black monday

When I start the day feeling out-of-sorts and the first task Monday morning is to attend a “photocopier training” seminar (for chrissake), well, you know the rest of the day is going to involve a lot of restraint. I just put on my headphones and listen to Luciano Pavarotti at full volume and hope his magnificence can blot out my malevolence.

look, she blinked

So this weekend was something of a bust. You know those lead aprons you wear at the dentist to prevent you from having freakshow children? Well, it was if I were wearing the full-length trenchcoat version with matching longjohns. Because when I'm in that kind of a funk, I become glacial in my movements. Pre-global warming glacial, I mean. It occurred to me that I was so incredibly slothlike for a time that one might say that I was like a flower opening...time-lapse photography would be the only way to detect movement. One might say that.

adios

Ran downstairs to stand on a muggy, overcast downtown street at noon today. I wanted to hear the bells as they began to toll for the late Governor Ann Richards. As the peals grew louder, I could have wept. God, she was fabulous. What a dynamic life she lived. She was and is a beacon of how powerful women can be. How dedicated politicians can fight the good fight. Adios, you ass-kicking, no bullshit beauty.

And in a celebratory non-sequitur, tomorrow is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. All you sharp-tongued, salty scum out there say arghhh. If you need help, watch this.

hooray for salvage

Our 25-year old hot water heater began to die this summer—like so many appliances in our house of late. Anyway, the old thing had begun to leak, bleeding out via a pvc pipe into the backyard. A trickle at first and then a slow, steady rivulet running down the driveway. I was pretty sure I knew where this was going.

We weren't ready to buy a new one. The one we want to install when we remodel is one of those cool, waterless, wall-mounted, heat-as-you-need water heaters. But that would require plumbing work that couldn't be done without being halfway through a renovation that we had barely started.

Our friends, Lori and Mary, were going to pull down some crown molding from their friend's house that was slated for demolition. They asked us to help them transport it home in our truck, so we went over there yesterday only to find a relatively new water heater left behind. Lori called the owner and cleared us for pillage. What a huge stroke of luck.

We spent the morning unhooking, draining and transporting the "new" water heater. Why is it that one nut is always, always set in granite? All the other pipes and nuts loosen up as designed except one. Calcified, fossilized and sealed. Anyway, we got the fucker unhooked and on the truck with some effort.

Then, we spent part of the afternoon draining and removing the dying relic. This old one was bigger and heavier and rusted. After we finally picked it up, staggered to the door and slid it down the side stairs into the backyard, we prepared to install the windfall water heater.

Due to the accumulation of water, rust, dust, hair and godknows what else, the substance in the catch pan beneath the old heater was world class sludge. If we'd had time to run an electrical current through it I'm fairly sure we could have created life. As it was, I scooped and paper toweled the slime until the drip pan stopped looking like a dying pond. That, my friend, will make you feel tough. I know grown men who would have paled at the thought of getting that goop on their hands...

Anyway, the new water heater has been hauled and installed. It has been filled up, fired up and if our luck runs well, our morning showers will not be taken in cold, brown water. When warm, clear water is all you need to start your Monday off right, you know you've dropped you expectations low enough. Any lower and you'd celebrate waking up with a pulse.

what a prince

British press accused of snooping on royal family
Big deal. Come up with a better headline because spying on the royal family is the raison d'etre of those tabloids. I generally avoid celebrity gossip because it is so paralyzingly boring and because tabloid publishers are such bottom feeders. (Even though I think the royal family would be royally miffed if they were ignored by the slimebags.) Anyway, my apologies to those who followed the Diana/Charles divorce affairs and were privy (don't you love my accent) to this tidbit. I must say I never really liked Charles until now:

LONDON -- British police were questioning a reporter from the country's biggest selling newspaper and another man today after some of Prince Charles's staff suspected eavesdropping on their phones...

If confirmed, it would be the worst revelation of snooping on the royals since...tabloids obtained conversations of heir-to-the-throne Prince Charles and his late wife Diana talking to their lovers...

Charles was recorded memorably telling his then mistress Camilla Parker Bowles -- now his wife -- that he wanted to be reincarnated as her tampon.

Reincarnated as her tampon? That is so GREAT. Loved the woman's happy place and wasn't afraid of feminine hygiene products. What a real man. How could I have missed this?

feminettes

I can hardly watch the news anymore. But occasionally the DVD ends and before I know it the news is on the screen. Sometimes FOXnews because the only time I turn on the tube is for The Simpsons or King of the Hill. How can a station be so cartoon humor savvy and so utterly disgusting when it comes to news reporting? If you can even stretch the definition of news reporting to include them. I join my voice to the chorus of critics. Alarmist, sensationalist, pandering dunderheads. And Geraldo is their idiot king.

Read A Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. It's been on my to-read list for years and I was spurred on by her interview with Bill Moyers. It is gripping. And considered by many to be required reading for all feminists. I think it's required reading for all thinkers.

Speaking of feminists, many women have a negative reaction to being identified as a feminist. I don't really understand that. Partly because I never was a feminist when the movement was at it's height yet I find the philosophy more applicable today than ever. Of course, I wash down my feminism with a big mug of humor.

I thought perhaps we should call ourselves suffragettes. It's so much...cuter than feminist, don't you think? And that's what scares women about being a feminist...it's not cute enough. But nobody even knows what suffrage means anymore, so I say we call ourselves feminettes.

feminette (n):
1. A woman who believes in equality for women but doesn't want guys to know how much.
2. a great name for a sanitary napkin

Saw a big-ass SUV with a bumper sticker "I Support Wind Energy." Perfect.

bug and bug-eyed

I am at home today with a second-rate virus persistent enough to produce a mild fever and sore throat but not disabling enough to keep me in bed all day. I've slept all I could, soap operas bore me senseless and I've just finished a book. Blogging seems like the next best activity. Or I could do my ironing. Nah.

Dan Savage writes a great article about Washington state's supreme court decision not to overturn that state's ban on gay marriage. He talks (hilariously) about the weakness of the argument(s) used by those opposed to gay marriage. He sees it as a sign of victory on the horizon. The man is right on.

Just finished Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove. Did not expect a tale of the Old West to unsettle me so much. He can paint a vivid literary picture. And of course, it's not just about cattle ranching and Mother Nature's hardships. It's about the hideous and heroic aspects of human nature. The stuff of all good novels.

I am maybe half-way to my goal of reading all the Pulitzer Prize winning novels ever written. Lonesome Dove is one of these. I don't think that winning a Pulitzer Prize means that something is the very best. It is naive to think that any awarding body makes decisions free from politics or personal bias. However, the odds of reading something of literary value are pretty good with Pulitzers. Even if that occasionally means slogging through works like Updike's incredibly annoying Rabbit series. In addition to narrowing down the overwhelming quantity of available fiction, I rely on the recommendations from friends and people whose opinion I value. I've been pretty happy with the results.

Bill Moyer's interview with Margaret Atwood did not disappoint. And it made me return to the issues surrounding atheism that have always bothered me. Atheism can become a religious dogma. First, I want no part of an organized belief system. Second, I have difficulty embracing a concept that is rooted in the absence of a thing. The negation of God alone seems a thin premise for a personal philosophy. I would rather be a skeptic. Understanding that there is much that can't be answered and becoming comfortable with that lack of absolute knowledge. But continuing to explore ideas and challenge unfounded claims of truth. Spirituality may just be our organism's construct and I can prove neither the existence nor non-existence of a deity. My logic tells me that stories told to comfort ourselves about death and the unknown have been historically just that: stories. Which have value in so many ways...but not as absolute truth.

Don't you love the photo of Mel Gibson that's accompanying the drunken tirade "the-jews-are-what's-wrong-with-the-world" articles? Bug-eyed terrorist. He looks like a bug-eyed terrorist. I'm sure that's helping him smooth things over. Hey, it's your Anti-Semite debutante "coming out" tequila party, Mel. Congratulations! If you remove the a-z, Mazel spells Mel. Mel Tov.

Sometimes I read the News Bizarre.

a little bit of this

Two stories that seem related:

• Reported by AP: 2006 warmest year in U.S. on record, so far
• Video (beta) about rise in crime in Washington D.C. [Can only be viewed via Internet Explorer, SORRY.] Make note of the U.S. Park Police officer's name: Sgt. Scott Fear. Sergeant FEAR. I sure hope he likes horror films.

Hmmm. Crime rises with temperature...perhaps U.S. politicos can use this angle to get off their collective asses and start addressing global warming.
__________

Today I overheard one of my more endearing co-workers quietly sigh, "I wish I was magic." It made me smile.
__________

A story in today's Houston Chronicle:
Fight against childhood obesity starts with communication
The second paragraph reads:

"To ignore the weight issue (of an adolescent) is almost like the elephant in the room that no one's talking about," said Roberta Anding, a clinical dietician in adolescent medicine at Texas Children's Hospital."

An elephant in the room? Is that the most sensitive metaphor you could come up with, Roberta? Very nice.
__________

Mel, Mel, Mel. What a lethal weapon your mouth turns out to be. There's nothing like getting drunk and letting it all hang out, eh? It's not like there aren't left wing crazies out there but there's something very special about a famous "closet" bigot slipping in the spotlight.
__________

Sometimes I try to curb my criticism of the world at large. You know, look at the bright side, blah, blah, blah. But, let's face it, some days it's like shooting fish in a proverbial barrel. The world if full up with idiotic behavior. All I need to do is close my eyes, spin the mouse and click anywhere.

stream o' consciousness

It's not the heat it's the blazing hot humidity
The front room air conditioner just went tits up this week.
The back room air conditioner has begun to drip. A pre-death shudder that is sure to damage the wall beneath it.
We're going to get central air and heat. In the fall.
I feel a bit beleagured. It's not like I believe an omnipotent force out there is doling out punishment by the BTU. I'm just warm and whiny.
Books
I just finished Natalie Angier's book Woman: An Intimate Geography. Note to self: I don't care if all you can get hold of are her grocery lists, read everything this woman writes.
Television
Bill Moyers is doing a PBS series called Faith & Reason. I hope I haven't blown my hyperbole wad in the previous paragraph (no less bright a spotlight on Ms. Angier). Moyers asks, "In a world where religion is poison to some, and salvation to others, how do we all live together?" His interviews with Salman Rushdie, Mary Gordon and Colin McGinn are food for the soul and the intellect. I listen voyeuristically to these–goddammit I've used up all the adjectives...brilliant minds converse. It's not just the intellectual breadth or the breathtaking vocabularies (though those are awfully sparkly at times) but it's the vision. The measured and articulated view. The creative approach to global issues. That's what makes the brain and soul feel massaged back to life. That's what gives me hope.

This stream of consciousness is getting dammed up now. I have been chronically sleepy for days and I promised myself I'd be in bed before 10pm and I'll be damned if I won't.

the pile

Work in Progress
There's a space under the paper tray of my laser printer where I shove notes scrawled on envelopes, programs and sticky notes rendered sticky-free by the lint they've collected in my pockets and dust they've accumulated under the paper tray of my laser printer.
These are the ideas I collect for doing this. Ideas stacked haphazardly when I can't for some reason synthesize them into words worthy of posting. They are my treasures. My incomplete, fragmented, half-gestated word offspring.
Some of you have gotten tired, annoyed, impatient with my process. Some have written to tell me so. Thank you. No greater compliment can a writer receive than that her patient readers are fed up with waiting.
Behold my pile of crumpled inspiration:

Drivers Ed
I blame part of my two-month blog silence on Defensive Driving.
It's not a lame reason.

Two months ago Barbara and I attended a Defensive Driving course offered through, and paid by, my company. To reduce our insurance premiums. To save the $45 apiece it would cost to take the course online. And the experience was so grueling and bursting at the seams with blog-worthy, vicious commentary, I was struck cyberdumb. The fact that some of the mean-spirited responses oozing out of me were directed at coworkers compounded my hesitancy to write. I'm over it now. I only stayed the torturous six plus hours because I am too fucking cheap to throw away $100. In hindsight, I'll never do that again. Nothing is free.

First of all, let me say that the woman teaching this class was obnoxious, rude, pontificating, stupid, self-righteous, racist, an overfucking explainer, arrogant and did I mention stupid? Stupid. And I am not just being mean. To begin with, she went around the class asking people if they were taking the class for an insurance discount or to avoid a ticket. Then, she grilled each moving violator about their citation. Where, why, what and who. It was incredibly uncomfortable for many of the repentant who just came to do their penance quietly. On the other hand it was an opportunity for the dullards to wax rhapsodic about how they had been wronged by the system. And this bitch had no where near enough sense of how to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand.
Here is my abbreviated litany of complaints. Abbreviated because writing "Just Shut the Fuck Up" forty times isn't really specific and tends to make your audience edge towards the door. For accuracy, though, you might want to sprinkle that phrase liberally through these bulleted items.

• She insisted on talking us through filling out the form...telling us to stop writing after filling out "first and last name," so she could read "street address" lest any of us stumble over that rarely seen label
• She lectured us about how signing the paperwork incorrectly was the equivalent of "tampering with a government document" and could get us 2-10 years. [I kid you not]
• She said the influx (didn't use that word, though. If she'd tried, I am relatively sure it would have come out "reflux" or "reflex") of "different cultures" to our city was contributing to the traffic problems. As if, on any given day, one couldn't find enough EFL idiots to fill a freeway.
  
• And then there was my list of "Did she actually say...?"
  
  
  
  • Hurricane evacuates; the people who evacuate are called evacuees. The only time I've ever seen evacuates used as a noun was when someone was talking about post-enema matter. And I don't even think that usage was correct.
    
  • (she read numbers like a trucker) Four, seven, niner...NINER?
    
  • pronunciation: /sub SEE kwent/ which one assumes means "the next"
    
  • "all in agreeance" (it's in the dictionary: considered obsolete and a bastardization of `agreement' --which it was)
  • Griping her out (the quaint and idiotic country equivalent of "bitching her out")
    
  • Photostatic copy--a perfect example of trying to sound like you know so much but end up sounding like you are still awed by the making of dittos.
  • On the rules concerning license plate frames–i.e., the visibility of state name and number–what is banned is anything that affects the delectability of the license plate. Delectable.
    

• She READ the most recently enacted, driving-related goverment legislation for almost an hour. Chapter and verse.
• She fancied herself a writer. [And I'm an evacuate.]
  
• She ran over by more than an hour. More than an hour on the longest Saturday on record.
  
• She gave us every test answer. Gave them to us. Every single one.

I rest my motherfucking case.

Two Bulls Escape on Houston Highway
I am unable to resist the pull of a headline like this. Powerless. I was going to link to this page for you, but the search feature on my own chron.com is unable to pull up this article by its verbatim title. Jesus.
Okay, here is the story. Comments in brackets are, of course, mine.

June 12, 2006 7:59am
A Houston police officer found himself chasing two escaped bulls on I-45 Sunday night, according to a report this morning by KHOU.
The driver was getting onto the I-45 ramp from the North Loop [not 5 miles from downtown Houston] around 11:30 p.m. when the bulls apparently got out of their trailer. ["apparently got out of their trailer"? Got out is so passive. It explains nothing. "Grew thumbs and opened the latch" would be a more interesting attempt.]
One of the animals ran through a neighborhood before a police officer was able to stop his car on the rope it was dragging, according to KHOU.
But the bull got angry and began ramming the officer's squad car until it was finally captured. [Why is the thought of a massive animal headbutting the squad car that has run over its leash so delightful? Can't you just see the cop after he runs over the rope, sitting there smugly until the enraged bull begins to ram his vehicle?]
The other bull that escaped was hit by a pickup truck and had to be euthanized, KHOU. reported. [I love frontier living.]

Survey Finds Americans Will Give Anything Not to Be Fat

May 30, 2006
by Rob Stein, Washington Post
[Once again, comments in brackets are all mine. As is the bolding.]

Almost half of Americans would give up a year of their life to avoid being fat, according to a recent survey.
The online survey of 4,283 of Americans ages 13 to 79 also found that between 15 percent and 30 percent would rather leave their marriage, give up the possibility of having children, be depressed or become an alcoholic than be obese.
Five percent would rather lose a limb, and 4 percent said they would rather be blind.
"We were surprised by the sheer number of people who reported they would be willing to make major sacrifices to avoid being obese. It drives home the message that weight bias is powerful and pervasive," said Marlene Schwartz of Yale University.
Schwartz led a team of researchers that reported the survey results in the journal Obesity.
The primary purpose of the survey was to gauge anti-fat bias.
People of all weight categories exhibited a significant implicit bias against people who are overweight, the researchers found. But they said that thinner people tended to be more biased. [I'm sure most of us fat folks will be shocked by this.]
"The fact that even obese individuals exhibited a significant implicit anti-fat bias is important because it suggests they have internalized negative sterotypes, such as believing they are lazy," Schwartz said. [Ya think? Imagine fat people seeing other fat people as losers. Fat people are not satisfied with hating themselves; they go ahead and hate anyone who looks like them. That's what I call a full course of indoctrination. Belch.]

I am drawn back to this article because someone I know and love has just been diagnosed with anorexia. Of the many frightening things associated with our culture's hatred of fat is that if she had been plump and bulimic, she would not be viewed with nearly as much sympathy. And in some cases, respect. That's right. There's a bit of sicko respect given to anorexics for their "discipline." Isn't that perfect?

Pee Cycles
Did you ever get on the same pee cycle as a coworker? You know, where for a few days everytime you go into the bathroom you run into, walk in with or come out of the stall to the same person? Like your bladders are in sync whether you like it or not. It's kind of creepy. Like stalking without a reason. Anyway, my other urination issue is toilet talkers. When I go in the little stall to pour out some diet coke, I don't want to continue or begin a conversation. About anything, least of which is the topic of peeing. Every once in a while a chatty coworker making small talk enroute fails to adhere to the etiquette of elimination. When I'm having a private moment, I'm having a private moment, dammit.

Coming Out
A dear young person I know has recently come out. I cannot say much more here because this person is not out to most of their family. I can say that I'm grateful that things are different today then they were 20 years ago for a young gay person. I can also say that many things are not different then they were in terms of cruelty and ostracization, so kudos to the courage of the young.

TMJ
My favorite part of Chex Mix, it turns out, is the Chex. This, from a long time pretzel aficionado. You have to grind the crunchy, salty stuff with your molars. Sometimes afterwards you want something sweet and, if there's nothing else around, you might pop a few Skittles or, godhelpme, chewing gum in your mouth to satisfy that sweet urge. Then, your jaw mutinies/spasms/locks. TMJ is just another way of saying one more of your hinges is dangerously rusty. It's painful and irritating and ridiculous. I understand why my knees and back complain. I am a lot of woman riding on one skeleton. I even understand my shoulders' persistent squawk whenever I reach behind me. But that much pain in my jaw makes me mad. Damn thing may not be responsible for my girth but it's been a player in the crime and it doesn't get to join the chorus of aches. Grrr.
And I know this is self-hating. The Gods inspired the creation of hair shirts because They invented them first.

Vocabulary Poverty
It's official. I'll be attending Cultural Vocabulary Bootcamp this fall. How a lover of words and seeker of unacceptable, impolite, UNLADYLIKE expression could be so uneducated is a mystery to me. But I don't plan on remaining ignorant.

I'll tell you what put the bee up my wordy ass: a few years ago someone used the word "fluffer" and I looked at them like a toddler being introduced to quantum physics. My children...my children knew this word and suddenly I felt like I should be needlepointing something. Okay, so a fluffer, it turns out, is the off-stage person in charge of getting a male porn store to the stage of camera-ready erection. This person, I assume, would be male or female as the situation warrants. I don't know if there is a respective job for the female star...since evidence of readiness could be somewhat more easily faked or unseen. Nevertheless, like the Grip or Best Boy, the Fluffer has a job to do. Just because the job in gay porn could easily use either of the previous job titles is immaterial. I was was chagrined at my fluffer-ignorance. (The temptation to slip the phrase "fluffer-nutter" into this paragraph was too great to resist.)

This past week over lunch with the girls, my vocabulary once again showed a significant...crack or hole for lack of a better adjective. Queef. Queef. Pronounced /kweef/. A sweet sounding, playful little word that I heard and at which I blinked vapidly. It means vaginal farting. A concept that encompasses so many of the things I find delightful, yet I did not number this word among my vocabulary treasures. My children and apparently most of the people I know (and was decidely unabashed about asking...demanding their acquaintance with the onomatopoetic noun) knew about the queef. This is why bootcamp is in my future. Not to mention that my punishment demands the writing and publishing of this silly poem.

It is rarely a relief
to produce a queef;
to some it's a gaff
so why did I laugh?
gas and queef, if wed,
make gaff, I said.

The aforementioned space under the paper tray of my laser printer is now empty.

natural woman

After a day of working in the Houston heat, who's calling who a stinkbug?
It's not that I don't think bugs are very cool. They are. We saw a half-dozen fascinating bugs and spiders during today's clear cutting. Here is a picture of a caterpillar perfectly disguised as a stick and below it a photo of a tough-looking stinkbug. (These are not our photos—our camera sucks on close-ups—but they are exactly what we saw in the backyard.) Now, as I said, bugs are cool. Just as long as they're not crawling up my bare arm. Then, I don't much care for the little motherfuckers.

I am happy to announce that the Sawzall-aided destruction of the weed trees in our backyard is complete. I actually had to get up on the roof for one set of precariously-situated limbs. Nothing like standing that high off the ground (how high, you ask? two broken legs in a fall high. I'd estimate) holding a hefty machine that heats up and vibrates steadily while lopping off limbs that could stun an ox if properly aimed. Still it was exhilirating to finish with danger. I am woman, hear me saw.

Came inside to cool down and shower before surveying what our next round of carnage would entail. I wear comfortable but not too loose-fitting clothing while playing lumberjack and all I want to know is how that much sawdust, dirt, etc. finds its way into crack and cleavage? [This is rhetorical, so you assholes out there don't need to put a lot of effort into providing me with cute answers.] I could start an indoor garden. If I were so inclined. Which I'm not.

end of the nature trail

A final mockingbird* update:
The three relocated baby birds flew out of their nest on schedule. We were able to witness (unobtrusively from inside the house, of course, looking through our back "Discovery Channel" window) the last of the trio trembling on the edge of the nest—with parental units flitting about anxiously—not unlike the first time you walk to the edge of the diving board and stand there in terror while all your friends and family are squawking at you to "go ahead, you'll be just fine." The bird looked around as if to say "what a truly bad idea this is...throwing myself off a ledge into the unknown." However, Instinct is a dominatrix and finally launched the reluctant adolescent. The bird fluttered to the ground, then, hopped and flew awkwardly until it reached the gazebo. We assume that it will live happily ever after.

The fourth, hand-fed, runty bird has thrived and grown stronger, fuzzier, featherier and louder. We turned it over to the semi-pros of wildlife rehabilitation and have closed this chapter. The End.

*It was brought to my attention that there was no small irony in my being compelled to save a wild creature from the "mockingbird" category. I believe the insinuation was that I have a higher than average enjoyment of mockery. This after I witnessed the male accuser in tacky 50's drag and exhibited such restraint of my considerable lampooning gifts. Just wait til I create an online "dress the paper doll" flash game with my good friend Dave in his skivvies trying on his many colored poodle skirts.

prehistoric muppet

Baby birds are rather homely. Bulging eye sockets, featherless bald spots, scaley skeletal limbs and hungry behavior that makes them look like diamond-shaped gullets (Muppet-like unhinged jaws) atop scrawny necks.

Still, it does my heart good to see little Skeksi (sounds kind of like Trixie but not so cute) eating well and sleeping comfortably. And there's even something reassuring about her/his seemingly disproportionate excrement. It's hard to believe all that exits so small a creature.

This experiment in wildlife rehabilitation will hopefully end this Friday. I think Dr. Doolittle is getting attached to her small charge but understands that a mockingbird needs to bond with other mockingbirds...and I refuse to order or make any costumes to this end. As over-the-top funny that sight would be.*

*I regret to report that the "bird brand" is, in fact, mockingbird. Of the "To Kill a Mockingbird" fame. Thanks to Lori & Mary and their wildlife rehabilitation skills. [It's so hard for me to say "rehabing" wildlife without thinking of stumbling armadillos reeking of tequila and frenetic chipmunks on crystal meth.]

casualties of cleanup

We did some real cleanup in the backyard yesterday. When I said we have some weed trees, I mean we have 8 or 9, full-fledged, 25-30 feet tall, vine-matted trees weaving in and out of electrical and phone cables. This is a job for ladder, rope, Sawzall and fortitude. Not to mention a deep respect for danger and an understanding of physics and engineering. We removed two of the biggest trees on the side of the house. I can't believe I can lift my arms to the keyboard this morning.

The last tree limb we pulled out of the jungle had a nest. Didn't see it until the three (plop, plop, plop) baby birds landed on the soft grass. I am no more zookeeper than farmer, so I was alarmed and awash with guilt. Barbara, calm lover-of-all-things-helpless-and-small told me to go get some gloves and a shoebox. I bounded inside and got the things. She lifted the now empty nest out of the downed limb and carefully placed the almost fully-feathered birdlets back into it. We placed it on some bowers up on air conditioning unit cage near the downed tree. Birds have nested there before and it seemed safer from cats and squirrels than anyplace else we could reach. Then, we waited. The parental birds (I assume...not seeing any resemblance outside my ignorant, prejudicial: all brownish birds look alike) circled, scolded and fretted. We went inside and finally, the mother bird came down and began feeding her relocated offspring. I may not be in touch with Nature, but I get walloped by guilt if I create orphans.

All is well. The three little mockingbirds (more guilt) or sparrows (slightly less) seem to be fine. We've seen them fed a number of times and they made it through the night just fine. We are going to add more protective foliage next time the parents go foraging. I think the little critters are a little too exposed.

Oh, and a stinkbug startled me during the earlier demolition. (I suspect the degree of startle on its part was slightly higher than mine but it's so hard to tell...their 1-inch armored bodies are so aggressive-looking) Suppressed the yelping noise I wanted to make. I'm not truly afraid of bugs (okay, wasps make me want to pee in my pants) or reptiles, I just hate the surprise aspect. Which is why Nature continues to creep up on me. Nature loves a good joke and I'm a walking temptation.

P.S. Found a fourth baby bird this morning. Jesuschrist. The runt of the clutch (that sounds wrong...maybe there's another word for runt when you're not talking about a litter) had nestled in the root system of the downed tree. It was cold and I thought it was a goner. Barbara put it back in the nest but it was too weak to hold its own, so she brought it inside and it has made something of an amazing come-back. It is eating worms like a champ and making the appropriate squeaky noises. I'm still not sure it can survive but we'll see. The other three in the nest are completely okay, eating and squawking like they'd never been tossed out.

logic and passion

Whenever I get enraged, a little voice in me asks, "why?" Why are you so mad? Does this issue or event threaten you? Frighten you? Make you feel small and insecure?

Sometimes, I tell the little voice to fuck off. Sometimes, I think about it.

If anger is just a displaced emotion masking the fears of the inner-child, or if it is just a response borne of ignorance, where then, is the virtue in passion? Most important decisions need to have as much emotional volatility drained from them as possible before proceding. We don't think clearly when we're hysterical. But not all of the visceral should be eviscerated. It's a critical ingredient in our humanity.

So, why am I so angry? You sigh, patient reader, what is it this time? Please, bear with me for a moment.

If the goal of enlightenment is to lose fear and its red-faced frontman anger, then peace becomes that elusive and difficult to understand state of nothingness. What place in Nirvana is there for passion?

Today's catalyst, and it is–godhelpme–just one of of many issues from the past week, is the hysteria surrounding the national anthem sung in Spanish. Nuestro Himno. Will somebody please explain to me what the fuck is wrong with this country and our president? Last I checked, nobody was uprooting English as our national language. Nobody was suggesting that the national anthem in Spanish was intended to supplant the original, British-drinking-tune-turned-anthem, Star Spangled Banner.

Our beloved melting pot is not diminished by immigrants singing their love for this country in their first language. No matter how multi-lingual an individual is, the language that expresses their deepest sentiments best is usually their primary one. This is not rocket science. It's simple logic. This does not mean that they will be discouraged from learning English as a second language in order to function best in this thick-headed, monolingual nation. All it is is an expression of love for their adopted country. WTF is the problem here?

Furthermore, Bush is an idiot. An idiot extraordinaire. The largest minority in this country, the Hispanics, has the inexplicably largest pro-Republican bloc. Now, I am not blind to the idiocy of politicians, Democrats included. And a very wise man one said (and I paraphrase) that it would be better to be slave to an owner who cares only for his business than be indentured to an overseer who wants to save/improve/help you. There is something to be said for trusting the motives of greed over benevolence. But I digress. My point is that Hispanics supported Bush in this state as if he and the majority of his Republican redneck/bluebloods gave a rusty fuck about their brown skins, outside of their laborer ability to do grunt work quietly, of course. Okay, so why would even the most dimwitted politician step into this ridiculous non-issue and state that the national anthem should be sung in English. English only, one would conclude. Why?

I'm pissed and can't seem to talk myself into the calm peace of "this too shall pass." I am a twin disciple of Logic and Passion. So much creativity is borne out of violence and upheaval. So much of what we see as exalted forms of expression: music, art, literature, dance, etc. is nourished by the passion that threatens to explode the artist if it is not released. And so much damage is done in the heat of passion. So much is destroyed out of fear and ignorance.

So, I don't know what else to say except that, for me, this flies in the face of both Logic and Passion. Kudos to Adam Kidron. If his motive is to make money, as some detractors claim, then he is sadly more the American for it. Many people are also comparing any other country's reaction to having their national anthem sung in another language. I say, once again, horseshit. No other nation represents the amalgam of cultures the way the United States does. So those comparisons are weak. We are a nation of immigrants.

If Vietnamese-Americans, Pakistani-Americans, Armenian-Americans, etc. all sang our national anthem in their native tongues, nothing would make me prouder to be an citizen of the United States.

P.S. Just when I thought I was destined to stew in my state of pissed-off-ness for the day, my friend Lori called and asked if I'd ever listened to the show then playing on NPR. She thought I would like it, so I tuned in. She was right. The program "Says You" is all about word usage and wordplay. It delighted me, silly word-nerd that I am, and I welcomed the break from fury. Perhaps I worship three gods: Logic, Passion and Humor. I am unbalanced without the third.

a fine tribute to cheap

After the Sawzall's 1-hour debut (see previous entry), we cleaned up and headed out to The Alley to see a play. One of the benefits of working in advertising at a major urban newspaper is that there are always free tickets in the offing. I was able to snatch up some passes to see Moliere's The Miser.

What a delightful play. We thoroughly enjoyed it. The set, staging and costumes were great. The play itself is timeless. I enjoy going to plays all over town but what a contrast to the smaller companies this was. Not because it was grander–because it would have worked in a smaller venue–but because The Alley attracts stronger actors. The lead Harpagon (played by Steven Epp) was excellent in his delivery and timing. This unattractive skinflint was actually able to curry affection from the audience. The other actors were fine and their characters fairly well-developed. I particularly like the way voice modulation was used to enhance the comedy. One scene showed the servants filling the miser's bath water from the stagnant water that had collected on the roof. Now that was a bit of clever staging.

The beautiful irony was that it didn't cost us a penny.

her maiden voyage

So we took the Sawzall out back for her debut. Too clear the back 40 (sq ft) more or less.

There are weed trees all over the yard that testify to my nonagrarian lifestyle. One such tree in the alley was a roadblock to good scraping and sanding so it had to go. Or at least most of it. I had hoped to Paul Bunyan the bastard but unfortunately, it was more like the legendary logger than I...way taller than I had realized. And there were far too many cables, power lines and whatnot woven in and out of its branches.

But we were undaunted. The two blades provided are called "Wrecker" and "Torch," a testament to why marketing, in all its unctuousness, exists and works. I picked up the coarser-bladed Wrecker and started on the lower branches. Like butter. Even while on a ladder (well-placed and with a spotter—but still a little wobbly being that high up with a machine that can saw up to 3000 strokes per minute) I was able to lop off the offending arms and clear the area. Sawdust showering me and the unsettled insect hordes teeming (oh, you buddhists, don't worry there's greenery aplenty for the gnats to regroup in) I held that small, weighty destruction machine and tried to smile without parting my lips.

In less than an hour most of that tree was in heavy-trash sized pieces and so was a lattice frame on the side of the house. And some railroad ties. And several branches I'd passed on the way to the curb. I had to make myself unplug the thing so as not to bite off more than I could chew. A reciprocating saw...everything I'd hoped it would be.

If the fence or trees in my backyard were sentient, they would all be fearing for their lives. They would tremble as my newly opened eyes examined them for optimal destruction points. This is better, forgive my disloyalty, than the beloved whack-a-mole.

tools and eunuchs

This past weekend we finally got our collective asses in gear and began to take down the screens on the garage apartment in preparation for the painter, who begins scraping and sanding today. Our plans are to rebuild these ancient screens and put them back up after the painting is done. When you start a project, you begin to notice twenty other items that need your attention. Which is why getting the ball rolling is so invigorating and overwhelming.

Anyway, there's a lot of destruction to be done–foliage and structures to be cut down–which necessitated/inspired the purchase of a tool. A tool I have been pining for, lo these many years. I am now the proud owner of a Milwaukee Super Sawzall. I really can't tell you how excited I am about this because everyone to whom I've already waxed rhapsodic loses interest after about 10 seconds. It's okay, I understand. Not everyone sees power tools as I do. I'm just telling you, this thing's a beauty and I may take it, in its spiffy new case, to show & tell.

We also watched King Kong this past weekend. It was entertaining and more fun than I'd expected. Those prehistoric bug scenes were ten kinds of creepy, though. Giant centipedes and 4-foot wide spiders are just the mental imagery that I don't need before climbing into bed. My only complaint was with Kong himself. Oh, the animatronics were stupendous. Never once did I look at his movements and think, "oh you can almost see the mechanical structure...or is that a bit of untufted webbing the tyrannasaurus left behind?" No, it was more about the big picture. Here you have the most agressive, virile ape filling the screen and what is missing? Kong the magnificent is a eunuch. No balls, no dick. He stands atop the Empire State Building beating his chest in triumph and between his massive legs is...nothing. I know the motion picture industry and the people in this country would not have allowed the portrayal of twelve foot simian genitalia further enlarged by the giant screen. We are such pathetic hypocrites when it comes to stuff like that. Because of that, during the first hundred films made for the populous break that barrier, our eyes will be glued to the enormous package. But eventually, we'll get over the fixation and start watching movies not for a glimpse of the forbidden but for the story. Until then, our mythical beasts will remain foolishly neutered.

just tattoo an xy on his tiny forehead

Two of my favorite people, Chris "New Guy" and Katie (blogger extraordinaire beingkatie.com) had a baby. A 9lb 12oz little boy. Which is a lot of baby and just what happens when you mix the DNA of two rather tall (6'+) people.

Anyway, I wanted to get something for the littlest new guy, so I walked to a downtown department store during lunch today.

Shopping for babies is one of the areas that I come dangerously close to traditional straight womanhood. What's not to love? Everything is all miniature and shit. But it's been awhile since the last time I'd bought baby stuff. Or I have selective amnesia about the experience.

Babies are, on the genitalia-covered surface, essentially unisex. And to all those people who coo about their newborns being brawny all-boy or dainty all-girl, I say horseshit. I've seen those babies and gender is totally in the eye of the beholder. Cross-dress the little darlings and I promise you folks will swear that your little butch is the belle of the baby ball.

Nowhere does our gender-bias appear more rigid than in baby clothes (including the quantity aspect—there are 4 baby girl togs to every 1 baby boy outfit). The stereotyping is somewhat more inflexible for the male of the species than the female but that's just splitting baby-fine hairs. I found myself singing, "Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be homos;" so frantically heterosexual were the selections. Half the boy's outfits were ablaze with athletic, superhero or fireman symbols. The other half were shrunken versions of executive-wear...complete with the ubiquitous embroidered Ralph Lauren horse: oxford cloth crawlers, tiny khaki cargo shorts with coordinated Polo shirts, etc. Not a hint of the metrosexual here.

I find myself wondering why we don't beef up the "package" on infant boys' Pampers so they can wear snug onesies with pride. You half expect these tykes to rip the head off of Winnie-the-Pooh and perfect-spiral-throw Pooh's decapitated body into the endzone, all while highstepping those rubbery little legs to a Souza march. Or, crawl into an MBA seminar after napping on the yacht all morning and sucking down imported non-fat milk out of an ergonomic bottle picked up at The Sharper Image.

Okay, I bought the yacht outfit. Couldn't find any overalls that weren't bastardized by embroidered manliness. Furthermore, this one is just a blue & yellow striped shirt and plain white cotton pants...

I'd lose the faggy yellow belt, though.

Welcome to the world, Henry Todd. Sorry for the limited clothing selection.

insanity sans sangre

I really hate to admit this. Because I hate to have my reactions discounted and chalked up to hormones, but truth is truth...today my hormones had a slapfest with me.

I was lulled into a false sense of security that without the monthly egg drop and its endocrine magic/madness, I would be lounging safely on a placid shore opposite Mt. PMS. Well, just switch the pre with post. I know, I know, many women still cycle without the bloody mess. Guess I'd had a mini sabbatical and forgot.

Goddammit I can preamble the fuck out of a subject.

Okay, so today I was hostile, hungry and hypersensitive. Put that together with that vague feeling of physical discomfort and bingo, I was cycling without any proof of purchase.

Describing what this is like to men is a little hobby of mine. I like trying to find an analogy that makes sense even though the quest is probably asymptotic: you may never get there but you might get damned close.

When a person has a migraine or a hangover (or both) they can become hyper aware of light, sounds and jarring movement. When I had/have a visit from my surging hormonal system, I become hypersensitized to morons. The sound and drivel of irritating people (that I usually try to ignore) suddenly becomes DEAFENING. I pray for a slugfest so I can join in the fray and work out some of this quite stunning hostility.

When the desire to pop someone recedes, I'm left with a surly feeling of isolation. Another lovely and pleasant incarnation. Throughout this little exercise is the pervasive and overwhelming urge to eat...like an earthworm through soil. If you saw me you would think that's how I achieved such impressive, some might say awe-inspiring, rubenesqueness. But you would be wrong. On a normal day (as opposed to this mock/stealth/pseudo pre-period crapulence) I'm content with my bowl of soup and diet coke at lunch. At most, I indulge in an afternoon snack bag of pretzels. Not so today. No. Pity the carbohydrate-protein-sugar-fat that wanders unknowingly into my path.

So that's the way it was. My reaction to life may be more controlled without the estrogen shot (like tequila only more...homicidal) but nowhere near as honest. I told my good friend Dave that he would know I was leaving the building when the whistled sound of "the sun will come out tomorrow" wafted over to his office from the stairwell.

Which reminds me...the last player in the Hostile-Hungry-Hypersensitive foursome is Sarcasm. It ruins the alliteration but knows no better name. Slicing, dripping, sharp-tongued Sarcasm. And you should hear all the things that I filter out. Scathing shit that never sees the light of day. I hold the worst of it back because I'm just that fucking sensitive.

pain relief extraordinaire

I have an ulcer incubator for a stomach. Not unlike many people, my digestive track produces enough acid for more than one person. One might say, snidely, I was making acid for two, if one was jealous of my precocious menopause. I wonder if my Darwinian purpose is to digest leather or tree stalks. But I digress.

The result of this digestive zealousness is not, as Gollum puled about the rope around his neck, that "it burns us." Heartburn from reflux may result in acrid backwash but that's not usually what happens to me. Instead my stomach muscles spasm. Incredibly painful spasms that can last for 15 minutes or 3 hours...depending on whether I catch it on time.

My medication usually keeps this in check but not always. Why it happens is a combination of things predictable and inexplicable but that's not really my point. You know when you have a bitch of a headache and it's all you can do to concentrate on something else? Then, at some point you realize it's gone. Ditto for having the flu—although the timeframe is stretched—the abatement of misery is gradual enough that you don't notice the change. Not so with these corrosive chemicals. The pain comes on like being repeatedly punched in the stomach. At some point I feel the blows slow, then, noticeably stop. It's that moment. That moment when the pain quickly fades into nothing that is so fascinating. The cessation of pain is exquisite. For a moment I wonder if sado-masochism is not about hurting but about the feeling you get when it stops.

No, I'm not ordering nipple clamps online or anything but I admit that consciously crossing over the threshold of intense pain into the blissful absence of pain is incredible.

how many nuns would a nunchuck chuck

So I got this thing in the mail. It's a Nunchuck. You hold it in your hand like a water pistol and it catapults small plastic nuns across the room. I love it. I've hung it on my wall in a place of honor—next to G-Force Jesus. The thing is, I don't know who sent it. I suspect it's one of my small cadre of readers.

What humbles me, she says ironically, is that I realize that the pool of potential gift-givers of this ilk is a large percentage of my small, twisted group of friends. For that I am very grateful. Now, which one of you is culprit? I love a mystery as much as the next heretic but it's time to 'fess up, people.

By the by, I also got a small eraser (freebie gift) of Holly Hostess with her Parasite Pal®, Tickles the Tapeworm, embedded in her stomach. I'm saving that one for a special gift. (You can take Tickles out and use it separately, too!)

POSTSCRIPT: Aha! The winner is my oh-so-funny brother-in-law, Robert. What a great guy.

la guerra

We are a fairly bilingual-resistant culture. The media rarely presents dual language messaging in spite of the significant and growing numbers Hispanic citizens. Predominantly Hispanic neighborhoods may see some billboards in Spanish, but mainstream newspaper, radio and television remain firmly segregated from their brown counterparts.

So, when I saw an advertisement in both languages on the front webpage of an online newspaper, I was pleased. Then I realized this well-designed, bilingual ad was for the US Army.

I understand that the way into the room is sometimes through a side door. Integrating the military almost 60 years ago gave Blacks one more bit of leverage in the fight for civil rights. But one of the most conservative branches of government has jumped onto the bilingual bandwagon because its numbers are down and, forgive the liberal cliché, because it needs fodder for its war machine.

We need to acknowledge and learn to be a better bilingual society. Some people think that the tactics of "los militares" is a first step, regardless of the motivation. Maybe. But I still think it stinks.

outlook

In this case, I am actually referring to the (hiss) Microsoft product...but in a generic sort of way. Outlook is the ubiquitous corporate email and scheduling standard. Like many such programs, it provides single click access to your calendar and a laundry list of customizable features.

Whenever I begin to forget why I chose the worker bee tier on the corporate organization chart (or what I affectionately like to call, The Circle Jerk Goes Rectangular) I click on my Outlook calendar and bask in the pristine, sandy beach of the No Meetings Resort. No meetings. Or very, very few. That's the price I pay for passing on the higher salary/bigger office perks of being a manager. What a deal. I get to do what I like to do and don't have to sit around in corporate meetings that bore and irritate the everloving shit out of me. It's a healthy reminder of a conscious choice.

The other Outlookish benefit is the Rules feature. Sort of like call blocking or screening but much more specific. I wish to god I had this power in my personal life. For instance, you currently can block calls from a pesky acquaintance or screen a loquacious relative but you can't specify a situational exception—the call would come through if the topic was, let's say, a death in the family or hey, a tornado is heading your way. Anyway, with Outlook, you can make a rule to move group-addressed emails from a nuisance co-worker right into your crap folder. However, if you are working on a project with said nuisance, any email specifically addressed to you will come through without a hitch. Perhaps you have a friend 3 degrees removed who insists on sending you one of the cursed three "j" emails (junk, jesus, jokes), you could specify a schlock topic that would hit your "j" filter and clatter to the ground unseen.

And don't get me started on the real life needs for an an equivalent to the escape key, delete key and undo function. You know you have reached the no-return level of computer nerdiness when you are pouring seasoning into your pasta sauce, the perforated seasoning lid falls off and a decent sauce is instantly oregano-poisoned...and your first thought is "Control-Z, Control-Z, dammit!"

maternal quandry

My daughter is moving toward being a vegan. I welcome this when I consider the alternative to structuring one's life that hyper-christianity offers. I like to joke that I'm an evangelical canivore but this is not to say that I am uninformed on nutritional issues. Knowing that red meat is unhealthy, however, has not eclipsed my shameless love for good steak. Which isn't to say that diet is responsible for the distance I feel between my dear child and me. It's just a good metaphor for our relationship.

I had hoped that adulthood would find us better friends. I hoped that the comparatively short period of conflict we experienced during her college years would have mostly mended. While it doesn't wreck me as it once did, this gulf between us, it does make me sad and wary of reaching out. It's about erosion for me. About not understanding how our conversations became debating minefields (I exaggerate, but the essence is true for me). How tired I feel knowing that almost anything I say from compliment to opinion is going to be dismissed or refuted.

She would probably disagree.

P.S. After a thinking about all this, all I have to add is that she is wonderful and I miss her. It doesn't make sense because when she's here I'm not at ease...but that's just how being a mother can warp a woman.

death

Rebecca Ann Miller 1958-1980
26 years ago today, my sister-in-law was killed in a car accident. We were both 21 years old at that time. Becky's death changed my life in a number of profound and subtle ways. Not the least of which is the textbook way a peer's death forces you to deal with your own mortality. I also learned a lot about the duality of her life: the good little girl image portrayed for family and church juxtaposed against the more daring vamp she was in her other, hidden life. I can't even speculate which was the "true" person or which personality was just a reflection of the world around her. My fascination was with living in two worlds. Something I had never done and moreover, felt incapable of doing. I felt both superior to and envious of the life she led.

Many of Becky's belongings, particularly those from her wilder side (that were distasteful and disturbing for her religious parents to see) came to me. And fueled the awakening that had already begun in me...that following all the rules may not, in fact, lead to joy. That my life was out of balance and the controlled side of me was ruling to the detriment of the passionate side. A simple idea, but for a devout Mormon girl struggling with salvation and damnation, it was like being knocked to the ground by a lineman.

When I examine the significant events on the path of my life, the timeframe of profound change is usually fuzzy—occurring over the course of years, with an accumulation of experiences factored in. Some however, are more easily pinpointed: "here is where the road forked and this is the path I took." Becky's death marked just that kind of crystalline change.

Since that time, of course, there have been many deaths. Not the least of these was her brother, my ex-husband, who died almost four years ago of a brain tumor. I feel the need to qualify that my life with Barbara is rich and full of joy, but that doesn't mean that I don't feel his absence—at times with inexplicable acuteness. Our relationship was, like most youthful, terminated marriages: a patchwork of love and hate. Then there was the loss of Karl, one of our dearest friends, who died of AIDS at the ripe old age of 34. He followed Bill, Raymond and Rob. Janet had MS, Barbara had breast cancer, Tom was killed on the highway during a particularly bad storm, and on and on.

mortality and irony
There has been some morbid jocularity at work over the tragic and ironic death of Miss Deaf Texas. She was text-messaging while walking close to the train tracks and didn't hear the train. That snow plow thing in front is wider than she expected, evidently. Of course, it's not funny for a young girl to lose her life. But the tragedy precipitates the incredulous response, what the hell was a deaf girl doing so close the train tracks? Isn't that one of the first things you learn when you're born with this kind of disability? Don't position yourself anywhere where the ability to hear is a deciding factor in your survival. My son is color blind, so he won't be working on the bomb squad (the green wire or the red wire? it's all gray to him...). Everything is so clear in hindsight.

Okay. But this, the Darwin Awards, the speculation that Becky would have probably lived had she been wearing her seatbelt, Karl might be alive if he'd insisted on safe sex...underscores our collective insecurity. If we can clearly point out the foolishness of the another's demise, we might be able to cheat Death for a little while longer. Regular check-ups, whole grains, burglar bars, airbags, avoiding dark alleys and intravenous drugs, using condoms and taking martial arts classes are our arsenal.

But, of course, this comfort is shattered every time a perfectly healthy, cautious, sane human being is plucked from our midst. Like the school teacher in Culver City, California who was walking her little brood of students when two quarreling motorists lost control of their car and jumped the sidewalk.

I have no final conclusion (pun unintended but cheerfully welcomed). I vacillate between the fear of losing my loved ones to realizing that it's all a crapshoot. Mostly, I just want to be as truthful as I can be. And when I go, if there is any irony in my exit, I damn well expect all of you to laugh. Because I sure as hell would.

miscellanea

Words
The pen is mightier than the sword. The anagram of sword is words. Words can wound and words can heal but weapons are pretty much designed to destroy. Yet, as much as violence disturbs me, in certain circumstances, the knowledge that there's a sword behind the words (a mugging victim's mace or kick-boxing skills, for trite example) does indeed add to their power. Or am I blinded by Uma Thurman's ridiculously gorgeous moves in Kill Bill?

Sick of the sound of my own voice
I wish I could replace the need to talk with writing. Both help sort out the cacaphony of information and turmoil and contradictions of everyday life. But talking...talking needs a listener, a conversational partner. And has the potential immediate vulnerability that writing does not have. You may be turned away by the reader but you don't have to deal with that at the same moment you are poking at your exposed underbelly and trying to figure out from whence the pain emanates.

Do shitty things unto others and you will be shat upon?
Do all wrongs committed lead to some negative? They say that human progress, "righteous" wars, etc., must involve some carnage, some casualties. In our personal lives it seems, it would be better to stop using this excuse and consider that most hateful acts return to us. Everyday in the news, I read about someone who used, abused, cheated or destroyed someone else for their own pleasures/goals/plans of world domination. Over and over I hear the observer people say, how could anyone do that? How do you marry for money? How can you kill civilians in war and just write it off? How do you sleep at night when your deceptions have cost hundreds of people their life's savings? It must be distance. The ability to distance ourselves from the results of our greed or weakness. And that is a human trait. Goddammit, I need to stop reading the paper.

Active off
I've finished Natalie Angier's Beauty of the Beastly. It did not disappoint. She writes about certain genes, chromosomes, etc. being "turned off," which explains why some traits, diseases or abnormalities do or don't occur. But it's not like a switch. Or a roadblock. In some cases, another component (protein, enzyme, etc.) actively keeps things in the off position. Not unlike the famed finger in the dike, the raison d'etre of something in the cell is to supress something else. Active off. It's fascinating. I've started her book Woman; An Intimate Geography. It both challenges and confirms theories and notions that I've mused about for most of my adult life. It also confirms what Common Sense continues to scream out loud: Truth is fluid and new information does and should cause us to reexamine what we "know." Science and religion are in the business of explaining shit. Science just makes more sense.

What the Bleep
What the Bleep Do We Know? keeps creeping back into my consciousness. Attitude. Unmined power. Possibilities.

Big Boobs obsession migrates to the farmyard
We bought some chicken breasts the other day. Supersized, it seems. Made me want to peek under the skin for implants. A little freakish. And one wonders, are the thighs growing at same rate? Or do we have these poultry porn stars pushing their pecs around the farmyard like mammarian bulldozers?

Holy Communion Cannibal Miracle
In preparing for my menopause party, I did some research on saints and the whole bleeding heart thing...because, well, I love a theme. The shit that floated to the surface is amazing. Here are just two tidbits about the holy communion wafer miraculously transformed into flesh. I can't keep the phrase "Savor your Savior" from running through my head.

http://www.marypages.com/NajuKorea.htm
Holy literal eucharist
http://dsanford.com/miraclehost.html
and again: Welcome to the Burning & Bleeding Host of Betania, Venezuela website.

menopaulooza

I had a menopause party for myself last week. It was one of my all-time favorite parties.

There was an altar complete with hand-dipped tampon candles (red, por supuesto) and one noble flaming tampon candle (Tampons are, in fact, all wick, so they burn like motherfuckers.)—all thanks to Justine, the traveling candlemaker. St. Dymphna and St. Barbara were prominently displayed (Patron Saint of Nervous Disorders and the Patron Saint of Ammunitions just go hand-in-hand) surrounded by fertility foods and other offerings. Flanking each side of the center candle were kotex pad boxes from the 80's that I, um, lifted from a company that hadn't updated their decor in 25 years either.

Lori mixed the music ("change" and "hot" themes were amply covered) and the drinks. She created a new drink in my honor: Enita's Estrogen Elixir. I was touched and drank many glasses to show my appreciation. Mary made marzipan uteri party favors that looked and tasted great. Eileen made me a menopause headdress that still sits on the gargoyle in the livingroom. Red feathers proud, pantiliner cap cradling its head and tampon fringe intact. Cyndi and Lola found congratulations cards that were oddly menopausal-appropriate...very impressive. So many of my favorite people in one room. Everyone ate, drank and made merry. Three of my male friends braved the double-x concentration and showed up. Those are real men, people. I was delighted, to say the least.We had red uterus/fallopian balloon "animals" scattered about, with small white balloon "ova," bobbing farewell to egg production. On the wall near the door was mounted a very old, steel Kotex dispenser. In use when pads cost a nickel and you didn't mind that they were mattress-like because you were so grateful that you didn't have to wear that awful belt anymore...yes, adhesive pads! Loaded into the working box were more party favors–each attendee had to insert a nickel, turn the lever and out popped their prize (a box containing their own tampon candle and chocolate eggs, of course).

I'm only sorry I didn't get to the vulva napkin-folding or have time to make signs of the endless, ridiculous puns in my head:

Welcome to Enita’s Uterine Retirement Fiesta!
Welcome to Enita’s Early Menopause Celebration!
Welcome to Sister Enita’s Blessed Infertility Carnival!
Welcome to Enita’s-I’m-Giving-Up-Eggs-for-Lent Mardi Gras!
Welcome to Enita’s “Farewell to Dot” Festival!
Hook ‘em Horns! (see invitation below)
Ova No Va

Fertility Obituary:

1972—2005
37 years of loyal service
Only 2 Occupants
More than 350 trial runs

The invitation:

google redeemed

I was just thinking last week (after the Christmas and New Year's logo transformations) that Google design has gone from great to sappy. If I see any more woodland creatures scampering through the "oo's" or peeking cunningly around the "l", I'm going to gag.

Then, I open today's Google and there it is. Beautiful. Google in braille. Celebrating the birth of Louis Braille. If you don't go there today, you can see the designs by year on Googles logo pages.

happy anomaly

I am conscious of, but not concerned about, my age and gender in a profession of 20-30 year-old men who probably spent significant parts of their adolescence drawing comic book panels, gripping video game controllers or creating role-playing characters. Mostly because I am engaged, enchanted and enthusiastic about working with these guys. They are smart and funny and don't seem ill-at-ease with me at all. My job is to maintain my own unique, creative approach to web design and animation. I love what I do. And I try at all times to avoid adopting a maternal approach in my relationship with them. (Though I admit, occasionally my inner "Ancient Wise One" rises to the surface.)

It's wonderful to have 47 years of chronological experience and a passion that feels ageless. It's great to be a female–and a sexual oddity to boot–in this profession and feel, for all intents and purposes, that I am not held back by that. Not as long as I treat that fact as just one aspect of what I bring to the table. Expecting to be respected (for my work) and wanting to be treated with deference (for my age or gender) are two totally different things. I'd just as soon they forgot my age and gender most of the time.

Btw, I did read the D&D Master manual when my son was younger. Dungeon Master. I liked the way it sounded but didn't ever get the hang of it...

some more musings

I have a compulsion to stick things to my forehead. This is one of those harmless peculiarities that I have learned to accept without too much introspection. Coins, bottle caps, dominos, etc. migrate to my forehead like a mutated tika or bindi. I have to remind myself while I'm at work, in a meeting or at a party that this little quirk is mine to indulge, but it might not be quite as endearing to others.

I like to think that I'm not much of a junkfood aficionado. Even though I am not as 'whole food' dedicated as my healthy daughter, I do enjoy keeping our diet more real than chemical. That said, 2005 could be recorded as my Lucky Charms year. I inexplicably craved this artificial, sugary, should-never-be-eaten-for-breakfast faux cereal. I never preferred it as a child, never let my children eat it when they were younger (except for dessert) but it's been my foolish indulgence. I think I'm over it now, marshmallow bits and all. But who knows what will take its place...

Additional returns to childish/childlike behavior include my continued fascination with the popular Harry Potter books and movies. I find myself wishing the paintings on the walls of doctor's offices and museums would subtlely come to life with movement and commentary.

the miracle of NaCl

This holiday has been wonderful. Quiet, somewhat contemplative and satisfying. My favorite memories: clipping my daughter's short hair on the porch; sitting with my son in the wee hours while he played video games and I waited for my digestive system to stop reminding me that cheese is not my friend; kissing Barbara at midnight (or thereabouts) on New Year's Eve—a sweet kiss familiar with our years together and fresh with the potential of what is around the corner; conversations in Spanish with my father; looking at house plans with our daughter—imagining how moving a wall or a door might affect the way our home "works" with the people in it.

This holiday season also affirms for the umpteenth time how salt water is the answer. We are made of it. Salt water in the form of tears cleanses us. Swimming in the ocean can be a tonic. Drinking water with some salt in it can do miraculous things to a stogey digestive system. On and on. I'm a big fan. I've even discovered the Salt Institute website. And now enters: brining. We made the most fabulous turkey and roast pork loin by following the canon of America's Test Kitchen God, Christopher Kimbell, and the holy salt water soaking ritual. It was so fabulous that my son says he's convinced that brining everything is the answer. Apple pie? Pancakes? Sausage biscuit? Drop'em in the saline.

the year in review

It's been a good, but hard, year and I'm not sorry to be seeing it recede in my rearview mirror. Here are a couple of things that make me happy today (at this manmade juncture, New Year's Day):

Thanks to Rich for rekindling an old friendship and for this NYT article link: Why I'm happy I evolved.

Thanks to Sally for linking me to this site marketing the ridiculous overabundance of cause symbols and the perfect irony of the colon cancer bracelet color.

Then there's my 2005 discovery of Natalie Angier, a woman whose prose about science has me musing whimsically about DNA...an excerpt from the Chaperoning Proteins chapter in her book The Beauty and the Beastly should be explanation enough for my enthusiasm:

When a new protein slides off the tiny molecule assembly line within a cell, it is nothing more than a droopy string of amino acids, not yet fit for its designated profession. Only after being spun and pleated and braided into its proper three-dimensional conformation will a protein burst to life, seizing up oxygen if it is hemoglobin, shearing apart sugars if it is an enzyme, or lashing cells together if it is the stout twine of collagen.

Isn't that just the shit?

I am still awash in the glow of having a job and supervisor that make my day-to-day pursuit of a paycheck such a pleasure. A supervisor with whom it is well worth navigating the friendship/work relationship balance. You're a rare bird, Dave. (And you've got damn good taste in women I, respectfully, might add.)

And here's my last hodge-podge for the day: Peter, call me. Joe, write me (Dick York says you must). Mike & Marty, let's get together. Cyndi and Lola, I want you to come to my menopause party (if you don't get too weirded out by the idea). Sisters, I miss you. Barry, you're still my favorite private eye. Chris & Katie, don't wait until that intrauterine bundle of joy is out and about to keep us up-to-date. Bob and Kathy, loved the creche. L&M, come over while the house is clean. Eric J, let's kick up our respective sensible shoes. Eric H, habla conmigo. David & Alvin, can't wait to see you in the fall in beautiful Vancouver. Ruthie, Barbara's and my 20th anniversary may trump the 30th high school reunion this year, which doesn't mean you and I can't get together for our own small 31st reunion.

Felíz Año Nuevo, y'all.

the year of 06.06.06

Among other things, I'm happy that this year we celebrate the Christian bugaboo date of 6/6/6. It's a silly thing but I love number juxtapositioning. And it's amusing that humans sometimes think significant celestial or worldwide events are imminent just because we approach a certain date...like the year 2,000, for example. Hello? We made up this calendar/time-marking system—we just pulled it out of our collective b.c.e. asses, people! How could our clumsy little after-the-fact system suddenly become a soothsayer?