day 13 redux

I don't know whether I'm going to burst into tears or burst into flames.

(As if. When given a choice, my choice is combustion.)

day 13

This is not a catastrophe, it's just a huge inconvenience.

A huge, cranky-making inconvenience. Spent half the night in the truck last night. The trade-off is air conditioning and uncomfortable surfaces OR comfortable bed and sticky heat. Until 2 am, when we schlepped inside for a few hours of sleeping abed in reasonable temperatures.

A half-million Houstonians and I are fucking tired.

I'm not going to use sleep deprivation and temperature torture as license to be a raging lunatic. But, tranquility in the face of sleepiness is not my superpower.

I'm signing off now because I can't stand to hear myself talk about electricity, hurricanes or sleep for one more minute.

day 12

No.

day 10

Slipping over here between jobs to say that we are now in Day 10 of the electricity-free torpor. The cool front has dissipated, the nights are hot, humid and allergenful. A few thoughts...

I am exploring the idea of hurricane-induced alcoholism. I have met more neighbors and drunk more alcohol in the past week or so than in the previous six months.

Steven and his mom imported (from San Antonio) battery-driven fans. Since there is not an inverter to be had in Houston or surrounding counties (or extension cords or batteries...but you can buy a generator for $800. EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS. Shit, we'll just get a room.), he and his mom should be given a medal from the mayor. It's hot but a little fan goes a long way. Thank you, thank you.

Word is that we won't have power until Thursday or Friday. For those of you not suffering from heat-induced counting dementia: that would be Day 13 or Day 14...or as I like to call it: Day Two Weeks. By that time I will have stopped haunting the home improvement stores for electrical inverters and will be stocking up on pitchforks and torches.

One gets cranky after two weeks of no a/c in the subtropical sauna that is Houston. Even pioneer frontierswomen.

Finally, the saddest note:
The day Ike hit Houston was the day David Foster Wallace hung himself. I just learned of this yesterday and am profoundly saddened by his death. What an incredible writer. 46 years old. Goddammit. Goddammit.

losing the pioneer spirit

Okay. I'll continue with the recap in another post. My inner Sister Goodwife is about to get knocked over by a huge whine. It's Day 6 in the power outage. I've been sleeping in ragweed-sprinkled, mold spored "fresh" air for as many nights.

The across-the-street neighbors have power. The goddamn church next door has power. My sunshiny attitude is curdling like last week's dairy products. I want to slap the shit out of myself for being such a crumbly baby but I'm t-minus-2-days away from going commando and I'm sick of eating meals that remind me of warmed-up dog food.

Sorry. Will be back with better news. Soon.

YES, hurrICANe

Your intrepid frontierswoman reporting here.
We're fine. Thanks for asking. House lost some shingles, garage apartment had a window blown out but no gargantuan limbs attacked structures or vehicles. Here's the chronology.

Friday
Drop St. Barbara off at work. Find two gas stations open and fill up both vehicles without too much waiting in line.

Expected the storm winds to kick in after midnight but the power transformer in our neighborhood couldn't hold out until then. Believe a harsh BREEZE knocked it out at 7:30pm. Across the street neighbors had power until 3:00am. The Heights Sweat-a-thon begins.

The night was long, people. I mean crazy-ass winds but enough rain so that the doors couldn't be left open. Since the storm was so huge, it seemed to take forever to pass over us. I kept watching the pecan trees in the backyard...willing them to keep it together. The house was so hot and humid that I lay down in a back room next to the a/c window unit. The gusts outside were so strong that periodically a little air was forced backwards through the unit and I got a wisp of breeze. Ahhhh.

But seriously, I wasn't afraid. It's not that I mean to imply that the rest of you are whiny pussies or anything (well, some of you actually are...but none of you read my blog, right?) but what is there to get hysterical about? If a tree falls on your house you can't stop it...just find a dry interior room and try and get some sleep. You'll just figure it out when the sun comes out. And if you can't sleep because it's so goddamn hot and humid, organize the linens. Or something.

Saturday
I got up every hour through the night, so I slept on and off until 7:00am. Continued to be rainy and windy until noon or so. I assessed the damage outside and was relieved. The church next door (that's right, campers, Fate has a firm grip on irony putting me next door to a church) had a huge pecan tree that could have easily fallen over onto the small office we rent out. But fell instead into the church parking lot. Proving once again that God doesn't give a shit. I suppose, one might say that He did, because it didn't land on the church, but I don't buy that. If the righteous are rewarded and the wicked are punished that tree would have been uprooted and replanted in my living room. Suck on that, you self-righteous Christian-types. (Of course, I'm not talking to you nice, Unitarianesque Christian-types.)

From 9am until 2pm I did what any good pioneer woman would do, I cooked all the perishables in the fridge. Goddammit, there'll be no wasted food in this house. I made potato/kielbasa hash; arroz con pollo, cooked the frozen flounder and hamburger. Hell, I even baked banana bread from the frozen ripe bananas. All I needed was a gingham bonnet.

Happy to have Eric & Steven stop by for a visit. Lori & Mary brought ice. True friends who see you when you look like you've been using Ol' Bacon Grease Hair Gel are friends forever.

I got to go pick up my St. Barbara early from her job, so I wouldn't have to travel crosstown in the dark. 15 miles and not a single traffic light working. So happy to have her home. We set up a pallet for sleeping, on the floor as close to the screened front door as possible. It's hard. It's hot. And totally not in a good way. 3:30am, I snap. We're heading for the car. Don't care how uncomfortable it is to sleep in a Honda Accord. Like magic, black magic, the skies open up...a thunder & lightning tropical storm. Amazing. No matter, we grab the umbrella, pillows and sheets and trudge out by 4am. Just a few hours of cool, dearbabyjesus. So we put the seats back and sleep off and on for a couple of hours. Around 6am I shine the flashlight on the dash. I ask St. B, so what kind of mileage are we getting? I'm such a kidder.

7am, we climb out of the car into our river-runs-through-it-driveway. Our street often floods but the water seems to be rising a bit too much for comfort this time. Soon it's over the curb, over the sidewalk and creeping up our lawn. Pioneer Women Engage! (Okay. So that's a completely lame reference to a completely lame superhero cartoon. I'm tired, please forgive.) The storm drains are crammed full of flotsam and jetsam (how long have I waited to use that phrase...almost correctly) so we arm ourselves with metal rakes and begin mucking out the drain grates. At times, we're more than knee deep in water. An hour-and-a-half later, the water begins to recede. Don't fuck with women holding rakes, people.

To be continued...

ooooohhhhh

The wind is picking up and the decent weatherman said that the storm stretches out 500 miles from the eye...which is 65 miles wide.

My what a huge eye you have, Ike.
You big ol' Cyclops.

you are so much tougher than i am

So here we are. Rather, here I am. The hurricane is about 9 hours away. I can tell, because of the interactive graphic the Chronicle has called Storm...Pulse...Tracker (Each ellipsis represents dramatic notes punching home every serious syllable. In my head.) and all is well. I mean, I'm not seeing anything but light wind and rain.

I don't watch television. Seriously, I turn it on so rarely that I forget which network is on which channel. It's because I'm not as tough as you are. Really. I don't have the stamina. On every local channel, of course, is hurricane coverage. Each newscaster trying to outdo the others in breaking news. Only it's not. So they take the skimpiest facts and wring them out for every useless iota of information. 24/7. I watch for 10 minutes at a time and I have to walk away. They are saying nothing new and using up all the dramatic adjectives so that when there is really something to report, we're all deaf and dumb to the importance.

The last straw: Geraldo Rivera. I've run out of epithets. Couldn't have imagined getting to this point. I can't find a word filthy enough to describe what a repulsive douchebag (see? it just glances off the side of my loathing) he is. Just now, he allowed himself to be tossed by the waves into the water. So he could cut right to the core of the reporter on location, cameras a'rollin'. His microphone is an electrical device, right?
IF
THERE
WERE
A
GOD.
But no. He doesn't get electrocuted. He isn't flicked out to the sea by the colossal hand of the Almighty. Flicked. He should be flicked right into Ike's gigantic swirling crotch and get fucked up but good. Wow, I got a little closer that time.

You see? I'm not tough enough for prime time news. My Bliss runs screaming out of the house and my Disgust hands me a pepperoni pizza and says, sit down honey, you're going to enjoy this.

Goddammit.

ay! ike

If it isn't one thing, it's a hurricane. We are 12 hours away from a significant hit on Galveston/Houston. It looks like Ike will remain a category 2 hurricane. Which is no reason to panic nor reason to plan an afternoon on the beach.

I'm not all that worried. Like most Houstonians my biggest concern is losing electrical power (read: air conditioning) for the hot, muggy aftermath. Next is flooding...but I do have, you know, that big, wonderful Tundra, just in case. Of course, I have no intention of getting out in all that if I can help it. (Traffic exiting Houston has been predictably insane.) Our streets flood but Tropical Storm Allison was the acid test for flooding (Houston was inundated) and our little house came within 6 inches of being flooded, so I'm pretty sure we're okay.

Last night we went to Target (for printer ink–I know, but you have your emergencies and I have mine) and drove past a half-dozen gas stations: all of them had bags over the pump handles. There is no gas to be had in this area.

Barbara had volunteered to help out at Menninger, so she'll be there from this (Friday) morning until tomorrow (Saturday) night. It's a psychiatric treatment facility so when they say they'll be in "lock-down," they damn well mean it. It's a little creepy to be anywhere using that phrase. She's a saint, I've said it before, and I'm glad she'll be able to help them out. But, of course, I would rather she'd be huddling in the interior bathroom with me, candles and a stack of books. Maybe some wine.

Okay, I'm signing off. Will update you on the thing before or after.

cybulimia

Monday through Friday. No internet access.

Today is the second day back…will get to the backstory. Suffice it to say that I’ve been gorging on the internets all weekend.

Should have paced myself, but such restraint is sometimes out of our control. Consider this my “sicking-up” after the binge.

[In my frolicking about the web, post-famine, I caught up on blog reading and then some. And, it tasted great. However, I was reminded by the black-out of how much time I spend in front of this machine. Perhaps some time should be web-free. I know, it sounds like heresy…like hating chocolate…but we ate dinner together without the sound of a keyboard clicking. We did crossword puzzles together…using freakin' paper and pencil, even. I’m just saying that it wasn’t all gnashing teeth and cursing the dark this past week. Still, I'm glad to be back.]

support hosed

Racism and xenophobia are so repugnant. And yet it’s naïve to imagine we’re all free and clear on this one. Especially those of us who are cultural minorities and think ourselves politically sensitive. There is a thin, blurry line that separates racism from the acknowledgment of cultural differences. We often avoid mentioning the issue in order to never step over that line. I am going to attempt to navigate this morass.

Tech Support and Outsourcing. It’s a problem. I spent the better part of the week talking to, what felt like, most of the Indian Subcontinent and half of Southeast Asia. I had a problem that wasn’t on the list. A weird DSL configuration that I could. not. make. clear. Swear to god, I must have talked to 30 people. 40, maybe. I was escalated up to the next level. I was transferred. Double-transferred. Call back in 4 hours. We’ll call you back. Talk to the installation department (in Myanmar? Thailand? What does it mean that the tech support is mostly in India but the Installation and Customer Service is in Singapore? Why?) With each call my irritation mounted.

Years ago when I was in school, I worked at the public university library. I am a total research, book, info-junkie nerd. I LOVED working in the library. I went through months of training to work at the reference information desk. Helping students and professors find the answers for their research. Back when there was (jesussaveme) NO internet. We were phasing out the card catalog, starting to use some very clumsy databases…and the dinosaurs had just stopped roaming the earth. Anyway, the information desk was a source of great anecdote. A public library is just that—any crazy-ass fool can walk through the door and come up to you and ask a question. We were all about information, even though we couldn’t always help the ones with the tinfoil hats. We actually helped tons of people find sources for their research or papers. But we were taught that one of the more important aspects of that job is diffusing.

When people feel frustrated or dismissed or just stupid about a thing, they tend to get defensive. And angry at the person embodying their real or imagined ignorance. My daughter pointed this critical skill out to me when I was talking to her about tech support. When I worked the gay-lesbo-bi-trannie switchboard, I also tapped into this training. You need to be able to listen to a person, empathize, help them let off steam and assure them you will truly try and help them solve their problem.

That is, no shit, all most people need. Listen, empathize, convince them you’ll do your best (and of course, back that up by TRYING to do your fucking best).

However. This is hard to do. (Some of our crusty librarians were scathing. Their disdain for the requester's ignorance threw gasoline on the insecurity fire. It was, I’m afraid, quite funny in anecdote…but rare enough.) And this was basically within a culture and face-to-face. Cross-culturally and over-the-phone it is very hard to do. Not impossible, but quite hard. When you deal with a society weaned on leftover British Empire language/manner skill set, you end up with very polite and at times, overly formal responses to anger. This, I feel safe to say, drives most United Statesians completely bonkers.

And that’s just the social niceties part of the challenge.

So, people, outsourcing tech support may be here to stay but I’m pretty sure that this problem will come to a head someday. I’m afraid when presented with two comparable services, the one with the local help line is going to get my vote. And you bigots out there, can not count me in your club. This is all about expediency. We certainly don’t speak the best English in the world and our slang is prolific but we probably understand each other a little better than not.

One last note. When I was trying to get the brand name and model of the DSL modem that my ISP supported, the customer service person said what sounded and spelled out like SpeedCREAM. I said SpeedCREAM? No, SpeedPREAM? No, SpeedSCREAM? How weird. She kept spelling it out but I could not distinguish her t as in thomas from her p as in pomade? pumice? Swear, I couldn’t. She got fairly impatient (couldn’t blame her) and I finally understood that she was spelling out SpeedSTREAM. Oh. Well, that makes sense. She’s probably blogging right now about the illiterate, idiotic American woman she spoke to this week.

a doll named chernobyl

Proof, once again, that while little is new under the sun, there are still brilliant, fresh ways of communicating creatively:

Jaime Pitarch. Chernobyl (2007). Lime tree wood, aniline, oil, varnish
via wemakemoneynotart.com

This is stunning.

sticky fly paper tomfoolery

The weather is beautiful–if you like hot sunny days and blue skies–belying the danger of Hurricane Gustav, bearing down on New Orleans like an arrogant burglar returning for the stuff he left behind.

We just got back from grocery shopping and paying for the Honda registration sticker. I imagined putting the sticker on in the storm and decided to just get it done now. Sitting in the front seat I scrape off the old sticker and begin removing the adhesive. I wonder if I'm getting high from the Goo Gone (one of the greatest solvents ever concocted) and if the combination of citrusy petrochemicals and Windex are destroying brain cells?

Meanwhile, there are love bugs (plecia neartica) everywhere:
For those of you unfamiliar with them, look here.

I am, as always, impressed by their aerial copulation and convinced that the name Love Bug is nothing but a silly Victorian throwback. These are Fuck Bugs, my modern friends. There is no tiny bouquet of flowers clutched in her foreleg or hint of wine on his coy fly mouth. They are simply following their biological mandate with a mid-flight twist. Makes you wonder, in a Darwinian sense, if being a member of the Mile High Club isn't the natural response to a primitive, vestigial urge? Perhaps certain members of our species find themselves strapped in and enjoying a complimentary packet of peanuts when overcome by inexplicable horniness...

Anyway, I finish the clean up and head back in to get the sticker. You used to have to mail away for the registration but now Kroger (among others) has a neat little machine and special paper that spits out the self-adhesive sticker. The only difference is that the old stickers were transparent–you could see through them and be reminded of the expiration date. I'm not sure why they discontinued that...it seems like transparent adhesive paper is certainly within our current technological grasp, eh?

Holyshitonmelbatoast, I fucked up. Shit, shit, shit. I removed the inspection sticker. REMOVED, as in shredded beyond recognition. Jesuschrist. The car was inspected exactly six months ago and I've cut the proof down half-way through its bureacratic little life. I go back in, confess to the kindest woman ever (it's the car she drives and the inspection errand she'll have to rerun), who gives me absolution for my boneheadery before I've gotten through the preamble. Damn, she is sweet to me.

I load up the solvent and cleaner and return to the car to remove the sticker that had actually expired. Then, I fish the mangled inspection sticker out of the trash, assemble its bits like an anthropologist and hope that the reconstruction will suffice for the inspection guy not to charge us full price for a replacement.

And I thought I was being so efficient.

oiht (overheard in houston tunnels)

My favorite statement heard (again) in the tunnels today:

I'll have to call you later, I can't get a decent signal below ground.

Ahhhhh.

therapeutic recycling

Stop making that face. This is not a lecture on recycling.

Okay, I'm a liar. This IS absolutely a lecture on recycling.

First, forget all the small print: yes, it is better to reduce and reuse and yes, energy is used to recycle and yes, it's inconvenient and yes, we don't know exactly how much really ends up being used, blah-bah-blah...because we're throwing away tons of shit that we don't need to throw away. It is wrong on every level. It fucks up our planet, it leaves poison for our children to deal with, hurts our economy and I'm even considering that it destroys our collective soul in an atheistic sort of way. Hell, MacGyver would take all this crap and build another planet with it–all I'm suggesting is that we crunch it up and make something else from it. Like welcome mats or tote bags or something.

Houston is not what you might call an environmentally conscious kind of city. What with the redness of it all and that frontier logic: if god didn't want me to fill up dumpsites, he wouldn't have put 'em there and given me this big honkin' sweet pickup truck.

However, even in Houston recycling is not hard. There are places to take this stuff. There are lots of neighborhoods (like mine, ptl) that have curbside pickup. CURBSIDE PICKUP, for christsake. It gives you no excuse and would only be easier if Mayor White actually walked into your house and carried out your green recycle bin for you. And yet, there are tons of cretins who don't recycle. Jesus Christ on a flapjack, that ticks me off.

Anyhow. We had a party for our dear friend and playwright, Eric, some weeks ago. I may have mentioned it. It was a great fun affair. Much wine and beer was consumed. Now, while my neighborhood does have curbside pickup, they no longer pick up glass. So, we stacked up all the bottles and toted them to the recycling drop-off this past weekend. Here is an aspect of recycling that should appeal to most people (even you earth abusers): we had to throw each kind of glass (clear, green, amber) into separate, enormous containers. They look like industrial barges or rail cars or something.

What
a
fucking
blast.

Go ahead, throw the first one. It has to go pretty far. It crashes and breaks with THE MOST SATISFYING SOUND. I mean, this was (no offense, dear Dr. Ding) better than therapy. Throw, crash, repeat. I was thoroughly exorcised by the time we reached the end of my pile. I only wish I had more bottles in my bin.

Whack-a-mole, step aside. I've discovered breaking glass.

To recap: RECYCLE.

PS. I know there's a Democratic convention going on, by the way. I'm just pacing myself. Besides you can just go here for great convention coverage.

coming out of the crafts closet

I don't know why I feel sheepish about this stuff. Perhaps because it's not, you know, fine art. Whatever. I'm working on it. As I've said before, knitting is to carpentry joints as sewing is to welding. I am enamored of all things beautifully made by hand.

Apple hat with leaf mitts (3-6 months)

This is a gift for a friend. He and his wife are expecting their first in November. Infant stuff is unavoidably, deafeningly cute. Cute is my least favorite adjective but I make an exception for all things baby. Goddammit, this is ADORABLE.

I learned to knit when I was 10 years old. Save for a scarf for each of my children, I've never really finished any knitting project. Knitting is all about soothing process for me. My friends shake their collective heads. It IS. Anyway, my Puerto Rican aunt taught my Japanese aunt who taught me. I'm relatively sure my technique is a little off.

There you have it. This has been my free time activity for a couple of weeks. Granted, I had to redo quite a bit because I purchased my needles and yarn in Spain years ago and I had no idea of gauge or weight. I got my original inspiration here, but cobbled together three or four recipes to make it the way I wanted it.

You know that old adage, "if you haven't used it in three years, throw it out"? That would never, ever work with me. I have ideas simmering over shit I picked up a decade ago. It's a treasure hunt to rummage through my materials and find just the thing I need...

wrapping up summer

It's been a busy summer. Lots of company and socializing. Which, while a bit tiring, has been very satisfying. But blog-sucking. I find myself full of ideas and sans time and energy.

I'm working on a few little projects that I'm going to post soon. I'm also beginning my things to see and do in France research. I love researching once-in-a-lifetime trip activities. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to make this trip. Dad says that this is the worst time to go to Europe because the dollar is getting the shit beaten out of it by the euro (okay, that's not exactly how he put it). I told him, yes, turning fifty is not an event that fits conveniently into one's schedule.

That silly nod to tired humor about aging aside...people, I am not unhappy about turning 50. Swear to god, I'm just getting started. I've never been so excited about what's ahead. So many things to do, mountains to climb (she said figuratively) and adventures to have.

public transportation calls me grasshopper

I'm back to riding the bus. I won't test your patience with mathematical computations (fun as they were). Suffice it to say, public transportation is now an economically significant savings over driving, for a cheapskate money-wise woman like myself. (Damn you W, for forcing out my reluctant hippie.*)

*stolen shamelessly, but with warning, from my son.

Aside from the savings are the health aspects of walking an extra 15-20 minutes a day. I walk most of that via the downtown tunnel system as the sun has been cuddling right up to Houston of late. And if all that weren't enough, I'm surrounded daily by rich anecdotal material. Which coordinates nicely with the rich aroma. Ramped up by the cuddly sun.

I have long loved a rant. The world is never at a loss for providing crazy-ass things on which to comment. For laughing and catharsis. I have also learned to treasure the ability to rage. Stay with me, you peace-loving, non-confrontational readers (both of you). There's a good ending.

Rage, if you haven't enjoyed it, is powerful. It is especially powerful for women, who while maligned as shrews have also suffered as doormats. I'm not trying to be reductionist here, there are certainly examples all over the spectrum but I think it's fair to say that traditional women have been taught to curb expressions of anger to their detriment. They haven't, to be fair, been taught not to compress that suppression into flinty shards of passive-aggression (so poetical I am today) which is dangerous, to say the least.

Okay, to get personal: I was a cowering, frightened girl-child. I was obedient and self-sacrificing for god and survival. I was afraid of my anger. Of anyone's anger. This hamstrung me on more than one occasion. So, when I found my ovaries, I expressed my rage. It was good. Really good. I wanted to beat the shit out of anyone who threatened me or mine. Empowering.

But you can't stay there. You simply can't. It eats you alive and exhausts you and sends your loved ones running.

No surprise then, my social tolerance has not been...zen-like. I find inane phone, loud restaurant and boring office conversations Mad-Den-Ing. I'm actually not proud of this because I haven't been very successful at filtering that shit out.

Enter my yogi: Metro. Since I have grown quite fond of the remaining, unscarred sections of my stomach lining and am loathe unwilling to donate these to the idiocy surrounding me, I have decided to calm the fuck down. It's ridiculous to go apeshit about behaviors over which I have zero control.

Case in point. Riding home today involved the conscious defusing of my reaction to Rash-Inducing-Cell-Phone-Lady. She spent 15 interminable minutes talking loudly to some other presumably straw-hatted crony about the bus system. The bus she missed. The bus that passed her without stopping. She was going to call Metro. Maybe. She was on the bus that didn't travel via the HOV lane against her wishes. The connection kept petering out, Janey, are you still there? Janey, you're cutting out. Then, we talked about bus stops and schedules. All this at a difficult-to-tune-out volume.

I only glared once. Then, I thought, look at the bright side: she didn't plop down next to you and drill that tedious noise into your tired head! I retracted my fangs and redirected focus towards a happy project or a plan...you could almost hear the stomach acid spigot slow to a drip.

When we hit one more cellphone dead zone, Sister Gabby finally gave up and scolded Janey (like she purposely picked a phone service that sucked on bus route 50), Look you keep cutting out and it's driving me nuts. I'll just call you later. Click.

And someone in the next row, in that under your breath/loud enough for everyone to hear says "Thank you Lord, thank you Jesus!"

And it wasn't me. Ooommm.

crabby movie review

I'm not much of a current movie kind of gal. Actually I'm not much of a gal, truth be told. But recently I saw two movies that deserve a crabby-ass review.

Bonneville
This should have been solid. Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates and Joan Allen. All three stand-up-and-applaud kind of actors. But, no. It was such a retread. Uninspired road trip search for self with your best friends and hack chance meetings of predictable strangers. I don't know. I am pretty tired of the sisterhood bonding schtick as substitute for story.

Teeth
You all know my affection for, fascination with and general squealing delight over all things Vagina Dentata. So, when friends lent us this movie for us to watch, I couldn't resist. They warned us that it wasn't very good but felt the concept was worth the perusal. They were right. Stupid movie but funny idea. It got me to thinking about related specialties. Vaginal Orthodontist (there are gynecological products called Ortho, too. I kid you not). Vaginal Periodontist (yes, Virginia, there's a period in your periodontist). Can you imagine having a cavity or overbite? Or showing off your new caps? Perhaps removable bridges for the wary guest?

I've seen some good movies too. But there are scads of reviews about them out there. Besides this is my blog, dear reader, not some fucking exercise in balanced critiquing.

are those tea stains on your form?

A dear friend of mine was applying for a job and needed to go pee in a cup. (You know, to make sure he wasn't computer programming under the influence.) He was faxing lab paperwork to the potential drug-free employer and I requested a copy because: a) he showed it to me and b) I have no shame.

The form was entitled URINE CHAIN OF CUSTODY FORM (caps are theirs and I swear I heard an industrial door slam shut at the end of it). So serious we are about our urine! The document was certified by, you guessed it, the Signature of Collector. Complete with Collector's Name. (What does your Daddy do for a living? He's a Collector. Of Urine. We beam with pride.)

Finally, at the top of Acme* Lab's officious trip-/quintup-/sextup-licate form was this:

COPY 2—COLLECTOR (yellow)

Please tell me there's someone snickering in the design department at Forms 'R Us.

This is as good as the brown colon cancer wristbands that so delighted me in Aught Six. Note: Oddly enough, Anti-Tobacco is also represented by brown wristbands. And Colon Cancer/Colorectal Cancer now have an alternate color (blue) for the shit-brown-squeamish among us.

*Name changed to protect the pee-stained reputation of the real lab.