time, the descendents of the Vikings responded admirably and uniquely to such outrage. I like their style and hope it inspires people around the world. They sang together for tolerance, a method of thoughtful and intelligent protest that the miniscule-minded defendant could never possibly grasp.

Although he probably considers himself a Big Man with an international spotlight on him now, soon he will be wasting away in a dank jail cell with no one to hear him. Perhaps then he will finally realize that ambushing innocent people is no video game and terrorizing a nation of peace keepers is certainly no one's call of duty.   

Ha det ("goodbye" in Norwegian) and good riddance.

The drug is Risperdal.

It's back in the news again because its manufacturer was fined a billion dollars in Arkansas for marketing the drug in "misleading ways" through that state's Medicaid system.

Though originally billed as an anti psychotic to treat schizophrenia and bipolar mania, it was also used for a very lucrative "side job" - as a sedative for elderly patients.

My Dad fit into that category. He was acting-up while he was in assisted living, got demoted to the nursing home, and needed to behave. So he was promptly prescribed Risperdal and from then on in, he moved and comprehended in slow motion, like a film reel being shown at marmalade speed. Noticing that he seemed distant and almost "frozen," we asked the nursing home staff about his meds, but they assured us he was status quo and I never inquired about it again.

Truthfully, my sisters and I were barely managing to keep all of the nursing home balls in the air at one time, so drugs doses and side effects were just one of the fish we had to learn to fry. 

Now, years later, when I learn that the makers of Risperdal have been levied a behemoth fine, I'm glad that they received a financial smackdown, but sad that they profited by drugging-up my Dad and many other older adults.

If this blatant drug misuse had never made the papers, I wouldn't have been any the wiser.

But learning that it was deliberately misrepresented has taught me a lesson: If my gut tells me something seems amiss - especially if I'm someone's caretaker - I should ask questions. And if my gut isn't satisfied with the answers, I should politely but firmly speak up and ask again.

And I believe that a bright, alert and sympathetic Daddy Bones would readily agree. 

NEIGH NEIGH. A high diving-horse act that was booked to return to the Steel Pier in Atlantic City this summer as part of the beach resort's overhaul has been cancelled. Horses around the world clapped their hooves in robust approval. Making a beautiful animal climb high in the air and jump down into a miniscule container of water seems barbarian for both horse and rider, although at least the latter has a choice in the matter. Surely the powers that be can create another form of innovative entertainment for the masses. Hey, how about opening another casino so retirees, high school kids with fake IDs and minimum wage earners can blow all of their savings in a single afternoon? Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket.

UGLY HOMES WANTED. That's the headline from a recent newspaper ad. They were looking for houses for a makeover TV show and wanted to feature residences with ugly kitchens, bathrooms, siding and windows. Well, Mr. Producers, come with me on my morning walk - youse could have the pick of the litter (literally) in my Philly neighborhood, with enough "unique" homes to keep your program going for a good year or so. Hey, I might even let you take a peek at my basement in the event you're considering a new handyman show, "Tales from a Really Scary-Looking Cellar." Hollywood, here we come!

HOWDY, STRANGER! In a travel article about Amsterdam, the author noted that the natives "say hello to random strangers...so overt friendliness is not only acceptable, it's encouraged." That's fine advice to keep in mind when you're in the Netherlands, but don't try that type of Tomfoolery when you're in the Big City, fellah. Eyes straight ahead and don't even glance at someone unless they're your grandmother (and only then with a strong persona of urban reservation).

SHADES OF GRAY. Yes, I have been merciless, picking on former Governor and current inmate Rod Blagojevich, but this latest news item really got to me: Rod, who used to have his hair colored by his barber, will have to go gray because dyes are banned in prison. (Officials put the nix on hair coloring out of fear that prisoners would try to alter their appearance during an escape.) Bad enough that he'll have to age ungracefully in the clink, let alone alerting the whole world about his upcoming silver transformation. However, the news will help keep many of us on the straight and narrow because who knows what else they prohibit in jail: makeup, nail scissors, tweezers, hair gel? It would be a real crime if we were incarcerated and our fellow humans had to view us without some of those vital accouterments...

It was 2 am on an unusually warm March night when I was suddenly awoken by a loud argument coming through my open bedroom window from the schoolyard next door.

It wasn't the first "lovers' quarrel" that I've heard in the middle of the night in our neighborhood, but the woman sounded so anguished that I couldn't just turn over and fall back to sleep.

"Please, PLEASE," the young teenage girl pleaded to her companion, who outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, "give me back my phone so I can call someone and go home."

But the hulking guy - a 19 or 20-year-old punk who lives on my block - refused her request and kept berating her, finally shoving her shoulders so forcefully that she stumbled on the cracked concrete.

That was it. I stuck my head out of the bedroom window and bellowed: DON'T YOU DARE HIT HER."

That interruption from the dark made him freeze, shrink away and quickly respond to my accusation by declaring:"I didn't hit her, I just pushed her." Then he looked at the girl and asked "RIGHT?" to which she rotely replied, "That's right, he just pushed me."

Both of their defenses sounded much too rehearsed, as if they has been through this drill before. Then he regained his macho demeanor and yelled in the direction of my window, "People around here should mind their own *!#!* business" before he and the girl disappeared wordlessly out of sight.

My poor hubby, who almost fell out of bed when I unexpectedly shrieked out the window, begged me to go back to sleep, but I couldn't because I kept thinking of Kitty Genovese.

Do you remember her?

In 1968, 28-year-old Kitty was stabbed and brutally murdered at 3 am on her way home from work to her apartment building in Queens. Authorities estimated that 38 people probably heard her screams as she was being attacked, but although a few turned on their lights and one man yelled down to "let that girl alone," not a single person called the police.

I was just a kid when this story made national headlines, but some cautionary tales stick with you for a lifetime. The lesson learned from her death was that there's a difference between minding your business and minding your conscience.

So even though I might be labeled a busybody, I'm still going to make noise when a weasel who mistakenly thinks he is a Big Man starts to smack - or push - a woman around.

No, I won't physically get in the middle of a confrontation (with age comes wisdom), but I will do what I can to prevent a fellow female's head from meeting the pavement.

Sisterhood and intervention can both be powerful, and a half century after her horrible death, I think that Kitty Genovese would agree. 

That's what I'm calling it, anyway, to make her feel better about the scar on her face.

Sammy is our 11-year-old mutt who had a growth on her cheek, which the vet examined last year and classified as "just fatty tissue." Sammy and I decided that we could both work with that and went on our way. We subsequently learned from other dog owners that growths on old dogs are inevitable, like the middle-age spread, unfortunate fashion choices and an affinity for coupons that come with human aging. 

So I figured we were just part of the geriatric canine crowd until Sammy's growth just...well, GREW. Where strangers used to say, "What a nice doggie" they instead asked, "What the hell's that thing on her face?"  

So when hubby and I took Sammy back to the vet, we heard the diagnosis that all three of us dreaded: She needed surgery to remove that Little Shop of Horrors growth. I should have asked how serious her condition was, but being the loving soul that I am, I instead inquired: "Um, Doc, about how much will this cost?" He estimated that, along with a much-needed teeth cleaning, anesthesia, blood work and a giant dog biscuit to lure her into the OR, "About five or six." On the ride home, it occurred to us that he hadn't been terribly specific, and we prayed that he meant five or six hundred, NOT thousand... (He did.)

So she had the operation one morning and when we nervously picked her up that afternoon she basically looked like a mutt version of Frankenstein, with big stitches and a drain literally stuck into the side of her face. What it was draining, we didn't ask. When you are in a vet's office, you just shake your head affirmatively, as if you fully understand the intricate post-surgical care instructions they're rattling off, then you head for the exit as fast as you can drag your frazzled pet.

Post-surgery, Sammy had to wear a giant cone around her neck (the vet people called it an "Elizabethan Collar" which I think is brilliant branding, especially if you are an Anglophile or a big PBS fan), making eating, walking up steps and growling convincingly at other dogs quite a challenge.

Two weeks after surgery, Sammy Girl is her old self again, save for a gaping hole on her face where the drain had been.

She started with a growth on her face and ended with a hole in her face?

Hey, I said she had work done, I didn't say she was gonna magically transform into Lassie or that adorable Jack Russell in THE ARTIST.

Not to worry, Sammy Girl: You could grow an extra claw, but as long as you're by my side, you'll always be beautiful to me.

With the exception of Rod Blagojevich, of course. Now that the former governor is in prison serving 14 years for corruption, maybe he'll finally wipe that big what-me-worry Alfred E. Neuman smile off his face.

This guy left for the slammer as if he was strolling down the Red Carpet at the Golden Globes, shaking hands, greeting well-wishers, posing for photos and giving media interviews. Although he once thought he was an untouchable big shot and tried to sell a senator's seat for big bucks, now he'll be making 12 cents an hour doing menial jobs in the Big House. Be sure to make that toilet shine, Ronnie, and we'll see ya in a decade or so.

He was not nearly as humble as an Egyptian lawmaker who resigned from parliament and was expelled from his party after he was caught lying about the fact that he had a nose job. His party represents a strict form of Islam that "forbids cosmetic surgery as meddling in God's work." In other words, you better stick with what the Big Guy gave you and you better like it. But this politician didn't and, when he appeared in public with heavy bandages on his face, his cohorts got suspicious that he didn't sustain injuries from a carjacking and a beating, as he claimed. If he is found guilty of lying, he could be imprisoned on charges of "creating anxiety among the public" and "worrying public officials."

Can you imagine if every American politician who made citizens anxious was put behind bars? Talk about prison overcrowding! Ron Blagojevich (go ahead, say it out loud - it's fun!) would have to fight for a bunk with so many of his old pals crowding onto the pen.

So remember, if you are in office, don't give your constituents a snow job - we can tell when you're fibbing and when you've had work done, just by looking at you with our sharp, artificially-raised, non-wrinkled eyes.

I'm all for love in the afternoon, but clutching each other in the dairy section of the supermarket seemed like overkill. Plus, the lovebirds weren't pint-sized, so they were actually blocking my access to the eggs. I lollygagged near the yogurt to kill time, waiting for the hug to end so I could squeeze over to the shelf of eggs, but Romeo and Juliet weren't budging. Finally, I just reached around and grabbed a carton without them even noticing. When you're in the "Oh, honey, I love you even more for choosing the organic brown eggs," stage, who am I to interfere?

At church a few days later I noticed a couple in a totally different stage of their relationship. A woman had slipped in a few rows ahead of me just as the service began, and shortly after, a man arrived and sat next to her. Of course, I was concentrating devoutly, but still couldn't help noticing that there was something confrontational and angry about his stance. The man whispered to the woman and then he moved a few spaces a way from her. Before church was over, he bent toward her, wagged his finger at her, and without raising his voice, seemed to deliver a verbal thrashing before turning abruptly and marching out of church. She remained motionless, head down, emanating a heavy, hopeless sadness. I didn't hear a word that passed between them, but it was obvious that the honeymoon was long over for this pair, with no hugging in the grocery store or anywhere else.

The next day, while walking Sammy Girl through a park located next to our local high school, I found a crumpled-up note on the ground. It read: "F*!* you JK I love you but I cant chill today but I do need you to get me a bag please cause I don't have a break at all today not even after school." Ahhh, does that not bring to mind the eloquence of old Will Shakespeare when he addressed romance? Is it not reminiscent of "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." (A Midsummer Night's Dream) Really, there's nuthin' like a single sentence that includes both "F!&!* you" and "I Love you" (not to mention "get me a bag") to make you misty eyed about Young Love.

So love was all around this week in many incarnations and unexpected settings. As always, it is a mystery, especially when it's blockading the route to coveted breakfast items.

My advice? If you simply must hug in the Acme, please, do so in front of the tofu...  

Just recently, I received two overwhelmingly colorful brochures in the mail and my immediate reaction was: WHY?

The first publication was from the Philadelphia Orchestra, the esteemed, internationally renowned organization that has suffered miserable financial woes in the 21st century. These folks barely have enough bucks to pay their cellists, yet they sent me a magazine-sized 2012-13 schedule, 16 pages long, all in a stunning four-color format. I assume that I was on their mailing list because I purchased two tickets to a Sunday afternoon concert three years ago - hardly a preferred member or a major supporter of the arts who deserves much more than a modest postcard or two.

While it's clear that the Orchestra marketers have to spend money to make money, surely they could have accomplished the same feat with a color cover followed by six black and white pages. I actually felt guilty placing their lovely work of art in the recycling bin and couldn't help but wonder if a local percussionist or two were somewhere crying over their deflated pension or lack of basic dental coverage...

The second slick publication in my mailbox came from State Senator Vincent Hughes. This periodical paled when compared to the orchestra's masterpiece - only three pages, front and back - but it was packed with a collage of color photos chronicling all the good deeds the Senator has accomplished for his grateful constituents. Of course, this type of pat-on-the-back, remember-me-come-election-time, is de rigueur for local politicians, but my questions is this: Why does it have to be so darn tootin' fancy? This report even included a "aren't we successful and beautiful" color photo of the senator and his wife for an award they won. In the shot, they are all dolled-up and cuddling like Angelina and Brad on the red carpet. Put it in your holiday card, folks, but please don't pay for it with my tax dollars, especially when schools are cutting programs and services are being slashed like Edward Scissorhands was in charge of budgeting. Ya wanna cut the fat? Ban all four-color mailings from elected officials and give us your news in black and white.

Just to irritate me even more, today's mail arrived with a 30-page "Journal" from BJ's, the members-only, consumer's heaven wholesale club. Every page was as vibrant and colorful as the Philadelphia International Flower Show on opening day. Oh, so maybe that's why that 30-roll mega-pack of toilet paper at BJ's isn't as cheap as I had hoped.

Call me curmudgeonly, but color me - and Claude Monet - tormented and downright annoyed.