Compassion, Realism & The Random Nature of Life

There is a homeless woman who started writing a blog to keep herself sane as she manages the reality of her situation. Most bloggers probably know about her because the media found her and interviewed her. Following the media coverage, hoardes of people looked at the site. There was quite a reaction from some who believed it to be a hoax. The details of her humiliation, however, seem genuine, and her writing is compelling. She goes by the moniker "Wandering Scribe," and she lives in her car, in the UK.

At some point she had serious emotional problems and that contributed to her disconnection from people and general society. It is both humbling and bizarre to read the site and the comments. At one point she wrote about feeling overwhelmed. People have so much well-meaning advice. I find myself checking the blog, and worrying about her, as she seems so sensitive. Yet the Ball & Chain works with homeless people, and they are more remote to me, even though I see them frequently. When I have met people who are homeless, I have not been struck by their resilience, or their ability to persevere. They have been people going through a hard time. Certainly not heroic for being hurt: just hurt. The Wandering Scribe could be me, without the family, the medications, and the friends.

Why did Ball & Chain stay with me when I was breaking apart years ago? Life is random in many ways: who can have children, who can have money, who walks, who stays. Many people with mental illness have written to Wandering Scribe to tell her that they, too, have been in a bad way. I very much hope and want to fully believe that she is there, and she is genuine. And every time I write an encouraging comment to her, I wonder if I am an idiot, if I will be exposed as one of the many who fell for a con artist interested in manipulating people. Then I am mortified.

My Parenting Spirit Guides

Remember when Mork & Mindy had a little baby boy and it was Jonathan Winters, a big, middle-aged, wise-cracking comedian? At the time I didn't appreciate the brilliance behind that casting choice. Why choose some everybaby, spawn of a crazed still-lactating stage mother, when an articulate bratty adult was available? And could his parents control him? Understand him? They gave him advice and he sorta listened, but he was already wizened by years in show biz.

My little tiny baby boy, Jude, is now a mammoth and upon return from 5-day school trip has absolutely no interest in any acknowledgement that I exist. I think perhaps I'll refer to him as a symbol - ! - meaning: the kid formerly known as my son and now parading around as a slacker/smartass. At first I thought, how quaint, his expression resembles that of the cat who's swallowed a few dozen canaries. After all, he shared a room with 3 other teenage boys, and teenage boys seem to be fundamentally deranged. A while later, I asked about whether he'd ever read Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. The sarcastic, or rather, patronizing, response was delivered with such lack of affect I was taken aback. When did he get to be so utterly obnoxious? A friend of mine had simply wanted to give him a copy of the book. I now want to smack him with a hardcover copy of the book.

Similarly, he disdains any questions about anything involving the trip, unless Rugelah asks. He bought her a postcard and wrote her a note on it. I know all about this. ! indoctrinates the second child so that she loathes me even earlier than he does. They stop arguing because they figure out that united, they can leave Ball & Chain & me in the dust. We'll just stand there, a coupla dorks, or Morks, as it were.

Of course, some of this is premature. ! doesn't drive yet, and he doesn't have a job. Therefore, I am still the Ruling Witch and he cannot just grab keys and go. Mindy never could do bossy as well as I can. When he gets to be of driving age, we are not the type of parents to buy the kid a vehicle. He'll need to buy his own if he wants one. Still, he'll be able to call another ! and get a lift outta here. Rugelah will be yelling that she hates me, and by that time, my good looks may not be enough to carry me through every emotional crisis.

The lesson here is to be careful not to get too attached to one's children. Think of them as temporary houseguests, or middle-aged comedians with a paunch - if you must - and think of yourself as bolted down to a floor. Any freedom is an illusion. When they need you, be there, and when they reject you, you're stuck there anyway. Teach them to be respectful, have compassion, and to be true to themselves. Then watch them treat you like shit as they figure it all out. If I follow my own advice, I may be able to go the way of Mork, and head back to my own planet some day. Either way, I am warmed by the knowledge that crappy television characters from years gone by are still guiding my moral center. Who needs parenting books?

Don't Say That Shit

Coincidentally, or maybe not, if you're into phases of the moon and what's your sign and all that crap, both Sage and Kloe are writing about the cuss words in blogs. Some asshole academic-type wrote somewhere that using swear-words is somehow indicative of a person's ability to articulate, or perhaps just the general quality of on'e writing. So in sisterhood with Sage and Kloe, but also in defense of the art of hurling bad words around, I am expressing my absolute outrage at the idea that the use of a word like fuck, for example, is offensive. Hardly. It's actually rather expressive, and it has many uses as a verb, noun and an adjective. Because of the sharp ending it is highly satisfying to use when you are insanely pissed off, or simply pissed, in the British sense (a wee bit tipsy), and you want to say "fuck it." Excellent with the artificial British accent. Similarly, when referring to other drivers - a let-off-steam exercise - the use of words like "dumbass," "bastard," "fuckwad," "dipshit," and, of course, "asshole," can be both satisfying and a great relaxant for the fast-paced pulse.

Ya know, if some shithead wants to write drivel about profanity, he oughtta try using some himself before he judges me. If he's too prim to give it a whirl, how does he know how good it really feels? I'm grateful to live in this proud country because I can say whattever the hell I want to, and every time I think of my dear mom - still the model of elegance - telling me to be ladylike, I can be content with the knowledge that I know a lotta great ladies who can swear a blue streak.

Don't Be Stupid

This is going to be a wee bit political. Nevuh-the-less, as the granddaughter of immigrants, I do have my proverbial two cents. Is there a reason to be dogmatic? Must people say shit about sending them all back? Isn't that kinda retarded, in the true sense of the word (slow)? Illegal immigration is a complex issue, obviously, but nothing rankles me more than hearing or reading simplistic crap related to a topic that other people are debating, researching, and writing books about. Ya don't hafta write a book to have an opinion, but I don't think everyone coming north is an opportunistic sociopath looking to steal our jobs. They probably are not all Mother Theresa wannabes, either. I do have a suspicion, however, that some of them are children. Some of them are families that I actually used to work with, and they would eventually tell me about their situation.

The situation in one family was that Mom had seen murder and rape of family members in El Salvador and so left, and Auntie and kids followed. They all lived in 3 rooms (six of them), and visitors were welcome to stay. Mom cleaned houses and Auntie watched the kids. So that's probably a story you've heard before, but those were people I got to know very well. Auntie laughed at my bad Spanish. Years before, she had gone off by herself to have all of her own babies alone in the woods. They were all grown now. Two of the kids in this apartment had apparently eaten lead from the windows. The landlord was like shut up or leave. I took Mom to see a lawyer and she was so nervous, as if she hoped that if she stayed in her back apartment people wouldn't quite figure she was there. When I left the job, she couldn't understand why we wouldn't still be friends. It felt random - I wasn't her therapist - but it was also a relief. She was really stuck, and it scared me.

I liked it way back when George's daddy talked about a "kinder, gentler" nation, or some shit like that. It sounded so good, like we could just all have milk and cookies. So, along those lines, when I read this crap about they can all go home, I think read a goddamn book, asshole and/or if you had any cookies, I would take them from you. If you're informed, then speak up, right? Say Something. Agree or disagree. You can choose ignorance, but don't advertise, for crissake.

Kloe Kan Blog

I just found this most excellent blog by Dragon Lady, but some evil Blogsource place is giving me crap about leaving my comment to say to Kloe, Dragon Lady author: I'm loving the blog, I'm 41 too, and I'm right there with ya, Sister. You may remember Michael Dukakis. At some point, there was a bumper sticker that read "Making it in Massachusetts." After he lost the presidential election, or around the time of the tank debacle, there was an updated version: "Barely Making it in Massachusetts." That would be us.

So as soon as the little Blogsource people inside the computer stop re-presenting the same screen with no cue as to the problem, I'll comment. In the meantime, I will be lurking at Kloe's. I recommend her to any mother who did not give birth to a 21-year-old college graduate and/or must contemplate the oppression of the all-fucking-mighty dollar. And then try that when you're sick. Kloe, I'm adding you to my Blogroll. If I had categories, you would come under "Hold the Bullshit and/or Stock the Ibuprofen."

The Misuse of Information for My Own Entertainment or Lying for Fun

My high school pals wanna go to a reunion. It's not really ours, but the class that graduated a year before us has invited us to come. We went to a rather unconventional school, so it's at someone's home. Chrystal was in the actual class - a year ahead of me - so of course she wants me to go. But it is a bit odd going to your not-quite reunion. It's like foreplay, but not exactly the real thing. Or maybe watching someone else do it? And the people you really loathed, or lusted after, because that's kind of at the heart of it, right? Well they may or may not be there. The real draw is probably the people who rouse one's curiosity: the dork who's a millionaire; the cool guy who's definitely not; the one you got it on with and then regretted it every day thereafter.

I'd like to be one of those people who's just friendly to everyone, and I am pretty friendly. I say hello to people as they stroll by. But overly-friendly truly sours my stomach. The smile a bit too long, the sustained interest in my kids, etc. So why would I even consider going? I think it's because of the friends from my class who I am so happy to be getting re-acquainted with. Charlotte, for example, was always full of information, a walking trivia bank, and also hilarious. Roberta lives quite closeby, and has managed to stay in touch with a remarkable number of people from our school. She was The Babe, and The Intelligent Babe, with an aura about her so strong that even as a close friend I only discovered recently some very basic information about her. I had assumed her life was perfect in every way. Let's just say I may not have been quite as clever as I obviously am now.

Pondering my quandary about the reunion - since Chrystal does want me to go, and Charlotte is campaigning as well, I spoke to another friend from Chrystal's class. He's a way cool California guy, much sweeter than I'll ever be, but in touch with his sense of humor. I had decided at that time that creating a monumental lie would be the best way to enjoy myself. I sometimes entertain myself by creating such projects in public places - one of my favorites was when I suddenly began yelling at an older friend- "Mom! I don't want that!" in the supermarket. Ooh, that was evil. My sister-in-law, Betty, has suffered on the subway platform as I've hollered at her in a Southern accent, creating kooky names like, well, Betty. I have a local friend who partners up whenever we meet anywhere, and we've had some great public disputes.

Anyway, the idea that my cool California chum, Barney, had, was to feign Tourrette's Syndrome. We went to a progressive school and it was, and apparently is, important to be politically correct. As someone who actually is p.c. in many ways, I enjoy making fun of myself. (How's that for a rationale?) Anyway, feigning Tourrette's has a double purpose: you can say whatever you want about the pretentious bitch who you never liked and you can garner sympathy from old classmates as you apologize excessively for the expletives hurled at the she-devil who hasn't changed a bit. (She doesn't deserve a name, but I'll call her Voldemort, just for clarity.) This would be particularly effective because I actually did have a mild form of epilepsy when I was a teenager. Finally, all that shaking and stuttering could be put to good use.

I am not sure that Roberta, Charlotte, Chrystal et al would actually go for my ploy, as they may want to do the friendly thing. How cliche. But of course they are accomplished professionals and, well, I'm a professional, but I am not in the mood to discuss anything like the work I do, how cute my children are (I hate that crap), or what anyone else thinks about anything. However, if someone wants to sit around, drink, and tell tasteless and offensive stories with swear-words - that I might go for.

My Friends Are Not Dentists

Going to the dentist sucks. Going to the dentist is fucking torture at seven a.m. What was I thinking? While I was waiting, Jude and Rugelah tipped over and back in their seats, eyeballs dipping to the floor, shoulders sagging in grave disappointment. Their mother was the conduit between life and early morning misery. In an effort to repress my guilt, I scanned a magazine casually. I came across a questionnaire for bipolar disorder. Another opportunity for self-diagnosis - oh boy! Then I realized, as I sucked in the faint detergent smell of a "clean" office, that I almost fit the bill, and that I had blogged about it. So for the three of you our there reading this, including my dog, I am not thinking I can jump off buildings, I am not arguing with people over nothing, and I am not calling friends in the middle of the night with ideas about new inventions. I am not manic, but it definitely sounds worthy of a short story, or at least a wacky dream.

However, last night I went with Beccato see Friends with Money, and there was a character who seemed to be heading toward a froth, perhaps even a manic episode. No more revealed, but I do love a humane portrayal of people who are fucked up. The movie was excellent because it actually built a plot on complex relationships between people with varied personalities and sensibilities, the most compelling of which was portrayed by Jennifer Aniston! Now this is a new discovery. I hereby renounce my former 'what's-the-big-deal' attitude about this actress. She was the topic, and she almost stole the show from her formidable colleagues: Frances MacDormand (love her), Joan Cusack (loved her for years), and Catherine Keener (just discovered her and love her).

This is what I noticed second about Ms. Aniston, after her facial expressions: the texture of her skin. She looked very beautiful, and one could see her actual skin, as if she was more human than her friends somehow. I'd only seen her prettied up, but in the film, she was vivid. I was with Becca, as noted above, and it was a bit hard not to reflect on the movie in contrast to our lives. I will leave the more personal reflection for another place, but it is notable when one can forget a parking stub, lose the parking stub, find the parking stub as friend gets dough from ATM, and end up being treated to french fries and martini as a result. That's what happens when you have friends with money.

Five hours later, in the dentist's chair, the lovely hygeinist, Smiling Torture Lady, is brushing my teeth with a little brush that feels like dry cotton on dry teeth and it makes me wanna shout "pleh pleh pleh" or maybe "get that outta my mouth, bitch," to the otherwise perfectly pleasant woman. I cannot abide weird sensations in my mouth. Foods of all sorts, yes. Other sexually-related items, of course. Furry little brushes with chemical tastes - no no no no. I am still salivating in disgust as I write this.

So I had a very pleasant experience last night and an extremely unpleasant one this morning. Dentists are an odd lot: sadistic, particular, and oddly enthralled by the crap in my mouth. Friends, in contrast, tell you if there's food in your teeth, but give you the freedom to take it out yourself. They rarely cause pain to shoot through one's jaw, and in this particular case, one may even provide an anesthetic, a carb, and ketchup, all free of charge. New diagnosis: martinic. Definition: a state in which a previously depressed person, after sucking the pimento out of an olive, realizes that, despite the fries and the good company, she has 4 goddamn hours to sleep before Torture Lady will create dire oral pain. May cause ingestion of additional martini.

Hither and Thither in The Springtime

Omigosh I haven't posted in so long and ya wanna know why? It's spring out there, the crocuses are up and so are the daffodils, along with my caffeine consumption, I'm applying for jobs hither and thither, and I have been a wee bit depressed. But see my depressed is far more exciting than your depressed. It's because of the cycles. After a bit of depressed, I become like obsessed, and kinda happy, and I listen to loud music, pluck my eyebrows, and sort through old jewelry. Also, I am excellent at creating a pseudo-healthy dinner out of virtually nothing. If you have frozen peas and frozen tortellinis it actually becomes something, especially if you give them milk, too. Not the peas and tortellinis - the kids. Now I get a footnote in The Good Mother Book. Woo-hoo, a good day's work. Then, regarding my other depression cycle skills, I can also speed-talk on the phone, or speed-listen. What's speed-listening? That's talking to Chrystal. She and I are quite alike except that she doesn't obsess sometimes; she does it non-stop. She apologizes all the way through, and then I listen, truly, to the whole monologue. My own kid, Rugelah, also does the monologue, but she is describing the building or the idea she has imagined in all its intricacies and if I am to get into the Good Mother Book for real (a heading, maybe) I am compelled to listen. Her ideas are rather exciting at times, so it's an easy one. Oops - I gotta go now because I am bound to call my neighbor about the fact that some of the rich people where I live wanna tear down lots of regular people trees near the regular people neighborhood so they can save the rich people trees. Can ya see how busy a gal can get? Depression is rough, especially when you use caffeine as your medication of choice.

Becoming George

A lotta gals appear to be reading my blog which is lovely and feministic but it does change one's perspective when it is not just the three friends, the cousin, and the dog. My friend Paloma and I rented Thelma and Louise from blockbuster aka Ovary-buster. The DVD was cracked. I had planned the entire evening: invited myself over, made the margueritas, and Paloma provided food on which to gorge. And then we were Blockbustered.

We watched old Seinfeld episodes instead. I had never seen the episode in which George plays the opposite game and becomes successful, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus becomes... George! Ack! It got me to thinking, as all good t.v. shows do - that maybe I, too, am turning into George. I am about to quit my job before I get booted, my excellent haircut is growing out and I look like a troll, and, and, I walked into a pole the other day and I have a huge bruise on my nose. Yes, I did. I was chatting up a curriculum director, all professional, and as I turned to go, a pole rammed me in the face. Did I mention that I need new glasses? I went to a work-sponsored health fair that was, strangely, required, and discovered that I'm hypoglycemic, sun-damaged, and I need bifocals. That answers a few burning questions you may not have had about me, and questions even I did not have about me, but at least now I know why it's so hard to read a bedtime story aloud to Rugelah lately. Plus my own reading had taken a sudden nose-dive: a few pages, burning eyes, and I'd realize that my concentration was shot. I had no idea that when the letters do little polkas on the page that perhaps one needs to visit the eye doctor.

Anyhoo, back to the premise, if there was one, I may be George. Problem is, he is a television character. Worse, he ended up doing Kentucky-Fried commercials that were so bad I was embarrassed for him. KFC makes me throw up - always has. Even as a tyke, I'd eat that hearty meal and hurl it back within the half-hour. McDonald's, yes. Burger King, yes. Four Donuts Sunday morning, sure. No KFC. You can imagine my conundrum. I am turning into a big fat hairy loser, to use my sister, Kitty's expression, yet I am unable to fully embrace even that role. Over the weekend I discovered that the job I really want has 6 - count em in any language, including pig fucking latin - 6 "strong final applicants." That's way too fucking many experienced solid people and one of them is, bizarrely, me. Aw, cut the 'another woman dragging herself down' crap. I know where my strengths lie. And at this point, well, reminiscing about puking works for me.

Aw, crap, I gotta go get ready for my militaristic yoga teacher. She gets pissed if I'm late.

A Calling

Yesterday The Big Cheese gave me a quasi-ultimatum, but it was all friendly and well-dressed, as in your options are to remain here and be tossed, or to go graciously. And all so sorry about the circumstances, etc etc, it is a bum deal, that murdered brother thing. Ach! I'm too sensitive. In all fairness, she had not been prepared for the nuts and bolts of screwing people, if you'll pardon the mixed-tools metaphor. I was absolutely exhilarated. I neither burst into song, however, nor did I 'tell her off.' I held my mental state in, and shined with the veneer of contained professionalism. The extra Klonopin may have helped. Sitting in my cozy chair, gazing out onto the plaza where the children would soon mount the steps of the bus, I articulately spoke of my plans to focus on my teaching. I imagined my brother when he was all 'I'm a union man,' working for a pizza joint. My whole class identity is utterly fucked up since I am granddaughter and grand-neice to immigrant mechanics and butchers turned car-salesmen, and daughter of a doctor. I went to a crappy provincial public school and an elite prep school. I'm thinking that bitch better not fuck with me, and simultaneously, why must women drag each other down? I have relatives who have millions and others who rent apartments in little towns. Are we all like that?

Oh I'm drifting. The point is, I gathered up all of my poise - actually it's not mine, it was a loaner from my mother, I shook The Boss Lady's hand, and I walked out thinking hallelujah. I can finally spend time with Rugelah (Teen Boy wants very little to do with me and Ball & Chain can wait a bit), with no thought a'tall about money. I can't miss a paycheck, but in my heart I know that somehow, somewhere, there's a big fat wad of dough waiting for me. I was raised with the knowledge that, despite my father's protestations that we were using too much Worcestershire sauce, costing the family a bundle, we actually had infinite amounts of cash - no worries!

When I hear about my financial limits, and I know Ball & Chain works with truly poor people, and I see the numbers, it is sobering until I have a symbolic shot of budget amnesia. Between visiting my parents at The Big House (and it is big), and being partially delusional, I am quite sure that I am loaded. Not in the "we are rich compared to most of the world" sense (and of course we are); but rich in the "I think I'll go to Asia next year" sense. I'd rather prefer to sail, and perhaps ride an elephant. When I arrive back home, I'll consider finding another job, but only because teaching is a calling, and I think Ball & Chain may start calling, rather loudly.

A Stinker

What do you do in the days preceding the meeting at which you might be told that you are going to be put out, like Felix Unger, on the doorstep, with a saucepan in hand? Rugelah, my lovely daughter, told me that everyone makes mistakes, that if she misses her uncle this much, I must miss my brother a lot, and I did my best. That helped for five minutes, and now I'm nervous. The Big Cheese is gonna lay one on me, it's gonna stink, and I have no idea how I'll react. You know those moments when you wonder if you'll bust out in song, or cry, or tell the jerk to go to hell? I'm worried I'll violate some norm of decency, and one doesn't do that in the public school realm. Perhaps I should wear a corset? A muzzle? Or maybe more drastic measures are required: a full-facial botox, so that my expression is frozen into a single emotion: indifference. It would remove the risk of the facial tic.

Maybe I need to fantasize about what I would say to her if I could? Nah, that's too simple. She is not any smarter than me, she's been a boss lady for 6 months, and she has a chronic panty line disorder. It's no fun with such an easy target. If only I were Marsha Brady, I could imagine her in her underwear, and pass the driver's test. Yeesh, maybe not.

Chrystal came over tonight and told me yet another story of how she showed up to interview some academic bigwig in sweats, unwashed, because she'd forgotten the appointment. Shouldn't there be a law that if one's closest friend gets to act like a cheesy slob, the privilege is shared? Some girls across the hall today, both of whom are in my math class, were giggling and teasing me about what a terrible teacher I am. They had big smiles on their faces. Now's the time for some cute little ending, but there is none. I'm off to dream of a place where I am the boss and all of the people who work for me are required to pay me for the honor, clean stuff up, and write their own goddamn evaluations. Plus, no panty lines.

This One Riles Me.

A woman's place: it's a vast topic, but one I am experiencing in a particularly personal realm, as I sit on my sticky spot in my little life. I am a puzzle piece in the wrong box, destined not to fit. Here's the scenario for me, and I am guessing, based on extensive research of women whom I know and like, that American culture is squeezing us out unless we adhere. Adhere to the looking pretty and plucking. Adhere to the mothering well and making bucks. Checking on one's parents when they're needy? Children when they're ill? Caring for one's self - or one's partner - when we are ill or needy? Is any of this new? Of course not. So this is a tale of an ogre - that would be me - who is uncomfortably roped into a world where she is expected to do tasks with delicate little fingers that she doesn't have; and to master assignments with strength that's already sapped.

My brother died last July. He was murdered. It was random but purposeful. I somehow went back to work a few weeks later. He was one of my best friends, my quirky pal as a kid, and the only person who never, ever, judged me. We won't get into the muppet voices, the Thai food, and his excellent guitar playing.

I went back to my teaching job. I tried to comfort my parents, my brother's wife, my dear sister, and my kids, all of whom were devastated. We comforted one another. I wanted to comfort them - what else would I do? At work, I did strangely well. The word "excellent" was used. I heard it as if from a long distance, and kept on moving. I managed; people helped me. By the holidays, I started coming unglued. Even typinging this into my electronic box I feel the pulses in my fingers as I trank the keys to think of the presumptuousness of people who advocate the status quo even when it has been utterly violated. It is like an ogre-tale: remember the college guy in American Werewolf in London? And all of the inferior subsequent rip-offs? He became angry as he lost the ability to do the every-day stuff. So this winter I made some mistakes at work. Not awful mistakes. No children were injured or tormented. A couple of classes were lousy and boring. I consulted with colleagues; considered a leave. Couldn't afford it.

And then I recovered my abilities at work, pretty much. But in our profession, in the female teaching profession, and I am guessing that nurses, and others, put up with analogous crap, that just wasn't good enough. I was told that I was "good," but that in my snotty school system everyone needs to be excellent. Women are dispensable. My husband does more around the house - he is the neatnik - but who is caring for my grieving children? Who in our society cares for ailing parents, grieving parents? Isn't it usually the daughters? I was encouraged to take the leave when suddenly the idea that I wouldn't be invited back next year arose, but who would pay for it? The Grief Fairy? The Goddess of Devastated Siblings? Is she related to The Maternity Banker?

I don't know my place. It seems, ironically, that a private school would be a better fit: they are less rigid and have fewer legislators making arbitrary rules about how children learn. Psychologists say that when one loses a sibling, it fucks with the whole perspective, because one's fundamental reality has shifted. Some days I am better, and other days I take the pills they gave me, and I try to imagine how I could possibly fit, without my brother to argue with me over which t.v. shows suck and other such important matters.

Did I shed a new light on an old topic? I'll tell you what: for me, I'm not waiting for someone else to figure out the best way to mother my children. I'm not laughing when the joke isn't funny and I'm not speaking to my students as if they're idiots. So if my unpleasant area smells a bit, and makes some folks want to stay away, they can go right ahead. Like I tell my students, 'we're all yoo-mun beens.' I know my right and I know my wrong. If that doesn't fit in anybody's All-American bad-suits in bad-colors hierarchy, may they be subjected to the purgatory of micro-management, standardized testing, and a perpetual sense of alienation. And if they are already subjecting others to the aforementioned blights of society, well, I'm considering ogre as a full-time profession. Until then, anybody gotta job?

Meditations and Facts From My Cyber-Disabled Phase

Blogger was giving me a headache and so I couldn't post for a few days. Imagine all of the important ideas missed: Why do I seem to undermine myself at work? Why don't I cook when I'm actually kinda good at it? Why have I stopped reading the newspaper? Here are some more important thoughts:

~Warm is better than cold.
~Weetabix heated up in the microwave tastes like baby food, and it is so creamy-licious.
~Friends moving to California is a bad pattern.
~Friends supporting me even as my job seems to eke through my fingers is a good thing.
~It is challenging to explain to one's young daughter what a prostitute or a whore is, and should be avoided if at all possible.
~It is challenging to avoid explaining what a prostitute or a whore is to one's young daughter when one has an irreverent teen son.
~Mini-pads are excellent because I cannot deal with excess mucous sticking to me and then drying.
~Being married is good sometimes, and not others: it's like blue cheese - it works for some people and not for others.
~Celebrities don't really exist.
~Matt Damon looks very weird with his big neck and shiny face - I saw him in person.
~Some of these meditations and facts may seem contradictory.
~People over 40 shouldn't have bosses because we don't wanna listen to anybody.
~It's no fun to have little bumps on your ass that turn into zits when you sweat too much.
~Reading Haruki Murakami can give you all sorts of new perspectives on thinking, consciousness and the stops and starts during the cognitive process.
~Using those little squiggles, like this ~, before each statement is a bit too pretty, but do I really have another choice?
~Making lists is a bit lazy, really.
~There isn't enough room in our society for people to make mistakes.