Say Something, Sister

Menstruating in the Forties

2009-08-29T12:36:00.001-04:00

By this time in one's life, we're not meant to really discuss it. It's dull , there's nothing to say. I have my period. So what? Get a tampon and go stick it. Some of us are prematurely peri-menopausal. That's gyno-talk for my periods are unpredictable again, just like thirty years ago, and soon I may be dry as a bone in my formerly moist and excellent vulva. As usual, I cannot seem to do things the easy way. I did not get my period as a young girl once a month for five days. No, it came pouring out for two weeks straight and the cramps were awful. That of course was just because I am profoundly exotic and female or perhaps just cursed. Take your pick.

Now, naturally, before most of my female pals, I am peri-menopausal. For five days I get a dainty little warning - spotting, really. Then for about three days I may or may not get a bad period. But at sometime in there small bits and pieces, probably puzzle pieces I swallowed as a baby or something, come outta there, and it hurts. Just a little. Or maybe a lot. You choose. Some months it lasts an hour. Some months it hurts for days. Today it definitely hurts, but it hurt two days ago, so here I go being unusual yet again.

Furthermore, and I mean more, I am single-handedly - no - single-vaginaedly or single-uterusly supporting the feminine products industry over here because I never know what will happen when and between the tampons of varied sizes and the mini-pads that I really cannot go without I am a well-protected female. Okay, I suppose there are other similarly cursed women who are also supporting the industry but I do believe tghat if there were a contest that I would be in the running, so to speak, for being the poster-child, or poster-lady for unpredictable unpleasant and long-lasting middle-aged menstruation. Ouch.

Thought for the Day: Tit Shapes

2009-08-26T00:05:00.001-04:00

We have been watching episodes of Mad Men (and apparently everyone else in the country has been too). But my point is, well, points. The bras in those days, the early 1960s, were quite pointy, cones, really, and nowadays they are rounded. When I first started watching Mad Men it seemed odd - the tits, not the show - but now I am looking at these women, and of course they are all young starlets, but also those bras look good. Maybe we should all put away our rounder, more natural-looking bras and put on some pointers. It might look kinda hot, or fun, or something. Then we could start wearing dresses with big pointy bottom halves and polka dots. Some of those dresses were - and are - divine.

I personally do remember my mother's pointy-shaped bosom and her pretty dresses from those days. I suppose the ends of the bras are hollow or something, so women could store things inside, like a little lipstick, a rouge, or maybe an extra pair of earrings, or nipple rings, as the case may be. Count me in for pointy bras when they return to fashion. I'll be the lady with her glasses on a chain (I'm guessing it will be a while).

Noses, Nostrils, Teapots

2009-08-24T23:07:00.009-04:00

This is going to be about a clog in my head and also my nostrils so if you would like to pick your nose while you read, please feel free to do so, as it will eventually fit with the theme of the piece. I went to Asia and when I returned I was outrageously jet-lagged. I did not pick my nose, and my nose is not featured yet, but I probably blew my nose and washed my hands. I always wash my hands. Planes are filthy and disgusting, but we all know that. Keep picking - stay on topic! There is a thirteen-hour time difference, and I slept so little while I was there - Asia - that I probably went beyond jet-lag to outer-space-lag or simple brain dysfunction.

Once home, I was not "on a different clock," but sleeping perpetually. I literally could not wake up for days. When I did open my eyes, or sit up, or one day shower even, I smiled at my family through bleary eyes. Big Kid, now a proudly dry-witted young man, looked at me kindly and then lacking his customary control, burst out laughing. None of them - my little family - could really prevent themselves from laughing at me, and I could not blame them. I felt like a queasy marionette, and I sensed that my expressions were about as intelligent. I may have picked my nose at that point, but I was too semi-conscious to manage it well, I am sure.

After a few days, the cold symptoms began. One of my fellow travelers had been horribly ill, and naturally I caught it. On came the sinusitis, the ear infection, and the mucus. Well, hold on there. The mucus was not in full force for some reason. I did take a lot of sudafed -ish stuff, and a lot of night-time stuff, and generally treated all symptoms so that I could bear myself and my family could manage to live with me and watch me pathetically now sleep, cough, and drool. But there was not the usual nose-blowing ad infinitum, the sore nostrils, and the bucket full of repulsive tissues for the dog to steal and half-chew - a canine delight, for those in the know. Go wash your hands! Alternatively, you may continue picking, as we are now into the theme.

My theory is that it was the lack of flowing mucus that led to the clog behind my eustachian tube and it was the clog behind that tube - the clog that little kids get and then they go have another little tube inserted for it, the snot, to drain - that felt like a golf ball sitting behind my ear. It felt awful. The kids refused to vacuum it out and scoffed at the use of all tools, despite my pleas. No mercy. At that point (and it still has not completely gone away), I returned to the doctor, or rather the nurse. We'll call her Jan because that was her name, or close enough. Are you following all of this? My infections cleared up and I was left with a golfball-sized blockage on the left side of my head and also deaf over there. Right. Actually, left. Snotball on left.

Stop picking your nose! That's quite enough, and at this point you are lucky it isn't bleeding. Jan was a nurse I saw frequently after my brother died, or as frequently as one does see one's nurse for this or that. She had been quite compassionate and I liked her crooked face, the one nostril larger than the other, and the sweetness the big rounded eyes seemed to convey. She was a plump little person on spindly legs. But when I returned a few days ago to tell Jan, my homely-cute nurse about the golf ball, she tugged at my right ear so hard that I said "ouch." I never say ouch unless something really hurts. Then she looked in my golf-snotball ear and said there was no wax, but that it was clogged behind the aforementioned eustachian tube, and it could take a month to get better. "Crap!" I said. She registered no particular expression, described what I would need to do, and she walked out. (You may stick your finger in your ear here, if you must.)

That's when I realized that Jan had not been very friendly during the whole visit. I had said hello, how are you, and been my genial self. She had been cold and serious. My adorable older crooked-face nurse no longer liked me! Whatever had I done? To make matters worse, she gave me something to snort, and told me to buy a "neti pot" at the pharmacy. Maybe I had said "crap" too loudly? Maybe that offends an older woman with a cute little crooked face. Maybe I am an ass. Ach. Oh, pick whatever you want.

I head home, slightly ruffled by the loss of my nurse-pal and wondering if I should send a little email thanking her or something pathetic like that (I mean really, maybe she just had a bad day). I go to the pharmacy to get my new inhaler and I find my neti-pot. I google it and find a video that shows a woman using a small tea-pottish sorta thing to let water flow in one nostril and out the other over the sink. (Would love to view it here but darned site won't let me.) Eee-yooo, but at this point, the snotball is such a bummer I'll do anything. The voice-over assures me that this will rid me of all allergies. I just want the mucus wad out of my ear and it would be nice to have hearing our of that side of my head again, too.

Little did I know that when I brought my neti-pot home that it would look remarkably like a teapot with a small penis as a spout. Yes, a circumcised penis. Apparently, not all such pots have a penis-spout, but mine does. and that little penis works really well. It fits perfectly into my nose, and the water flows right out, through one side and out of the other. It plugs in there perfectly. So basically my nose has sex with a small blue teapot twice a day and eventually it unclogs the blockage behind my ear. Maybe that's why Jan the nurse was so serious? She was jealous! I need to send her a teapot penis for her crooked nose and she will feel better, too. Now you may put your hands wherever you like.

I Kinda Suck, But Here's Why

2009-08-23T21:13:00.002-04:00

I saw Julie and Julia last night. It was a good movie. Not great, but good. I like that Amy Adams. Meryl Streep was predictably great, but she could have just done a Julia Child at 45 imitation and been done with it. Well, it was better than that, but that's not my point. I decided when I re-re-re-re-returned to blogging that I would blog to practice writing. That's what I am doing, practicing writing. I have more time, I am feeling better after my brother's death - my it takes time - and in the waxing and waning of time, I had some waning.

I did not mind the lack of visits/comments. After all, I can go visit my old faves, but I disappear for months and months and then re-emerge, so one can hardly expect folks to keep checking. That was all okay. Then I saw Julie and Julia. Julie, the Julia child devotee, started with a bloggy nothing. Or they made it look that way. Her book was unpublished, she had a lousy job, so her husband helped her set up a blog. No one read it for like two weeks. Then, voila! Like a perfect French souffle, it was perfection. She had many many readers, gifts in the mail, and scads of comments. Of course she cooked many things, wrote regularly, and had a great topic, but her popularity was so quick! And all because she planned to bone a duck (gross).

So, hmmm. Do I blog regularly? No. I have blogged for a long time, but that does not count. I cannot blog as much as Julie because I hafta edit and be a mom. That's not an excuse, that's true. But I could do more. Do I have a great idea? I think I have a good idea - talking about stuff that I think should be out in the open. I guess my slant has turned a bit more toward humor and television/pop culture, so I do not have a similarly directed project. Okay, that answers that. I guess I do not have any kind of following at all because my project is inconsistent and my message may not be clear.

Jeez. I guess I solved that for myself. Crap. You start complaining and you end up realizing you have nothing to complain about. I think I'll go check out the mess in my room and complain about it to the dog,one of my loyal readers.

Cousins, Chewbaca, Life & Death

2009-08-16T23:34:00.009-04:00

I have a lot of cousins. The following is something of a list. It may be worth reading. Two of my uncles died in the spring and one aunt had heart surgery this week. One uncle was terrified to die; the other did not seem to consider it; my aunt says she is satisfied with her life and whatever happens, she is okay with it. My aunt is doing fine right now. My father is extremely overweight, diabetic, and he has a heart condition. These are the people I have known all my life, and now we are watching things change. My parents have been parents to some of them for years, and now my parents, my Dad in particular, has become a sort of symbol.

My dad had a lot of siblings and then most of them had a lot of kids. (My mom has one brother and although he had three kids, I do not know them too well. They lived far away. That is okay, because my father's side of the family is so large that I had/have plenty.) Let's start at the top. There's the cousin, Laura, who is almost as old as my mom and once told me, in reference to my curls, that I look like Chewbaca. She meant the roaring ape-pal who accompanied Harrison Ford on his missions in the original Star Wars. I did not like her, but her short short hair was some solace. It was not cute, just short. It's her mother in the hospital. Laura is very wealthy now. I called her up tonight and she told me she's exhausted. She has hurt a lot of people's feelings lately, but I called anyway.

Then came - in sort-of birth order - a horde of cousins who were roughly the same age. The hippy-ish ones were best: Barbara and Lance lived with us for awhile because both of their parents had died. That was sad, very, Their Mom was beloved to both of my parents, and she had been sick for a long time. Their dad had died when they were very little. To me, it was kinda fun because Lance had a chemistry set and Babs talked a lot about boys. I don't remember that but my mom tells me she - my mom- was freaked out to suddenly have a teenager. She was not just a teenager, she was a swearing, dating, drinking teenager, and my mother had never done much of that herself. Babs went to live elsewhere for the rest of high school. I got to keep Babs' giant stuffed panda. Later Babs joined the Peace Corps and when she visited she had a boyfriend with a straggly beard. She was just here last weekend to visit my aunt in the hospital- she drove 4 hours because she just had to see her. Both of our kids are 17 now. Babs stayed overnight so we yakked for awhile before bed.

Lisa - another hippy cousin - wore ponchos and took me on little trips while she was applying to medical school all over Boston. She kept getting rejected and no one could figure out why. Eventually she got in, and became a psychiatrist, like my dad. Her parents lived in New York and for some vague reason they did not speak to my parents much. But Lisa was very sweet to me, and knew I was kind of shy. She had two brothers, but I did not get to know them until I was older. After Lisa's brother died at age 21, our families made up, very publicly, and since then we have had a special connection with them. Her mother died a few years later, but like Lisa, she made a concerted effort to reach out to me and my sister before her death. Now I know one of them, Paul, really well, and his wife, Tracey. We stay at their house when we go to New York. They have 3 wonderful adult girls. One of them is in medical school, and Paul is a doctor, too. I don't know why so many people in my family are doctors. I'm not a doctor. Actually, at one point, Paul's daughter was terribly sick, and I am quite sure that motivated her to go to medical school. Now that will be one more opinion about my aunt and her heart surgery!

Natalie used to babysit for all four of us and she says my mother gave her 35 cents an hour. We were not exactly a calm group of kids, and she had to bathe us, too. My older brother was only 16 months older, then I was a couple years older than my sister, and she was a couple years older than my younger brother. I believe Natalie about the low-paying work, but my mother shakes her head. I don't think Natalie has ever told a lie in her life. She was the closest in age to us, although Nora was about the same age and they were best friends. They were even roommates in college. Nora straightened her hair and it was really gorgeous shiny, which mine could never be. Shiny, that is. When Nora got pregnant, after she was married, she took pictures of her huge naked belly - there were twins in there - and passed them around to family members. It embarrassed my father. It was quite a sight seeing her marvel at herself in the mirror. Nora's dad died last spring after a long painful illness, and a few weeks later, Natalie's dad died, too. That was too much. I knew Nora's dad pretty well. He was very opinionated, an encyclopedia of movie history, a lover of the arts, and continually generous with copies of movies or performances he thought you might enjoy. One time at a wedding, the cheapo d.j. informed us all that we would get up and dance. Uncle Simon said "I'm not dancing." I was so relieved. Twelve years old and the thought of dancing in that temple basement had horrified me. I feel guilty not saying more about Natalie's dad. He was a big friendly man, a football player: but that's the way it is in big families. You know some people better than others.

Jake, one of Natalie's big brother's, with the sweetest smile I ever saw on a boy, had a rock band. One afternoon in my aunt's kitchen, one of his long-hair rock band friends said to my little brother "don't touch that mike - it's worth more than you are." We just stood there silent by the stove. I wasn't old enough to say "asshole." Oh well. Jake was Natalie's brother, and she had 2 others. Poor girl. That seemed like a lot to me. The oldest was Michael, a serious guy who did not appreciate my fresh breath when I showed it off after brushing my teeth one night during a big family visit. Next came Benny, who paid me a lot of attention, always telling me how pretty I was. He had a bike, and then a motorbike, or a motorcycle, I can't remember. I loved the attention from an older cousin, but as usual, I was just a pipsqueak. I saw them all when we sat shiva for their dad last spring, and the house hadn't changed at all. It was as if my Aunt Shelley and Uncle Norman had decided to stand still in time. The kitchen still smelled sweet, her little teeth were still white, and it was still fun to use both sets of stairs. Only now a tiny half-African grandchild toddled around the place.

My cousin Edy, brown hair, brown eyes, was over our house all the time when I was a kid, and even came on a family trip to Bermuda. Her mother died when she was little and she talked like a train ride - she just kept going. Her mom had been the oldest, I think, but had died so young that even my own mom had not met her. Edy babysat and showed me all the books she had to read for college. That was scary. How could I ever do that? At some point she started dating a guy up the hill. His mother had kidnapped our cat at one point to breed it, or so we had suspected, but no one cared, because the cat was all white, with blue eyes, and nasty. When Ball & Chain locked the keys in the car at the cemetery, and it was about 10 degrees out in my awful black dress, Edy and her husband waited with us while the two truck came. Actually, she tried calling the fire department because she knew that would be quicker, but it turned out to be a tie, and Triple A helped us out.

I left out a coupla people but not because I forgot them. One cousin and one brother died as young adults. Their deaths were awful, and there is not much more to sat about that. Other folks not mentioned: My cousin Cybil was sweet, but she was not around much, and by the time I was old enough to notice she had moved to New York and become an Hasidic Jew. If I were writing about second cousins that would be an entire chapter. But alas, I am not. She has an enormous family, and I saw her recently at her father's funeral. She is Nora's sister. My cousin Marvin was at every family party ever given and he drove my sister nuts because he was always pinching her ass. He was otherwise friendly and it gave us something to talk about, I suppose. I spoke to him tonight on the phone, as his mother has just had the heart surgery. He sounded lousy. He has however, just fallen in love for the first time - apparently - at age 62. Now that he has his own piece of ass, perhaps the circle is complete! His older sister was the one who had called me Chewbaca.

I could draw a tree here or tell you that my brother looks like Paul and I look like Barb and Lance looks like my dad, and even Barb's adopted daughter looks like her dad. It's intriguing to see the genetics in all of it. But actually I think those Jewish immigrants knew what they were doing when they spewed out so many kids. And probably the Catholics and some of those other folks too. When my 85-year-old aunt gets out of the hospital, and while she's there, plenty of people will look after her. And when someone dies young, people come and help out. When someone celebrates, we all come together. We have weddings coming up, we had a rainy family reunion in July. I have my people.

Watching One's Life From Afar

2009-08-15T21:49:00.009-04:00

I went away and my life got better. It was a splendid, perspective-changing trip. No kidding. It's a great recipe for ennui, boredom, grudges, pent-up anger, irritability, and any other euphemism they used to use for constipation. The plane ride was very long, something like 14 hours. I confess that I did not count. After 12 hours, who gives a shit, really? Some people time it, as if there is an exact science going on in the economy section. But no, we are in the dark, both literally and figuratively, and the pilot will tell us when he feels like landing the damn thing.

No complaints here though (except the so-called food, and I'll leave it at that). They have, well! They have (ta-da!) an individual movie/television/games screen for every single person on the plane and it is possible to re-watch, for example, American Beauty or Lost in Translation, view the new television version of This American Life, The New Life of Old Christine, and even Everybody Loves Raymond. Oh, stop! It is too funny! He is not weird! Okay, he is weird, but I like the show anyway. So the whole long flight thing matches perfectly with my genetic pre-conditioning to sit around and do nothing. Of course it is very very hard to sit around and do nothing when you have a million things to do, you want to do them well, and you are very anxious. Unless you are on a plane to Japan.

But on the trans-world (basically) flight, you are trapped! It is true that screen-nausea sets in at some point, but so what? Then you read for awhile. Not exactly a chore. Actually, not that easy when the lights are out and one is queasy, but that little t.v.-majig sure is handy. This American Life on television is actually just as good as it is on radio. But wait, I think I wandered down the wrong aisle here.

I went away, yes. Television, not exactly my intended path. I realized, once I was very very far away, that my life's pieces fit together rather well. It was not the many shrines with fortunes I was welcome to leave if I did not like. It was not the Japanese philosophy that I studied (I didn't really). It was the cliche, actually, of having actual time away that helped me to appreciate my long marriage to my difficult husband, and his long marriage to difficult me, my friendships (the many and the few), and my family. I did not really need to contemplate my feelings about my children, but it helped me to realize how well they are doing, in their own ways, and separate from me.

There were shrines and trees and people with histories of their own families dating back many generations. There were wide streets selling Prada and Gucci and there were rice paddies flying by my eyes on the bullet train. There was a lot of sweat on my back. The green tea tasted like nuts and foamed on the top. The teachers work until 11 p.m., and the teenagers wear shirts with English on them. At a baseball game, people cheer in unison as they pound two rubber bats together. All of the merchandise was in English. Pictured here is the Torii gate, right next to the island of Miyajima, which has a series if docks and a shrine where we heard people chant. Why was I so far from my family? I wondered a bit what they would think, but had little time to consider. We were always rushed. Most of it was experience and taste. And the badger-dog, a funny little creature that looks like a cross between a racoon, a fox, and a terrier.

Friendships here and there: the many and the few. There were women on the trip with whom I found it quite easy to strike up a conversation, so to speak, chat, laugh, and with whom I could envision having a friendship in the future. There were some women just a few years older than Big Kid. They seemed so brand-new, even compared to him. When I thought of the people I care about at home, I realized how much time affects me. There is simply no replacing it. That's not to say that my older friends are better friends, but that it takes me quite awhile to trust in a friendship, and often I am becoming good friends with someone without even realizing it.

For the last few days of the trip, I was convinced something bad had happened to our dog. I was sure Ball & Chain was not telling me because I was too far away to do anything. I seem to have developed a fear of sudden bad news and the dog probably symbolized something someone with a PhD in pop psychology could analyze. We were only on email, but why did no one mention something about him being cute, or doing something silly? When I arrived home, it turned out that the dog was fine.

Chrystal's husband (Chrystal is my closest friend) had had a major medical crisis while I was away. It seems like he will be okay, but surely his life is altered, as is hers. So my revelation that my stacked-up neurotic worries were inconsequential seemed to be true. Unfortunately, my dearest friend's life had become so stacked that no amount of distance or movies can change that reality. This is not the neat ending I had planned to write, and I had not even been thinking of Chrystal when I began, but how could I not? Some people believe in fate, or reasons. I believe that I have strong connections with a lot of people so I will be a sturdy friend to Chrystal. And I do hope sometime she gets to Japan, or at least a place without worry.

Jeez I Was Cranky/Blog Change?

2009-08-15T14:59:00.004-04:00

Hello, Dear Reader and The Dog.

Last post was very crankola. Since then I have traveled to Asia, contracted a bad cold on the plane, and met with a fatalistic nurse who may have been Amy Poehler ("You could begin to have secretions. They could be yellow, green, or brown. You could develop sinusitis, an ear infection, or pneumonia.") What a nut! I woke the next day with a painful left ear. No secretions, though. Such a disappointment.

Also: I have been considering changing my blog. Although I am grateful to my faithful teensy following, I may limit followers to my blogosphere pals. I am using it more as a place to try out ideas and I am starting to wonder about the people who actually know me when I write. Kind of crushes the purpose of the anonymous blog. There is an option for limiting to other bloggers so I may choose that as a way to feel more free in my whinings.

Thoughts?

This is the place where no one comments and I remember that I have one reader. Humility is good for writers and others.

Sunday

2009-07-19T11:44:00.003-04:00

The dog is getting older and the white hairs on the black and the sad brown eyes and the husband and me the same old arguments why even bother hoping for something different and the neighbor making too much noise on a Sunday morning and Rugelah up in the middle of the might with wild insomnia me ready with the Benadryl because at this point I don't know what to do and then it all adds up to something like the mediocrity of life. Let's diagnose me maybe and say here is a woman with a history of depression or here is a woman with a history of anxiety or trauma or some such crap and then we could have a right field day with those terms but also we could just say that some days or many days have a particular mediocrity to them, particularly when the humor seems to have drained out, the sun shines through leaves and splatters onto the floor and it really doesn't matter one bit.

If I Cry

2009-07-13T17:06:00.004-04:00

If I cry when my daughter says something hurtful to me, does that make me oversensitive? What if we have just returned from grocery shopping, and I am asking for her opinion and she looks down at the not-gracery bag in my hand and asks what it's about? If it's about a certain something, she will say yes, and something else, she will say no. What kind of crap is that? I just sent her prattling about the store, finding whatever little foods she wanted. I just picked her up from her precious dance class. I just fucking gave birth to her and grew her up for the past thirteen fucking years and now I am like the landfill for every hangnail that does not bend in the proper direction for her.

I am wondering why I accepted her parameters on my day tomorrow when it is the yahrzheit of my brother's death (the anniversary)? She does not want to see me crying, but if I happen to cry, well. Well! If I happen to cry!? Don't go all "she's upset too" on me, Reader. I am the Queen of Putting The Kids First and fast becoming the Queen of Regretting Putting The Kids First.

Sometimes I think of Roseanne's old show. That's sick, I know. But the original show was hilarious because she let it all roll off and she knew exactly what her kids were doing to manipulate and even if you do not remember, I do, and maybe the dog does, that she did apologize, and she did care, and she did talk to her kids. In real life, if there is such a thing, of course, she is probably a very screwed up mom. I am pretty sure she is. But in not-real life, she never would have been close to tears because her little mini-teen gave her a mini-slam.

What is with me? Why can't I attain the toughness of an absolutely fictional character? Even as I write this, I know the answer, but really, what the fuck? Why did I let my daughter dictate how I will behave on my brother's yahrzheit? I know why. Because I wish I had been able to control some of what happened four years ago, and I want to pretend for her that she has some control now. My brother's death was a random act of evil and he died with two other wonderful men, just sitting at a red light. She cannot make sense of it, and neither can I. Sometimes she asks why it had to be him. Sounds so cliche, but she wonders.

If I am sobbing my face off, I will go to my room. Otherwise, she will have to deal with my sadness. And if she is sad, and she is crying, of course I will comfort her. That's what I always do.

Bad Bad Shot

2009-07-10T09:32:00.004-04:00

Did anyone ever give you a picture of yourself that was a really awful picture and you were standing right next to two other people in the photo and the other people looked absolutely excellent like better than they ever did in person? And did you take the picture with you later and examine it and try to figure out just exactly how you managed to contort your face in such a way that you gave yourself extra skin where none really exists and your teeth slanted even though they are straight and your glasses somehow were halfway down your nose? And after you examined the picture did you realize that the donor of said picture had actually asked you to deliver the extra copy to another human being and that there was no choice but to "lose" the picture quickly?

If that ever happened to you, it might bother you for days thinking that you really look like an altered, horror-movie version of yourself, and you might have to make an appointment to get your hair cut and do all sorts of things before you calm down and realize it's just a photo. There will still be bad dreams, though, and you will simply have to wait to get a proverbial hold of yourself.

My Doggy is AOK

2009-07-02T19:13:00.003-04:00

Apparently no one reads this blog, which actually works out well for me, because it's like pretending to have my own magazine without any real risk. The little lady inside the computer just fixes it all up for me with colors and pictures and a pretty font. The Poochsta is fine, and my doggy friends were appropriately supportive. Big Kid and I went and got him from the vet and showered him with all kinds of attention and now he is napping. The whole 3-day incident was scary for us. He is glad to have a new rawhide to chew.

Now we need to figure out how to sneak Dog of Dogs into a hotel this weekend. A post for another day.

The Poochsta

2009-07-02T09:50:00.015-04:00

As I write this post, my dog, Georgie, The Poochsta, The Budge, Dog of Dogs, is at the vet. He has a heart murmur that is new. It might be a take-a-pill variety murmur, or it might be a more serious type. George is the quintessential dog. He greets and wags and gives kisses. He brings his favorite toy, just to show it off, but if you want to play, he will do that too. His tail is extra-long. He is a shiny boy: half black lab, half Australian cattle dog (maybe - Dads are hard to verify), and he is a long and lean doggy machine. The tail is exactly the height of our coffee table and strong enough to wipe your glass right off.

Don't get all I'm-not-reading-about-another-dog. The purpose of this post is that I am writing about my dog and am not writing about my children, my husband, how everyone else is doing, and I am not calling my parents because they would be very upset and worried too. So this is all about a woman and her conventional married life and how the secret to managing it all is a dog named George.

He swims, he fetches sticks, he eats sticks, and he does two laps around the house after I hose him down and dry him off. When I take him to the beach in Maine, he runs, a long-legged glorious race at the edge of the waves. People literally stop to watch his sleek body dashing after oblivious birds high up in the sky. For me, it is a yoga-esque moment to witness the pure physical joy he surely feels as his legs stretch and his body speeds across the blond sand.

After my brother's death, he sensed we were sad, and he became more affectionate. He also started his circus trick. He sits up like a person, butt and tail totally tucked under, back completely straight, front legs resting lightly on a human's lap. At times he can balance like this with one or no arms. Nose is pointed out regally. He talks when he wants something.

At this point, Dear Reader, and the proverbial dog, you are like why am I reading yet another description of yet another dog? Well, he's not just any dog! He is The One Grateful Child. For example, he has a song. I am not saying who sings it, but no one ever objects:

He's the Georgie Boy
He's the Poochie Pie
He's the Georgie Georgie Georgie boy.

He's the Puppy Pie
He's the Georgie Pie
He's the Puppy Puppy Puppy boy.

No, I do not expect you to say Wow! I expect you to learn the song. Learn it! Georgie and I sing it slowly, but you can sing it to any tune you like. He enjoys it but please do not sing while he is sitting up watching t.v. He is not allowed on most furniture, but some nights, he can be found with an interested brown-eyed gaze watching a show with us, again, sitting up like a person as his two front forearms limply hang down. Also, he's a wicked kisser, but a true tough dog, as he interprets that. He sticks his black nose out the back window and sniffs ferociously when we are driving. He chases squirrels off the deck. He takes this very seriously and he knows the word squirrel. He lowers himself to the ground slightly, his fur poofs up, and he trots around the house, protecting us from large and small creatures alike.

Now go learn my puppy's song. He's my most loyal fan, my most affectionate listener, and the vet is taking a helluva long time to call back.

Birthday Jerk

2009-06-23T21:35:00.013-04:00

I forgot Chrystal's birthday. That's okay, you say. We're all adults, who really cares? Let's see, if I had remembered her birthday more than just one year out of the thirty I have known her, it might be a bit more okay. If she did not remember my birthday every year, it might be a bit more okay. Chrystal and I have always been friends. There was never a stretch when we were out of touch, or when our friendship was in question. That's just weird. She was in Canada for college, I was in Pennsylvania. She studied math, I studied sociology. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation, and everything else. The night before I was married, we took a bath together, and she shaved my legs.

There is a lovely museum-quality (it's actually from a museum, so I think that makes it museum-quality) calendar on my wall with birthdays on it. I proudly watched Chrystal's birthday approach with great enthusiasm. It was listed under an etching of a gardenia, or some other hoity-toity flower. This year I would remember! What would I buy her? Well, nothing, that's what! I bought her nothing. And as the day approached, I ignored her birthday as I rifled through the pile of clothes just under the museum-fucking-flower-quality calendar.

She called me a few days ago. June 22. Whaddayadoin, I asked. She said she was on her way back from dinner at The Four Seasons, a way swanky restaurant and hotel. I was like why do you spend so much excellent time with your family? What's so great about them? And then she told me: it's my birthday. I didn't have the heart to let the whole day go by without telling you. I was crushed, really. Another year, another one missed. Do ya notice who the jerk is in this scenario and who the kindhearted person is? If you missed it, I am the jerk. Arg! I could have sent flowers at that point, but did I? Take a guess!

One year, back when Chrystal Husband One hadn't yet revealed his lack of parenting IQ , I threw her a surprise party. It musta been fifteenish years ago. I was making up for lost birthday time. Everyone loved it. Chrystal was happy. People drank beer, sat on the couches, and talked graduate school. Chrystal smiled a lot and we joked about my rehabilitation as birthday friend. I basked in the glow. I was a good person back then, and Husband One gave me all of the credit I deserved. Western Mass was lovely that June.

Then there were all the years that followed. I confused the 22d with the 23d. I called several days late. I forgot completely. I called on the 22d about things completely unrelated. I called on July 23d to say Happy Birthday. Do I forget other birthdays? No, not usually. It's not my forte, but I remember my sister, my brothers, my kids, my husband, certain friends, my parents, etc. okay there are probably others I forget, but certainly not with such vigor and routine. There is one friend who has a birthday on May 23, and I suspect that his 23 and her 22 somehow became mangled in my mind and it was never the same after that. Also, Chrystal is Chrystal, and the very consistency of our long friendship makes it a rather shabby omission, to say the least.

Back to this year. I was contrite. I had forgotten her birthday, yet again, in a year when she has been so tired with her many responsibilities that it would have been extra-helpful for me to remember. I did not remember, though. I, jerk, forgot. She seemed to be amused, and I truly felt bad. So we made a tentative time when I could take her out. Perfect! She called to confirm today and mentioned tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is the one night when I absolutely cannot take her out. I am going to a small event for which I have already made the commitment. Chrystal is going away for a conference, and I, Jerk, the supposed best friend, will have ditched her for perhaps the twentieth time. I am Ass. Or Jerk. You choose.

Vegetables Are Not Funny.

2009-06-21T19:56:00.011-04:00

I read a book about an owl. I have told this story so many times it's ridiculous, so I will shorten it, like this: I read a book about an owl and then I decided not to eat animals. I do not mind if you eat animals. I do not mind removing the shrimp from the moo-shoo. I have nothing to preach about and I am not converting to a new religion. It's just something that happened when I read about the owl's feelings. Yes! I said feelings, and then I looked at some chicken, or watched a dumb commercial, and I thought that looks disgusting and I don't wanna eat it.

I had the same reaction to blue cheese, only for my whole life. I looked at it, smelled it, and I thought, gross, it's not even food. I don't care if other people eat it, I just do not want it. Naturally, The Men in the household think this is hilarious. (My apologies if you are mother to a boy. One day he will be A Man.) My son (referring to the vegetables, not the manhood) says "it's a phase." I say maybe it is. How should I know? Maybe I will miss sushi and start eating fish again or maybe one day I will want meat but I don't right now. So for awhile Ball & Chain kept putting big hunks o' meat or fish in front of me as if I'd change my mind instantaneously or maybe just to see what I'd do? He stopped that when I had green beans and potatoes one night for dinner, without complaint, and his salmon sat in the pan uneaten.

Still, they think it's funny. They tell very bad jokes about dead animals. I come from a family of butchers and I have eaten liver, chicken neck, giblet, and all sortsa other stuff. It's not like the jokes about meat are going to make me queasy. My great uncle useta greet us at his butchery with a bloodied apron, a big smile, and a friendly lollipop. What a sweetheart, really. I didn't think about the apron because I was used to it. A buncha pigs stuck in a cage and suffocating on their own methane? Well, that might make me a but queasy.

Today they were wondering about shumai, the Japanese dumpling. What if it has pork? Won't I miss it? Not right now. How tedious. What makes vegetarianism so funny to people? Have I inflicted it on my family? No. Have I served tofurkey? No, but we all like tofu with stir-fry. Rugelah has never liked chicken and Ball and Chain as always pretended that it's a phase. She just turned 13! The gal does not eat the chicken! There seems to be a perpetual family moment when one decides to take vengeance and move the joke one step further, or leave the joke be, and hope it dies. Not like an animal, like a vegetable. I am not sure whether to serve tofurkey for real, or simply wait to see when the next animal-slaughter joke lands in my plate. Hmmm.

Hair Removal is Not Fun, and Not Private

2009-06-20T22:47:00.008-04:00

I decided to look at all of my old blog links. One link led to another and there was a column about body hair removal and my pubic area is utterly traumatized - my pubic hairs are uncurling right this very moment - because this robot-face lady wrote:

So whatever you like to do is fine. Really, it is. Do what feels good to you. Experiment. Have fun! But for heaven’s sake, keep it private.

She was referring to removal of pubic hair! Do what feels good to you?
1. What feels best is to leave it the hell alone, actually. I would prefer that my ancestors had not been hairy women, but there you have it, and it would feel good to me if my pubic hair was minimal and I could just avoid it. What feels good to you, Robot Face?

2. Miss Robot Face says whatever I like to do is fine. Some women actually do leave their pubic hair totally alone! Does she really think that is fine? No, she does not. She gives several painful options: American, French, Brazilian. How hairless do ya wanna be? Does she have an actual vulva going on or is it robot vulva, too? She referred to the hair "down there." I think she meant her cunt.

3. For heaven's sake, keep it private? Why? Why does it have to be private? I think I'll go talk to the old guy across the street and tell him I chose Brazilian! Or maybe I'll mention it to my mother-in-law. She'd love to hear about that. Perhaps Robot Lady means I should be careful, lest anyone actually see that I have pubic hair in my pubic region. Oops that wasn't lady-like. I meant my cunt. No worries, Robot Face! As the nice torture lady is rubbing hot wax on my thighs I will tell her not to look, because it it very private to me. Maybe she will read a magazine or talk on her cell. I don't mind a few layers of my labia removed just to keep it private.

4. Let's get to the "fun" part. Have fun, she tells us. I will remember that. Basically, I can go to the beach and have strangers see my pubic hair, which I cannot manage because, well, I can't, we live in the uptight U.S., or I can go get waxed, which is very painful and unpleasant. When someone pours hot wax very close to my cunt and then tears off bits of my hair with it, I do not feel happy. It is not fun. I sort of hate myself for doing it and I wish I were a hippy or a Swede with no hair.

5. As protest, I am thinking maybe I should grow a vulva beard and braid it or maybe get some hair extensions "down there," and start a new trend for hairy and proud women. It would be very public. Pubic, and public. Maybe it could be a performance art piece and I could get a buncha non-robot women to join me in the protest against the corporate wax-investing anti-cunt movement.

6. Or maybe I'll just wax again this summer, but it will not be fun and I will talk about it openly as I cross my legs in protection of my traumatized cunt.

In Bed with Bug not so Bad

2009-06-20T14:35:00.006-04:00

I am sick as a dog. I feel like horse shit. Why do we always compare ourselves to animals when we feel lousy? I wake up and I fall asleep again. This is the first time in recorded history - that means that I can remember - that Ball & Chain is actually accepting that I am ill without using passive-aggressive maneuvers to imply that I am just wanting attention. It has never mattered what the illness has been - ruptured cysts, ruptured disc, migraine headache - a bit more than the usual litany of middle-aged complaints, but nothing too terrible. Nevvuthuless, he has always managed to sigh, to outright complain, to kvetch (a nagging complaint) about the disruption in his plans, be they ever so small. Never mind that I could not move, or that I was vomiting, or that everyone else at school had the flu, too. When I had it, it was an exaggeration.

But I digress. It's the day before Father's Day, and Ball and Chain is actually quite sympathetic to the little bug the little doobers seem to have given me as a parting gift at the school year's end. He sees me doing nothing on a beautiful day and he realizes hmmmm, most days she's fine! He does some laundry and he realizes hmmmm she's done the last few loads. He may have noticed that I do not have my usual beauty pageant presentation. The fact is we are cultural opposites. In my family, if someone had a cold, it was pull out the thermometer, push the fluids. In his family, if I tell his mother I'm sorry she's sick, she protests that she is not sick, even as she blows her nose repeatedly and hacks all over everyone.

Years ago, Big Kid was seriously ill. Then it was scary. We both knew how sick he was and I took him to the hospital while Ball & Chain stayed with Rugelah. That sickness lasted a long time. Yet somehow we have reverted to our old neuroses. Every once in awhile, one of our kids has a symptom and we both do sit up and pay attention, or sometimes I sit up and pay attention and Ball and Chain wakes up a bit and realizes. We were lucky then, even though other people thought we were unlucky. And now, instead of falling into a hole of cryptic sentences to protect my kid's privacy, I will say I am really not so sick at all.

My New Pal Can Write & She's Funny, Too.

2009-06-19T10:37:00.002-04:00

CG works with me and now she blogs. She is very funny in person and also in text. So for my one reader and the dog, I recommend Cystic Gal.

Flarp on Me

2009-06-19T09:21:00.004-04:00

Stop! I am here to tell you that I spoiled my daughter rotten last weekend, rotten like a tomato with flies all around it, rotten like a princess who keeps getting more, and I stopped myself as I was stuffing a gift bag and I turned to my excellent friend from Chicago and I said Fred, we'll call him that, he'd love it, Fred, what the hell am I doing? I already gave the kid one party, and now I clean up and I give her another one? Who the hell am I? And Fred did not really know what to say so he kept stuffing bags. We had had an everyone who has loved Rugelah party earlier and we were shifting to little teen friends surprise party. My identity as a mother who really does not give tons o' shit to her kids, or put up with tons o' shot from her kids had temporarily gone down the drain.

And then Rugelah came back home with best friend aka Secret Agent, her friends surprised her, she was all happy, they had a hilarious time with the flarp (play-dough-type- stuff that makes fart noises) in-between serious discussions about world politics (I kid you not) and karaoke. Big Kid had fled to a friend's house, natch. (That's short for naturally and it felt ridiculous writing it.) Why did I plan what was basically two parties for my precious little crabby Rugelah who is not so little anymore? She had a hard year? She did, but no harder than anyone else's. People were coming anyway before she cancelled her Bat Mitzvah? Sort of. I'm a maniac? Yes, that would be it! Over-the-top ridiculous parenting? Bingo! Now my kid has enough crap to open her own 5 and ten.

Here's another hypothesis: maybe I thought that her resistance to having the wealthy children of our little village to our home would somehow - no, I did not realize this at the time! - be neutralized when she had the little doobers over and she realized that they do not give a rat's ass that we live in a regular house as opposed to a 15-room manse with a pool, and they all just adore her for exactly who she is, at least when they can come to her party. I was insane. How much did I spend at the 5 and dime? What do you care? It was very cheap - a real 5 and dime! Isn't it bad enough that my people from Chicago teased me mercilessly for paying $3.65 for each jar of flarp and then later had more fun with it than any of the teen girls?

I will repent, I will. I am never buying her anything again. She has already made her thank-you note list. She is selling her hair to that cancer-hair place. No, okay, I made that up. Her hair is not long enough for that (of course- I permitted her to get a hair cut - another extravagance!) and when she was younger - Locks for Love! That's what it's called, she heroically told everyone that she was growing her hair out for Locks for Love and then when it got long enough she thought it looked so good she changed her mind. I should have just cut the hair off right then, and I never would have been in this predicament. To be fair, and honest, Rugelah was very happy at both parties. She was quite gracious, actually, not only to her kid-friends, but to the adults. She thanked me several times and threw in a bunch of big long-armed hugs. She is all arms and long, long legs, so it is an excellent hug.

Thus I confess. I threw years of solid chore assignments, concrete consequences for bad behavior, t.v./computer limits, and unlimited use of the word "no" to the wind, and with it, a solid chunk o' change, perhaps just to see what it was like to over-indulge my kid. She seems to be okay. For me, behind the scenes, it was a bit ridiculous - if I consider all of the unnecessaries - sorta fun to see all the girls screaming, singing, and yelping at one another, and weird to think that some people spend money like that all the time. It's definitely not the kid who messes those things up, though. It's the adult, wandering around the 5 and dime like a drunkard in need of a dose of flarp.

Ms. Understanding & My Bad

2009-05-03T18:25:00.007-04:00

I am really bad at expressing myself when I am upset. My friends have always put up with this aspect of my personality. When I was young and foolish, as opposed to older and foolish, I just let my anger rip. My anger was cultivated from a tiny age. My father walked around, when he was home, like a semi-active volcano (pardon the disgusting implication, but he was volatile, so it fits, mostly), and one never knew when he might blow. He was an enormous man, especially if one was a small kid. So when he did arrive home, there was a moment when we wondered what we would get. That led to quite a bit of nerve-wracking stuff. Fast-forward to yelling, hard-working dad, lots of wise-ass kids, and you get a little residual anger. Watching my mother's obedience made me utterly insane.

Okay that's an exaggeration. It made me very angry. (Fortunately, they both grew out of it.) Sometime in my twenties, one of my best friends told me he was afraid of me when I was angry. I thought that sounded rather unpleasant. Then I asked my best friend, and she reiterated what he had said, and included a description of how scary it was to be in an argument with me. So I decided to be a better person and deal more reasonably with my anger. Who wants to terrify their friends? Okay, it was slightly satisfying to think I had that power, but it also made me feel like a piece of shit. After all, I remembered my father's death look. Sure enough, my friends had described my death look! Ack! I had inherited it.

Now that I am middle-aged and supposedly wiser, I manage anger and upset with my family very well. I am Ms. Emotional Intelligence and I negotiate all of their crap so that they can understand their own emotions, too. I do the same for my students, and I support my friends. But I seem to be a dumbass when it comes to my own conflict with non-family members whom I love and trust. What is so hard about using those cute little phrases "I was upset when you...?" I don't know. Usually I am too nervous to bring up the issue, or if I do, I manage it badly. One good thing about my job is that we work so closely together that we have to manage our disagreements. This week I did in fact react well to two co-workers simultaneously getting angry with me, so I guess that's progress. I did a combo of "I need some space," with death look (I am guessing), followed up with a yes, we should in fact chat. We were all upset, so it seemed to be a good choice. I knew if I spoke too soon, my meanie might pop out. Apologies all around ensued.

On I Love Lucy, when Lucy and Ethel argued, they just yelled in each other's faces, stormed off to cry, pouted a bit, said they were sorry, then they made up. That seems about right to me. Oh, that life were that simple. I think at this point I have graduated from the bossy cartoon Lucy to maybe Charlie Brown: Less unnecessary anger, but still a big dork.

Grover

2009-04-25T13:54:00.004-04:00

Whatsa matter with young people these daze? I was in an almost-empty bakery buying tons of sugar and this perfectly charming yet clearly lonely young guy was waiting on me. He had two large thingamadoobers in his ears to make the lobes bigger and a Kermit tattoo. So I'm like "nice tattoo". I should back track and explain here that the muppets are part of my family heritage, not because we loved Sesame Street - it actually got popular a couple of years after my time - but because we loved the muppets. We imitated the muppets. We did their voices, we compared them to people we knew, and we continue to do so. We saw The Muppet Movie (the first) together. Not because some of us had kids by then, but because we all really wanted to see it.

So the young dude in the bakery tells me he is going to get Miss Piggy on his other arm. I say "cool," reserving the knowledge that she is not an original, really, and that it's absurd to get Miss Piggy there, because she does not have the kind of solid back story that some of the others do. I mention that Grover has been overlooked in the popular media, and that's a shame. And he has the nerve to say that he was never really into Grover (that part I can handle), and that Grover always seemed to be a Cookie Monster rip-off! How absurd! No offense to Cookie, but he's a one-line, albeit a very good line, Muppet. Candace Bergen does a great "C is for Cookie," but there is no accompanying book, there is no extra comedy. For a while there was Alistair Cookie, and that was truly hilarious, but they took that away to make room for that horrid little shrieker, Elmo, who is himself a ripoff of Grover, the overlooked genius of comedy.

Grover is clearly in the spirit of the great comedians. First, he was the star of The Monster at The End of This Book in which he implored the reader not to open the book, for fear one would get to the end, where there was most definitely a monster. Of course one had no choice but to read further. It was a brilliant ploy and actual real children - not the artificial Sesame Street ones - found it hilarious to go against Grover's wishes. He also got fired from every job he ever had on the show. He was a lousy waiter, a lousy chef, a lousy chauffeur, and all the while he would assure the customer, "Sir," or "Madam," that everything would be "just fine," and escape before the flabbergasted customer could finish frustrated protestations. Pure genius. In the end, a pseudo-shocked Grover was sort of miffed, but never upset, when the enraged customer freaked out. His assistant chickens and other poultry simply added to the absurdity. He had other adventures as well, proving himself to be a flexible actor and puppet. Grover was no Cookie Monster rip-off! He was more of an Art Carney in a blue furry suit.

What's Growing in My Vagina?

2009-04-20T14:09:00.004-04:00

It all started, well it all started when I was born with a vagina, and my mother, although she would never admit it, must have heaved a sigh of relief because (with some exceptions, yes, yes) no new mother of a second child - the first one being a boy- wants another boy. Oh she will love him, adore him, he is beautiful. But is there not a dread that there will never be that small thread of sanity that links one neurologically to one's vagina that makes being female just a wee bit better, no pun intended? And the fear that within one's household, lest it be a lesbian household, there may never be a full understanding of the vagina experience? (And no insult meant to Big Kid, the Best Ever Son, ever.)

Back to my vagina, though. It all started when I first got one and my mother was probably look oh good a girl and all is right with the world. That worked out well until I was a teenager. The vagina made me mad with lust, menstrual cramps, ovarian cysts, and more lust. Okay, it was not just the vagina, it was the hormones too. Also, I got a crazy yeast infection but I had no idea why I was so goddamn itchy down there. This was not a topic I would discuss with my sweet and pristine mother. "Mom, I got crotch itch?" I just hoped it would go away, like a bug bite. Well, it did not go away, and one night I did indeed wake her up, in agony. Hers and mine, probably. Fortunately, there was an eccentric, home-birthing, lustful-toward-teens ob/gyn guy who lived one block over. He and my Dad were friends since they were both doctors and in those days that meant you were in the brotherhood of we-have-money-yet-we-are-good-people. My Dad went to get something for me while I writhed or something. Years later the gyn guy would leave his wife for a patient and they would show her water birth on public TV. He sat in the water while she had the baby. Gross, man! Wouldn't that infect the area, or something? His beard was way too straggly.

We return again to my vagina. And I know now you are thinking that that was a bad transition - just get that straggly beard outta your mind, because my vagina does not have one. Thirty years pass. I have two kids, a house, a dog, a husband, a tree that fell down, cute little friends, fun job, and an aged, but well-preserved, though slightly scarred, vagina. Now a person can take a pill for a yeast infection. However, I felt some pressure in there and found a little lump. Oh don't go all lumpy on me. It's probably a little cyst my doctor friend said. And I am betting it is, because everything in there feels a bit swollen and it's all part of the general flora and fauna in there, like daffodils in springtime. I am quite sure it is very similar to a flower in springtime.

Here's the rub. actually, don't rub, just consider. One cannot have an issue such as this without feeling
a.) neurotic for having stuck one's hand in there in the first place. Was I bobbing for apples you may wonder? I felt all this pressure - it was irrational, like maybe I left a tampon, a spoon, my napkin from last night's dinner?
b.) hypochondriacal for even going to the doctor. Let's face it - there are tons of lumps in there. I am a product of my upbringing and my experience. My father used to diagnose people when they walked down the street.
c.) slightly nervous. Just cut the thing off and toss it in the trash, will ya? I don't wanna bubble on my cervix. Blood, mucus, icky white discharge, I can handle. Take my little growth, please!
d.) I am not going to write d! Come off it! The thing just grew last week, for crissake. If it's a bad bad thing, well, I just don't think we are in that category.

Prologue: the teen yeasty vagina episode lead to a more open dialogue with my mom. i had a cousin who was even more nervous about sharing with her mother, and by the time she disclosed her own yeasty problems, her vaginal area bled to the touch! Poor bubbela.

Second prologue: Now that I have matured, I realize that it is still better to have a vagina than to have one of those big floppy things hanging off me like some meek amphibian, unsure of exactly what to do next. What a wiener.

I'd Rather Not Face Facebook

2009-01-19T14:56:00.006-05:00

I am not okay. I am not as good as you, as smart as you, as astute as you. That is how I feel. I am not as thin as you, either. What has me in this state? Facebook, an encyclopedia of everyone I ever met or ever knew in my entire life. I have only viewed these people in one conglomeration like this in unpleasant dreams, forgotten ten minutes after awakening. Do I need to know who is friends with whom or who is feeling what? Must I be repeatedly reminded of the credentials and accomplishments of former classmates who slid into prep school easily, while I somehow hobbled in, and hobbled quite a bit wile I was there? Egad. My identity is dropping in pieces all over the place, like so much manure on a lawn. And I don't even use my real name.

How did I get into this bizarre dilemma? No one put a gun to my head and commanded me to join. Well, first I was curious. Months passed. Then I saw all of my cute little midwestern relatives and it seemed so convenient that they are all on Facebook. What better way to be more in touch with my in-laws et al? Well folks in the midwest are friendly, happy to have friends, and friendly. I mean, very friendly. Folks here are commenting on every social ill, sophisticated to a fault, and/or ignoring my friend requests. Ouch.

Okay, it was just one person, or maybe one and a half. And it's not like I thought "I must contact these people." It's like I thought "I am so bored, maybe I will contact Bitsy and Patsy." Well Bitsy became my "friend," but said nothing. I was at her wedding! (Everyone, including her mother, told me how great I looked. That was a long time ago.) And Patsy did not respond at all. Naturally since I have nothing else to do (teaching, friends, sick kids, sick me, appointments, kids, cleaning), I thought about it a lot. What, me, ruminate? There is a reason that they may not want to speak to me and it has to do with me speaking up about a teacher we had who abused boys in our class. So now I have crossed from the trivial mindlessness of Facebook to deciding that these two people I have not seen in years are offended because I wrote a testimonial about a pedophile. Am I insane? I think, maybe, yes.

Thank you, Hallmark & Thank You, Good Books

2009-01-03T17:25:00.009-05:00

Look, it's me, overcoming my "writer's block," which was actually more of a firm decision not to write - convenient since I had nothing to say - followed by my current wonderings related to when I will write again. I have always enjoyed writing, ever since I wrote the epic poem, "Love."
The sky above sends me love, and a dove, to soothe my love, comes by.

That was around 1971. It's amazing to think of the impression Hallmark can make on a young child's brain and its budding poetry production. My parents duly framed it in a circular frame, adding to the "Love Is.." sort of sentimentality. I remember them being so pleased. What were they thinking? Our daughter: Future greeting card writer!

I am going to a Creativity Workshop tomorrow, as in "getting rid of obstacles to creativity." I am not sure I can get rid of my job, my family, and other adult responsibilities, but I will try. Some books I read recently perked me up about writing again: Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga; Restless by William Boyd; A Mercy by Toni Morrison (I did not read them in that order, but I did read them simultaneously at one point). (Those are random courtesy links that I have yet to read - this is not PhD Land!) The combination, along with Alan Moore's Watchman, a graphic novel Big Kid loaned me, have me remembering little details I thought about when I wrote. I was reminded of stories I authored, revised, and had critiqued over and over. It is all so private, those thoughts one has while writing and while planning writing. Indeed, last night I dreamed that Ball and Chain and I were staging another wedding, an event that takes place in one of the books. In my dream, I had forgotten my dress, and no one in the legions of people (it was populated with everyone I have ever met) could help me effectively. As I write this I have that sense of everything coming out as a platitude or a cliche. I'm rusty, self-conscious, and moving on here.

A Mercy was powerfully written, of course, but I found it hard to follow, as it is written, in part, in a slave's dialect, and others, in the 1680s. The writing was compelling, but hard to parse, and I do tire of the multi-perspective book. I definitely found the main character appealing, but she did not say enough for me. The book I had been working on - eons ago - had three narrators, so that must be what got my brain re-thinking writing. What to do for your reader once your narrator is accepted, only to be torn away for a later chapter? I read Restless next and I fell in love with one of the narrators (yes, more perspectives). She reminded me of a carefree friend from years ago who had an oh-well sensibility, but somehow turned rigid as an adult. The story is a great thriller, also, and written with clean detail - no flowery language and a lot of female bravado.

Finally, I read Nervous Conditions, a political novel about a girl growing up in Zimbabwe in the '60s (then Rhodesia), and her transformation as she has more exposure to British ways. That sounds dull but it was not. The narrator - only one - is honest, detailed, and open about her jealousies and flaws. She is insecure about her identity, her place in her family, and her willingness to set aside her convictions to get the status that she craves. I usually forgo overtly political novels, as genuine voice sometimes seems sacrificed for politic's sake. There is no hero in the text, though, and the prose is exacting in its descriptions of the personalities and conflicts in the family. The narrator's mother, in particular, is wildly angry and cruel but fundamentally correct in her 'uneducated' assertions. The first line got me right away: "I was not sorry when my brother died." I reread the first chapter after finishing the book - a new habit of mine - and it completed the story beautifully. Her brother's death makes her own advancement possible; her brother's status as a male created a distance between them from when they were small.

It is not ironic that I should read a book that starts with a brother's death, or an apparently crass first line. I was able to read it as someone else's experience, and as anyone who has experienced loss knows, it is that detachment versus engagement that can make the reality difficult. I am living without my brother, and I do not want to do it. Time moves ahead, and I see things that my brother will never see. Now he is gone and I will write no platitudes. I will see to my creativity, though, and maybe write a bit more.

Twelve is No Picnic - and I'm a Bitch

2008-06-23T12:06:00.005-04:00

Rugelah has been stressing me. Where is the conscience? The decency? The courtesy? I have been reduced to writing the rules of the kitchen and posting them on the refrigerator because she is so too-cool for the food we buy with the money we earn to feed her face! Everything leads to a pout. I am reading this book on the brain and if you deliberately articulate three positive things about your day you may actually feel better about your self (no it is not a pop-psych book, it is written by two neuro-scientists). The authors do not advocate making up crap that is unrealistic; it is more of a "dinner tasted good so life must be a wee but okay" typa thing.

So I said to Rugelah last night "what are your three things?" and she's all "I only have two." And I'm like gimme a break, but I told her my three anyway. She was very happy about my third one because I went grocery shopping and I got the English muffins she had requested. Nevuthuless, she refused to make it her third good thing because she wouldn't have the opportunity to eat the actual muff until today. Ach. Of course that sounds like a power struggle, because it was one, but I actually managed to seem blase about it.

She is rude these days. Big Brother says something about taking turns and she is aghast. I expect her to make her own breakfast and she looks forlornly at Ball & Chain, who is in My-Little-Girl-Gets -Everything (may I vomit) recovery, and he covers his face with the paper. She finds the English Muffins, sees that they are not white bread (I rarely buy white bread because I am an evil mother), and pronounces "I told you last time that I don't like flavored." Last time? I bought her English muffins maybe once before, back when she was human. Sticking with my blase ploy, and sipping my coffee, I muttered something about there being honey in them. She managed to toast, spread butter, and eat independently. Then, with a reminder, she cleared her plate, spilling only half the crumbs back onto the table.

Stop the presses! No need for me to describe other issues, as there has been a radical turn of events. Holy wrongful stereotyping by rude mother! Dear One Reader - and the dog - Rugelah came home from school, showed me her year book, and apologized! I retract it all, humbly, and admit that I was never as good a person as my dear little Pastry.

I'll keep trying.

Becca, Clouds and Weddings

2008-06-20T08:43:00.016-04:00

Now that I posted about Beanpole, Becca is wondering why I have not posted about her. Well, first of all, I have not blogged about anything in eons and am returning now, just after school's out. And, to be utterly truthful, an old college pal wrote me and complimented my writing and I thought I'm a lazy bum and then I decided to blog.

Regarding Becca: When someone is around for years and years and years you might not blog about her, but she has definitely received mention. She is a great writer and one of her essays - a combo of traditional rigorous research, contemporary culture, and a frank voice - was recently published in a well-known magazine that shall remain unnamed. She has published other work, as well. Does that count for me - my friend's publications?

I met Becca in high school. I was the new girl, and she was the serious girl who knew everybody and put herself down a lot. She encouraged me to speak up in class (something about which I did write in our alumni newsletter, so there), and she accepted me as I was, despite my lack of cool. Obnoxious Guy made fun of the elasticized waist on the back of the blazer I wore the first day, but Becca never did that stuff. Nowadays, Becca still knows everybody - she moved away for years, came back, and is fully installed, as if she never left. More importantly, she looks really good. Reference photo above. See what I mean? (Beanpole! She is straight.)

Becca was not at my wedding. It is hard to say "my wedding" after seeing the Sex and The City movie, because the main character is all ego-freaky about her wedding, but if I say "our wedding," it sounds like Becca and I are married, but we are not. (Incidentally, Sarah Jessica's wedding dress was a horror, especially since her boobs were too small for it. Those breast things are sticking out, and let's not get into the teal blue taxidermy on her head.) Okay, Becca was not there! Not at The Sex and The City wedding, and not at mine. Follow my digressions, please. At that point we were not in touch, and she was a high school pal whom I had not seen in ages. I did not want some of the people who were at my wedding to be there, and I wanted other people who were not there to be there, and it was all please-your-parents-ish. If Becca had been there I am quite sure it would have been better, but she wasn't, and I am still married. And both Becca and I had excellent wedding dresses sans the dead bird.

At Becca's wedding I had two clouds of guilt over my head. First, because she had not been at my wedding. And second, because I was seated with the most lovely couple, both of whom (I'm whoming a lot today) were classmates at the pre-Becca school I attended. Since Becca knows everybody, she eventually found them. She had told me that they were "the nicest people she had ever met," and she had traveled with them in India. Mrs. Nice-People was a former friend from sixth grade. I was new to private school, and she was a sweet, long-legged and friendly kid who sat with me. We were good friends - I remember sleeping on her top bunk - until The Popular Girls started paying attention to me, at which point I promptly dumped the now-Mrs. Nice-People. At least that's how I remembered it. Sitting there, next to them, as a shallow-child-turned-shallow-adult.

So I'm at this wedding with Ball & Chain, who is happily oblivious to my guilt-clouds, and downing kosher appetizers. (There was Jewish-wedding guilt, too, but that's another story.) Mr. Nice-People is thrilled to see me because, well, he's just thrilled to see me. We had only been in that class together for one year, as he arrived as a freshman, and then I left. He kept saying "I can't believe it! Lucy van Pelt!" or something to that effect. Mrs. Nice-People seemed much more believing and definitely less interested. I was sure she was remembering what an awful girl I had been, and I kept wondering how to say something about what an awful girl I had been. I randomly recalled two coincidental meetings with other members of her family over the years, both of which were awkward: Mom (part of Mom and Dad when I had known her) at a lesbian potluck when I was lesbianing in college, sister dating the fiancee I had ditched and then evil-eyeing me at a party at his house. Anyway, when Mr. Nice-People said goodbye to me, we hugged, but then he did not completely let go, and holding on to my waist with both hands, he looked into my eyes and told me how great it was to see me. I could see Mrs. N-P in my peripheral vision. It was was guilt cloud number three, but admittedly a small thrill.

There are other stories I could tell about Becca or Beanpole or Mrs. Nice-People, as women seem to be most of the main people in my life, and we all kind of come and go, like something out of Gertrude Stein. Recently I had a painful exchange with my dear sister. Becca once described to me the essence of her family, the way - no matter what - family stays together. She said she would tolerate anything from her sister because she was her sister. In high school, we would have scoffed at that type of loyalty, or an admission that friendships come and go. "Friends 4-Eva." But I think Becca was on to something. As my family tries to get up after a few awful swats, I am more conscious of the connection. Becca's insights help.

Big Brother and Beanpole

2008-06-19T15:52:00.008-04:00

It's time I wrote a little something about Beanpole, my new friend at work. I can call her Beanpole because she calls me the most atrocious of names. I had not heard that particular reference for maybe thirty years, and then only from my expert older brother. He was expert at being a faster, bigger, smarter older brother, and that's what set him apart from the amateurish brothers who sometimes pestered my friends. Laughing at a sister? That was nothing. With Big Brother, one never knew when the bed would be filled with minuscule sharp crumbs, when kids at school would tease about a private mortifying event at home, or when one's name might be turned into a subject of disgust. The satisfied grin on his face made it that much more horrendous. And a tiny bit funny, I'll admit, thirty-five years later.

Back to Beanpole. She also likes to tease, but now that I'm an immature adult, I enjoy a good tease myself. Plus - and this is what bonds us - she is an absolute yente (busybody), and she knows a lot about what goes on. Despite my short tenure there, I also keep my little ears open, so between the two of us we are quite an encyclopedia of knowledge. Since her students become my students, there was an initial awkwardness about whether each of us was up to snuff. But then when she told me that she has no grade book and that she cares more about the kids than the academics, I realized that we are cut from a similar sensitive/lazy (you decide) cloth.

Beanpole is a lesbian. She looks around ten years younger than me but she is not. I have a theory about lesbian vagina - historically unfettered by the trauma of childbirth - that may be a moot point soon, as many lesbians are giving birth. My childbirth experiences did not devastate my vagina, but it did not help matters either. The ridiculous stretch, the perineal disfiguration, the golf ball/hemorrhoid, the subsequent back injury, perhaps the rapidity with which I shot those mucus-heads out, all, in hindsight, or perhaps in cunt-sight, aged my twot. It's a good twot, but it needs to be taken out and walked every day. It needs exercise, and it suffers from cramping when I menstruate.

But wait. I was not referring to Beanpole's vagina looking younger than mine; I actually meant her face and general demeanor. What would age her? No kids, no husband, no childbirth, no saggy belly. Doesn't it make logical sense, though, that if one's female parts are youthful that one's other parts would be in good shape too? And if you are reading this and thinking it's all crap and I would be fine if I just exercised, well, you are right. and I'm quite sure I'll start tomorrow. However, this little piece is about Beanpole, despite the detour into my - figurative - vaginal non-virginal canal. Hey- no fair! Beanpole sounds phallic but she is very much a female. That was some unintentional vaguely disturbing Freudish-type stuff that we shall now pass over.

The bit that is fun is Beanpole's unsquelched enthusiasm. Perhaps it belies her youthful glow, as it were. She asked me to help her move even though I have not known her for very long, and she laughed when I feigned offense. She raves about her dog as if he is a long-lost love, and she is something of an eager puppy herself. The friendly digs she seems to have borrowed from Big Brother make her that much more familiar. A bigger, faster, taller person who gives me grief! How refreshing!

Good Turns and My Inner Television

2008-03-08T23:21:00.004-05:00

Big Kid is in the hospital right now and of the hundreds of images blowing through my semi-conscious brain, the one that really popped was all of these anonymous gals writing to me on my blog. I didn't write for a long while and now some of my links aren't linkable anymore, which sucks. Anyway back to Cowbell and Suzanne and all of the other women who've pushed a good word my way, it's quite startling, really. In the face-to-face people naturally don't know what to say, which is understandable, but then other people take the time to give out something to a stranger.

I started writing on here after Baby Brother was killed and somehow people responded and it gave me something to do other than wring my hands. And I did truly wring them, turning and pulling at them as if something worthwhile would squeeze out. Once I started typing, all of this not-profound insight based on seventies television came out, and I realized that maybe I could bumble through the shit. Then lo then behold and people wrote to me, too.

Now here I am again only it's not again it's the same thing because once a man is killed, people suffer for a long time. Big Kid and Baby Brother were close more like brothers or maybe in other families people get that close to an uncle? It still hurts and today I wanted to talk to my brother so badly, to let him know how his nephew is, and to get his opinion. It's rare when someone else loves your kid the way you love your kid, or understands him in the true sense. And then some excellent icing on the case when people you've never met send good vibes through a computer to help a woman they've never met.

I'm watching season 3 of The Wire on DVD and reading Becoming Madame Mao by Anchee Min. In between I'm hopscotching through my days, trying to manage the serious shit.

Mental Health and not-Freudian Typos

2008-02-22T07:16:00.005-05:00

This morning I had quick anxiety attack (thank God that's over) followed by crying over my brother. You know what really sucks? It sucks when you adore someone and you feel utterly comfortable with him and then he gets killed by a half-baked porn star. You think you're better and you really are, but there are not that many people who pad around in pajamas all day concocting "cheesies" with Korean sauces and other fine ingredients like sardines. There is just no one who has as many condiments as he did, or who looks as scruffy. Plus, to be selfish, I do miss being understood and accepted. Plenty of people are very good to me, but to love me is to embrace the unpredictable and get ready for some emotional crap. Ball & Chain is good at reading the paper and I don't mind and when I do he puts it down.

I don't like it when people talk about Baby Brother like he was perfect. That's not it at all. But his appreciation of the so-called 'low brow,' and his array of crap, were quite comforting. like that guy under plastic with the little magnetic hairs that you move with a wand to make a beard or hair or both. I am good at that. (Baby Brother would have loved this political version to the right - Create A Commie - although the little magnetic hairs should probably be gray as homage to Senor Castro.) I was looking for some crap to cheer Rugelah up when she was sick. Big Kid found Pez with a weird cat head. I found stickers that you put on your office stuff - for example, teeth for your stapler - to jazz things up a bit.

But back to naxiety. Ooh I like that typo - I'm leaving it. Naxiety: The condition of being so anxious that one loses the ability to type properly as symptom of weakening ability to think sequentially. I could write my own DSM! Both anxiety and naxiety are a fucking plague on my life. I had been taking an SSRI only to discover that that particular drug is associated with memory loss. Here I thought that I was having word-retrieval issues that coincidentally arose when some half-assed psycho-pharm doctor put me on it - oh no it was my old inappropriate shrink who sent me an email along with his other "friends and colleagues" before I ditched him - without ever mentioning memory issues. Ack!

What's the theme of this piece of writing? For the one and a half people reading - and the dog, of course - it's beware of psychopharmacology, especially if you genuinely need it - and don't ever forget that your anxiety is just your coping mechanism for avoiding what really hurts. Naxiety is a related disorder found in 80% of people with anxiety and predession, a topic for later discussion.

What Would Carol Say?

2008-02-10T17:42:00.000-05:00

I received a Dear Jane letter. Not from my husband, not from my lover ( that would also be my husband), not from some crazed spammer. It was from a former friend. We were friends briefly, then the fun and hilarity that sprung up quickly faded almost as quickly. She was cold and distant. I thought 'what the hell'? I had other friends and I got over it or whaddevah and moved on. Years passed. I continued to be friends with my friends - Becca, Chrystal, Doctor, Cutie, among others - and my children grew, etc etc. Suns rose, moons rose, zits came and went.

Then one morning last week, sitting with the coffee Ball & Chain makes me, was a gray envelope, clearly from this woman. We'll call her Egomania S. New-Heights. She actually has a very Austen-esque name, so we could call her Penelope, which sorta cracks me up - but I'll decide later. The letter, over which B& C was drooling a bit, as he is a yente (Jewishe busy-body) inside a WASP body, was addressed in a stylized cursive. How quaint. A letter! I was too bleary to imagine why this person would write me now, but apparently B& C thought it would be a rapproachment of sorts - how Penelope-ish - or something similarly juicy.

She said she had pondered our relationship from all sorts of angles. Out of her ass perhaps? And she felt she owed me an explanation as to why she had "dumped" me. I was genuinely perplexed. Dumped me? Angles? I, the ruminator of all ruminators, worrier extra-ordinaire, had not given a thought to this woman in years. Our friendship was brief, she became unpleasant, I had other fish to fry. She went on to say that she had begun to feel critical, and to her, "that meant death to a friendship." See what I mean about the Jane Austen part? Okay, maybe more Carol Burnett? Remember when Carol came down the stairs, a la Scarlett O'Hara, wearing not only the drapes, but the curtain rod across her shoulders? Her forte was laughing at melodrama, and of course those bulging crazy-eyed expressions.

Penelope went on to wish me well and make reference to my witty personality or something. She broke up with me and we were not going out! I was offended, I started to be angry, and then I realized how funny it is to receive a break-up letter from someone you never think about. In fact as I write this, I cannot help laughing a bit because here is one issue I really did not consider. What to do with the actual letter? Keep it to make petty and vindictive remarks? No fun, really, as I have no pent-up feelings of revenge, as I do not think of her. After an intimate discussion with B&C - about 10 seconds - I took his advice and threw it out. If it were the Carol Burnett Show, I would have had to light it with a match while Harvey Korman emitted an evil laugh. Or at least I could have found the several gifts she had given me and angrily tossed them. I like the stuff, though, so I am keeping it.

How I would eat up a letter from the guy with whom I was engaged and broke it off; the friend who never returned my letter after we argued over politics; any former female lover; the childhood frenemy who led the girl group to shun me with evil little notes about my awful hair and face. Or my long-lost pretend uncle who always adored me from afar (when he dies I will inherit pretend money - a lot of it)? So many people about whom I dream, wonder, and consider after lo these many years. But Penelope aka Egomania? She's not even a post-script in my imaginary autobiography. Perhaps this is at least one person out there who over-thinks even more than me? Or - a more realistic theory - did not watch enough Carol Burnett to know when something is downright silly.

Yikes Anxiety

2008-02-06T20:57:00.000-05:00

Didja ever find out that someone at your job was not having her contract renewed and then get in a panic because you remember other awful and difficult places and then you think well maybe I was wrong maybe all these places fire teachers willy nilly who says stuff like that - willy nilly - anyway then you try to call your two pals at your work but they're not answering and what with caller id they will think you're insane?

Ironically I just dreamed about Lou Grant who turned out to be Bitchqueenfromhell and it was the first dream in which she was trying to get me to stay there before she decided to try to get me to leave there without telling me to leave but just tormenting and humiliating me because I was more qualified than she thought I was and somehow being a certified teacher drove her mad. Whoa upon rereading that truly makes no sense.

I threaten people. That's my problem. I overwhelm people with my Mensa-esque intelligence, my stunning Cate Blanchett (not Winslett) look and my probing questions. Ack! When I saw my co-worker's face I recognized that freaky sudden realization that oh I need to go elsewhere. Of course when Lou Grant did that she followed up with offering a position a few days later but still there have been other situations in which my job has gone bad somehow or I have felt unwelcome oh woe is me this is ridiculous. Do you sense the defensive tone? Someone might actually read this and judge me and be like ooh why didn't they like her at that school and now even when I have a good situation I am a nervous goddamn wreck.

That's all folks. Psychopharm appointment tomorrow - no shit.

Post Script: Seinfeld rerun tonight was perhaps the funniest episode I've ever seen: Kramer stopped wearing underwear, Jerry dated a white woman who pretended to be Chinese, George's dad - Jerry Stiller - had a lawyer who wore a cape, and Elaine ruined her friend's life. I could just add: and while watching, Lucy convinced herself that her job was going down the tubes.

Gimme Fred and Ethel.

2008-02-03T19:31:00.000-05:00

I am writing instead of watching the SuperBowl - ha! I would rather watch Desperate Housewives and I do not like Desperate Housewives. I would rather watch Mitt Romney and John McCain have a debate and I dislike both of them immensely. I would not rather watch Hilary and Obama because I am a traitor, a fake, a massive hypocrite. I do not like Hilary because she was for the war, she gives me a headache, and worst of all, her goddamn husband would be in the White House controlling shit and that's weird because he was already The President, right?

So I am not the perfect product of women' college. I don't feel guilty. No, no, no, ack, yes, okay I do. Is it not prescribed that I vote for Hilary? I adored Geraldine Ferraro, I swear! She was smart, down-to-earth, righteous. She absolutely did not talk about the "HBT" ("human being time") she had with her husband. That was then, this is now, and I am disappointed. A Republican friend (yes I have one) asked me today what Obama's positions really are. I admit that I don't exactly know, apart from opposing the war, but I really like what he says. I know he's progressive and intelligent and all-the-stuff-I-am, I think?

Perhaps I am a political ignoramus. I did go to the Obama web site a few weeks ago to become more well-versed with his policies. It was so fucking boring I could feel my brain dry up a bit as I read. Do I remember what it said? Hell, no! It was like reading a history textbook, a task I never succeeded at, unless it was one paragraph on a page with a lot of photos and a penciled-in moustache on a dead white guy.

But I digress. I do read the paper and I am familiar with what's going on politically and I cannot embrace the joy of Hilary Clinton's candidacy. Reign in the husband, Lady! Ethel and Fred both had strong personalities, but she didn't let him weigh in on Lucy's dilemmas. I've had mixed feelings about Hilary ever since her husband was elected and she began to work on health care. I was like 'hold the phone,' who elected her? Now it just keeps going like that, with blurred boundaries between the two of them. I had a crazy-ass principal years ago - I've had a few - whose unemployed husband joined a meeting she had with a group of teachers. None of the teachers knew what to say when the guy offered his advice, but they were too polite to question his presence. I have not been accused of being too polite - ever - and unless we start electing co-presidents, this is wrong.

On the proverbial second thought, perhaps it's not so different from Bush/Cheney. Hill/Bill. They could run for president and vice president together. I'd like to see the husband as the VP in the old VP style: no real power and we never hear from him. I'd particularly like a genuine First Gentleman, in the tradition of the many First Ladies before him. Now there's a concept I could embrace: the 'pussy-whipped' former president in an outfit by a famous designer giving interviews to Ladies Home Journal. He could start a controversial campaign against drugs or in favor of children reading. The style pages would publish articles on his hair color and choice of ties.

The Clintons are both extra-intelligent, but there's something sneaky that makes me queasy and uneasy. I'd rather think about football. And I don't like football.

Neuroses, Ho!

2008-01-30T21:05:00.001-05:00

I am walking around one big goddamn regret after another. I just spent all of this time looking back at old posts because a new friend, Sway, is going to look at my blog and maybe she'll discover what an ass I am. I started a new job and people seem to think I am intelligent over there. Well now my cover's blown! Plus: maybe I should have exercised a bit over the past twenty years. Or even this morning, I could have read the paper more carefully so I would be more politically attuned. I truly obsess over all of the millions of things I could have done or said. Another friend said 'shoulda coulda woulda,' as if I should just forget it all. But my regrets are like a map of my neuroses and without my neuroses, well, would I be the same gal?

There is no way I could be as pseudo-anxious as Ally McBeal, who I loved to hate, except when I was hating the other people on the show. Remember when Peter McNichol was on that Family show in the seventies with his actual sister Kristie who turned out to be a cute lesbian with frosted hair but no tv career? Then there's the mom on Malcolm in the Middle - love her! She's like the best Queen Bitch you ever dreamed you'd be. But I'm more like Leah Remini, the wife on King of Queens, with the UPS guy and Jerry Stiller. She worries about the stupidest crap and what people said and why they said it and whether her ass has gone bad. That's me right there. Except in real life she's a Scientologist and in real life I am prejudiced against Scientology because it seems like Tom Cruise is a freak. Not a good freak - a bad icky freak. Plus, regarding Leah, I would never marry Kevin James. He's too I'm-a-big-hunka-stupidity. I wouldn't mind being related to Jerry Stiller. Maybe I am related to Jerry Stiller. Or maybe I just look like Leah Remini?

Religious Cynicysm, Money & Other Musings

2008-01-20T11:47:00.000-05:00

They're expanding the temple where my daughter goes to Hebrew School and we can't afford the dues or the requested building costs, there are some stylin' new clothing items that so suit me right now, and I love my job where I don't make enough money but did receive a bonus for the first time in my life.

The temple thing is crappy because my brother's memorial service was there and every time I go in I feel, well, grief-stricken, and also they are way into doing mitzvahs and I'm like you're a buncha excessively rich people who deign to donate cans, and now they're publishing the names of people who donate cash to the place in their newsletter. And I'm like donate! I am one of the people who gets a major break on dues, for crissake, or god's sake, or somebody's sake. Why do I belong to a religious institution anyway? Rugelah wants to take the classes and have a Bat Mitzvah, and that, actually, is very worthwhile. If only it could be done in another context, but I guess this as progressive as we can be, without having a Buddha Mitzvah in a grassy field.

My fashion frustration is that this whole long-shirt smock-type idea is excellent for me and I bought one in New York (with the money I didn't give the temple, poor Jew that I am) and it looks great. Compliments my still-perky yet small breasts, and covers the tummy bulge aptly. So I went to this excellent fashion site, Bluefly, and all of Sweet Pea's stuff, who I recognized from Project Runway, which we watched at my rich cousin's house because we don't have cable, is so very even-a-middle-aged lady could wear this. Plus Envi/En V had this cool red-and-gray mod circles and snap at the top dress. okay, I admit it's a bit short for me, but I love it anyway. It is just so lovely to have clothing one likes and kinda shitty not to be able to go out and buy it all. How spoiled-brattish of me, but waah!

My life is quite better lately because I am not so heavily grieving for Baby Brother as I was for so long. The trial was the proverbial travesty of justice, but Baby Brother always referred to the corrupt legal system, so it was validation that his anti-establishment stance was right on.

And now I'm off for dresslust.

Yes, I'm Home

2007-11-07T20:14:00.000-05:00

Cowbell came knocking so despite my exhaustion I will report that I am now gainfully employed at a progressive independent school, I haven't had a moment to do much more than eat, sleep, and teach; and Ugly Betty - sorry too tired to link - is not as good this season.

I miss reading my blogs and writing of all sorts. I don't miss correcting papers or arguing with teenage boys who thinking they are smarter than me and in reality may be smarter than me. That's because I do those things a lot. Ball & Chain's substance abuse counseling has been amazing, and he realized that he was self-medicating for years. Some of the flaws I'd accepted since 1990 just aren't there anymore.

I'm so middle-aged: my feet hurt, my back hurts, I've gained a little weight and I don't give a shit, my hands are purply-veiny and I don't give a shit, and I am utterly baffled by the notion of doing things like cooking after work. I wear under-eye cover-up every day as well as some lipstick. I met some cool people at work and I thought wow everyone's great. But on second thought I'm like, not really. Also, again, I don't give a shit.

I hafta stop writing because I am so goddamn tired. How pathetic. Within 10 minutes I'll be asleep, responsibly supervising my kids, in my dreams.

I Quit

2007-09-03T14:29:00.000-04:00

Okay enough of the Lou Grant stuff. He wasn't Ed Asner, he wasn't Lou Grant, he wasn't even a he. He was a she. When I first started writing about it, that seemed irrelevant. But now I believe that no male boss would have the nerve to bully me in quite that way. Did I really write that? I did. Somehow I seem to irritate female bosses, asking more questions than they want me to answer. Of course men in general are bigger bullies than women, but my experience is that my female bosses have not wanted to hear from me. One of them told me that when I asked questions, she felt I was undermining her authority. But, like, I truly needed clarification. Was I supposeta just walk off, dumb?

I am freaked out, to say the least. She Who Shall Not Be Named refused to speak with me, forbade me to speak with others about certain topics, chastised me for discussing the design of my classroom with co-workers, and put me in a training for first year teachers. That's just the beginning, but it all came to be utterly humiliating. I felt a visceral sense, driving home one day, that I could not do it. I knew she would not write me a reference; I knew that I might end up back in the hospital, after years of staying out.

Me, being defensive: one veteran teacher cried after a staff meeting ('I can't believe I'm doing this again.'). Many were up in arms. The head of special needs told me she had to work all summer because people kept quitting. So the day I resigned, I was thrilled, freed, liberated. Then came the next day. Why? Why do I choose crazy quirky schools? Why can't I tolerate following orders, even when they don't make sense? Why wasn't I a movie star like everyone in the magazines? They obviously have no problems.

I did finally receive some good news, and that's why I am able to blog: the wonderful pre-school where I useta work contacted me and they have openings. They loved me. But it doesn't pay enough. I would have to tutor, too, which would be good if I knew I had the tutoring students. Meanwhile, I am applying to every possible job and trying to squeeze a reference out of justabout anybody.

Oh, and did I mention that I have no money? Oy vesmir.

Shit! My Boss Scares Me

2007-08-26T20:37:00.000-04:00

It's about that simple. I make one wrong move, and he's like all angry and weird. He treats people like shit. We never know what to expect, and things change constantly. We're not stockbrokers, for godsakes, we're teachers. There is no real reason to describe it all: intimidation and manipulation, that's it. What's so complicated?

I'm over there trying to help other people hold themselves together because they feel like shit, too. Somehow the staff is phenomenal, but Voldemort has favorites, enemies, and folks in-between. I am in-between because I bug him and I ask questions. He has me in a training - a three-year program - that I have had before (I should be doing one year at the most because I am at a new grade level), and just 'dug in his heels' when I showed him the credentials. It is infuriating to train to be a more effective and compassionate teacher whilst being shat on.

I keep using the word shit. Hmmm. Maybe something about my boss reminds me of excrement. Yes, I think that must be it.

He refused to discuss the redundancy of my being re-trained, and forbade me from discussing it with anyone else. I have no idea if the administrator I trusted to be confidential let it slip, and so I'm in a sorta no-win situation with her, too. I can't ask her if she slipped because she'll tell him I did if she did. How utterly stupid. And shitty.

So I advised a few of the younger folks who are really down on themselves to try "voodoo" dolls. I knew someone who had a horrid boss and an artist-friend made her a so-called voodoo doll, and yes I know true voodoo is something totally different. Nevertheless, the suggestion was meant to cheer them up, and it did. It's plain wrong for a young and talented teacher to blame herself because she cannot continue to speak up after so many of her ideas have been sot down. Really shitty, like bad diarrhea.

Anyway I am totally angry at myself for spending so much time worrying about Voldemort and even find myself worrying about what I say here because I am like paranoid which is probably the point, or something. I know that he has told numerous people that I am a "wonderful teacher." How does that help me when , in person, he is somehow disordered, either happily praising me or telling me he can't talk to me for even a moment? And then I feel happy when he's nice to me. Egad it hurts, but it's true. Sooo shitty, like I stepped in it and it's ruining my shoes. (I'll kill the metaphor if I want to - it's my shitty blog!)

People in my life have all sorts of opinions about this and mainly I hafta stay where I am for another school year unless a dream job pops up this week. Since I do not have a fairy godmother, or, alternatively, a license in special education, I will hafta try to avoid Satan. I'm telling you, though, The Big Shit scares me.

One Small Note, then Bathing Suits & My Body

2007-08-20T09:00:00.000-04:00

Excuse me for being like everybody else, but this is far too clever to leave off. Rugelah and I cannot stop imitating Catherine Tate, a British comedienne with a flair for characterization. This was a link to the youtube video, but it will only lead to youtube itself. Try "Tempura" & "Catherine Tate." It's worth it, and as for the link glitch, mea culpa - I'm a writer feigning knowledge of technology.

Somehow, despite adoring Monty Python, Big Kid finds our amusement with Ms. Tate utterly disdainful, like nails on a chalkboard. I think Rugelah's accent is fine, especially with a tiny bit of incredulity as she repeats the word "tempura." This jocular tidbit of has little to do with the following intellectual essay, but it's my blog, so there.

In other news, Suzanne recommends that we all post pics of ourselves in bathing suits, thus contradicting the myth of the swimsuit issue. I love the idea, but since my blog is anonymous, and since my camera is broken, and since I am not as evolved as Suzanne, I plan to post a bathing suit photo that could be me.

Here I am after I had all of my organs removed, and a few select extras transplanted as breasts. In the spirit of full disclosure, the left breast is a kidney, the right a lung.

That did not work out too well for me, so the docs agreed to give me my old body back. Problem is, I pretend to be an NB, "near-B" in-between breast size. Only because I'm a little bigger than an A, and I am uncomfortable without a bra. Don't get me wrong: my breasts are excellent. They fed two babies, and they perk up quite nicely. Without the nipples, I am fairly sure that I would never have had an orgasm. Lucky me! Their size, though, cannot be replicated in photos because you cannot see them too much. Think Grace from Will & Grace in a padded bra. That's about my size.

Which leads to my post-op dilemma. My hips and thighs are a nice size, and I have a little belly where they put my uterus back in. So I'm kinda small above the waist, and then I gather heft as I go down. My weight goes up and down generally, as it will, and sometimes, due to my sensitive stomach, aka migraine/nausea and diarrhea/reflux (don't that sound sexy) I cannot eat much and I become rather thin. Other times, when I can be the swine I was meant to be, I get more hippy and my belly pooches out like everybody else's.

The point is that all of the women with nice big butts also have tits and all of the women with small tits have no hips. Apparently I am mutant. Clothes fit me, and I can get my ass through doors. But all of the women in photos lack my lovely proportions. Also, when a cyst ruptured twenty years ago, the surgeon stapled me up a bit funny so my belly sorta hangs down over my undies, as if my undies are too tight, but they're not. I say "undies," or "underwear," not "panties," because my Mom always said panties and I found it far too dainty a word, then and now. It's my underwear, goddammit. I never liked the expression "bowel movement," either, which my parents shortened to "BM." Jeez. It's shit, it's poop, or it's crap, one of my all-time fave words. Usage: the idea that women are built like pre-pubescent boys with two grapefruit breast implants is crap.

If I had my way, we'd all wear those old stylin' bathing suits. Then I wouldn't have to share my pubic hair, or the little rash after I shave it, with the rest of the world. Plus those old styles suit me - pardon the pun please. So much for being anonymous. If you see the one woman around with child-bearing hips, a belly drooping over her drawers - there's a good word, too - and small breasts, that's me. I miss my lung/kidney breasts, but the sacrifice was worth it. Now I can breathe, extra-deep.

Camping Recommendations, Scholarly Jews, & Digressions

2007-08-19T12:00:00.000-04:00

Camping is fun. Bah, you say? You simply haven't found the proper place, the proper equipment, or the proper camping partner. When I camp, I prefer to tag along with Ball & Chain. We pretend we are going together, as a family, even, but he does, like, everything. It is so very satisfying! I do not know why he does everything, and I do not know why building a fire counts as the thing that I do, but it does. Hee hee hee. We have fire-starter, for "post-feminism's" sake (nosuchthing, really), so I just do the stuff I was taught at private school go-away-and-learn -about-nature trips, and I stay warm.

Here is what you need to do if you want to have fun: first, go somewhere that has clean flush toilets. Otherwise, well. Not a literal well, just, I am not sure of how much adventure one wants. Next: a hot shower is good, but I'll admit that you should bring little plastic flip-flops and a certain blind-eye attitude toward soap residue and anonymous hairs that I obviously don't truly have. The blind-eye, so to speak. But I digress, and in opposition to the case I am trying to make!

Have a partner who loves to camp and has a strong back. He or she must be good-natured, and come from a hearty WASP-ish background. Okay, if you are a Jew who actually camped, I congratulate you, I just didn't know our tribes did that in the seventies, from whence I hailed. Actually, I hailed in 1964, but the seventies and suburban temple is more relevant here. Not, however, in the woods. Nothing mandatory whatsoever, and certainly not 3 afternoons of learning to read Hebrew, an excellent language I'm sure, but if I understood a word, the reading might have been more helpful. (I know not of the relationship between contemporary camping and ethnicity or race, save one qualitative sociological observation: campers of our ilk are not in banking.)

Yeesh, bear with me here - not a black bear, but they may be around, too: I have just found some lovely sites reminding me of the many times Jews prayed and studied in private, but also gorgeous renderings of children studying Hebrew in the woods. And contrary to the above-authored blurb, I am reading a thus-far excellent book by Allegra Goodman called Katerskill Falls about observant Jews summering and studying. And although Ball & Chain practices Buddhism, the three others in our little family, the actual Jews, including me, read profusely while we were there. So we were quite Jewish about it, and I stand self-corrected. Nevertheless, I leave my error intact, as it is along the lines of Jews not being athletes, which is such crap, and if I am going to Say Something, I might as well air the whole mishegas out.

Yikes, more digression!

The campsite should absolutely not have tons of RVs, bare-bellied teens smoking as you drive in, or a plethora of activities going on. Red flag! If you see dogs, excellent. Matching dobermans, beer cans, no. People actually making fires, yes. A dead deer on the roof, perhaps not.

Lastly, try to find a place that is a state park. The sites should be fairly private and flat. The lake and sprouting little trails and creeks should be a short walk from the site. At night, be sure to look up, look up, and see the stars. During the day, look up again at the under-shapes of the leaves and the changing sky behind. Sit your ass down in a folding chair - a must-have for every pseudo-camper - and watch the leaves sweep around in the wind. Fall asleep if you like.

Here's what to eat: soak your corn, unhusked, in water for a bit, and then wrap it, still unhusked, in aluminum foil and put it over a raging fire. After a few minutes, it will be very hot, and the taste: sublime. The husk and threads will pull off easily. Your marshmallows need to be near hot coals to brown perfectly. Take your time, so the insides melt. If you want something extra-good for your s'mores, put a small piece of chocolate inside the marshmallow. Yummy.

I saw a small wildflower, three or four in a tiny orange-red bunch, on top of one stem. It bloomed and faded over the days there. Big Kid learned how to play cribbage and Rugelah talked a lot about the many shades of green. It was our 17th wedding anniversary, and the 20th anniversary of the year we met. Thinking back, I realized that I have been a rather persnickety wife. I told Ball and Chain, as we sat by the fire, and he bunched up his face and asked what 'persnickety' meant. When I said a bit too picky about small things, he sort of shrugged. Ironically, the realization itself was a small thing, and we both let it fly away with the crackling smoke.

Documentation

2007-08-10T11:35:00.000-04:00

I am writing this a few hours before omigod I almost wrote "my brother goes to trial," but my brother is dead and today the judge will decide when the trial is, unless the defense does some other crazy thing. So I am documenting what it is to be like while one goes through such a surreal moment and yes tears are rivuleting down my cheeks and yes I am a shitty mother and I took a klonopin to try to calm down. There is no rule book for someone murdering my brother. It is not even in "Worse Case Scenarios" which seemed funny and was something Z, my brother, and I laughed about when he sent it to Big Kid.

And about writing, which has been integral to my identity, I have been torn from it and applied all of the guilt that a remiss older sister might feel to the endeavor. Why am I not a better blogger friend? How do people have time to read other blogs or even focus on them? I admire my faves so much - they are listed as is customary, but Suzanne and Purloined and all of those people over there keep writing and writing and I do wonder whatever happened to that homeless woman, maybe she's a millionaire now.

I am always diagnosing people and myself, like the doctor-by-proxy my dad always said I'd be and I definitely am GUILTY. I should have worked harder in school. I should have been tougher, but I should have been kinder. I should have cared about all of it instead of picking and choosing. I should have figured out how to keep my act together when several employers kinda said we're not firing you but you're not up to snuff.

Chrystal has all sorts of excuses for me re the traumas of the past few years, but really why I am not one of those nose-to-the-grindstone-republicanish types? I don't need reassurance, I need a diagnosis. I am truly obsessed with all the wrongs I have committed and I am fearful, too, because my boss really can be so mean and everyone there is intimidated yet there are things there I love.

And what does one do when the words are spoken? The trial is... I am not even sure who I am writing to but since my vow is to say something I do want to say something about how when you murder someone you devastate their family and it's children and mothers and regular people who might have been doing other things, like holding a little new baby neice, or worrying over stupid stuff. So now I am writing, and this is the documentation, and they don't ask sisters to make victim-impact statements, but I wish I could.

No wrap-it-all-up ending.

Something Serious to Say

2007-08-04T10:24:00.000-04:00

I am sad. In 6 days we will find out when the trial for my brother's killer will be. That is a strange sentence to type, or even think. It becomes difficult to follow an actual whole book, or to consider writing about anything. One proceeds through, feigning some degree of normalcy, and then it's like oh a murder trial. How surreal and emotionally bizarre.

We often refer to people "understanding." That's not really possible, and I am not convinced that it's necessary. Since I have family who also experienced the loss, I know there are at least 3 people who "get it." But to 'get it' may just mean they feel awful in a similar style to my awful feeling. There is a good chance that we are not all on the path to any meta-cognition about the matter.

Indeed, the crux of the problem seems to be when one loses the meta-cognition and is unable to see one's self realistically. The situation comes back in distortion, of course, as the human brain is truly ill-equipped to manage the information too closely. We are all better at storing it away, and events like trials cause a little leakage from that remote storage area.

Here's what I think I might sort of know: natural justice will prevail in the so-called life of the person who killed my brother. Regardless of what a court decides, there is an accounting that will have to be made, and there will be no freedom for her. Perhaps this is what I tell myself as comfort, but I also believe that people's spirits bear out, so that we all do know when someone is good or when someone has dome a horrible wrong. We sense the disturbance; we hear the dog growl, and eventually, he bites. Then people say "we had no warning." But there are warnings, if we are able to look. Killing is wrong, and in this instance, it was, ironically, both brutally deliberate and utterly random.

Artifice, Love, and Dicks

2007-07-03T10:13:00.000-04:00

Last night, Rugelah and I watched a show in which older women and younger women competed against one another for the attentions of a tall guy with an accent and a pea for a brain. Really, though, how intelligent could these women be? You may be wondering why I'd watch with my daughter. It's because I'm a bad and hypocritical mother. Besides, the day before, I made a major effort to attend the Impeach Bush/Cheney protest in Kennebunkport, so my Good Mother Points were way up there. Rugelah didn't come with me, but I set a helluva good example. Big Kid said it was futile to go, and that really set me off - a cynical teenager - so I had to go. And with my Mommy and Daddy, no less.

There were lotsa people there. On the shuttle bus, I sat next to an amiable fellow who spends half the year around Maine, half in Florida. He looked maybe fifty-five, and he chatted about Bush's many violations of the law. As the bus neared its destination, he lowered his head and said something on the evidence that 9/11 was really an American, home-grown job. Oh Lord, I thought to myself. I can't abide conspiracy theories: they're just too hokey, or something. Even when Ball & Chain was convinced Rugelah had conspired to lose her glasses, it caused terrible turmoil in our home, and it turned out to be untrue. At the rally, some talented speakers did a good job of making a point. Some other people campaigned for Kucinich and I'm like stick to one issue, puhleez.

So back to my low-brow activities. After a day of blathering on about the inadequate and inaccurate media coverage at George Bush's summer shack, I needed some down-time. Way down. I think it was called Love Connection, or something like that. Ooh, remember that show? People would try to figure out if they had the connection. there was some catch, like they couldn't see each other? Horrors. On the show last night, a buncha women just prayed that a guy would choose them over the others. The so-called man was an utter boor, kissing everyone, and whining on about how hard it was for him to choose. Each woman, in succession, talked about her growing feelings for him. It was a little like an election, I suppose, with everyone getting all hyped up about someone we don't really know. We feign strong feelings for the person, but then if we find out he got an illicit blow-job, we're like 'kick him off the island,' or the show, or the Presidency.

Who the hell would ever join a gang of a buncha women waiting to be noticed by one guy? How utterly demeaning. Each of them, Rugelah pointed out, had flat tummies, large breasts, and - I noticed - a pleading expression (please pick me!). We agreed that neither of us would ever sit around in a herd, hoping not to be dismissed. Yet as a public policy matter, it seems we all do that. Who are these people who run for the Big Office? I never met them. They are strange men, literally strangers, pretending to know us. The point is, don't fuck around with strangers, especially on t.v., and probably if they're the President, and absolutely not if you are meant to compete with a herd of needy Barbie-dolls. (No offense, Barb, I'm sure you're monogamous.)

We missed the best part of the show, though, or what looked like it would be: one of the women was getting ready to ditch the guy. There was no chemistry, and she was ready to be done. She talked empowerment, but that ended quickly. He asked her to stay, then there was a commercial, and then by the time we got back, she had returned to the herd of girlfriend-wannabes. So, begging your pardon, this really is like the Presidency. It's a lot of artifice, it's televised, people feel passionately. The problem is, after the Presidency Show, the dumbass main character is truly still living in the White House, and he's already chosen a scary partner, a real Dick.

Intermittent Me/ How to be "A Writer."

2007-07-03T10:07:00.000-04:00

As anyone can plainly see, I have been on yet another hiatus from blogging. Ironically, I have been trying to get back to story-writing, but instead of doing that, I've been somewhat paralyzed. Some folks tell me to blog, some folks tell me to get back to stories. My writing is definitely a metaphor for what's going on in my head, and it is definitely not a linear matter. I need guidance.

Perhaps some of my former readers will come back and tell me what you think? Truly I want to pursue my writing my I'm sorta slogged about which to do. Perhaps the answer is to try to do it all, and I could post some stories and poems. Anyway this, is meant to be brief, as the navel-gazing is not warranted given the circumstances. Any advice about How to Pursue One's Writing would be appreciated.

Did I Really

2007-04-22T21:47:00.000-04:00

say "I'll be riding tonight" yesterday? I did, of course, and upon re-reading it, I am stunned that I wrote something so very absurd. How ridiculous. I was channeling a college guy in Arizona, maybe, or just writing something that would look embarrassing later. I am purposely not deleting because it is so ridiculous and I can be a doofus and demonstrate that it is okay to appear foolish and live to write about it.

Back when I wrote that, I looked like a regular forty-ish gal. Now, on Chrystal's advice, I look like a punk wannabe and it does not work. My hair color was too light, she said. Make it darker, like your natural color, she said. Use this and that crap from the store she said. And after an apparent channeling of Lucille Ball on one of her most hysterical days, I neglected to read the side panel and I ended up with purple hair. No, I am not exaggerating. Both children laughed. Even I laughed. I washed and washed and washed it. I thought it was better, but yet another friend said to put brown over it. I did that, too - this is all month-long color, nothing too damaging - and now I look even more witchy. Fair skin , dark hair, circles under my eyes even more visible. I'm already rehearsing the easy laugh for tomorrow when I return to work looking like I had a mid-life goth crisis.

I told Rugelah: "This is what vanity gets you." At the time her face was contorting this way and that, in an attempt to express her thoughts about the red stain in my hair.
"But you're not vain," she answered.
"I'm vain enough to color my hair," I told her.

I look like an ass, or rather, a dumbass. It's a bit Ronald Reagan, with my wrinkles and other skin flaws more pronounced. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I may need to visit a salon so I can be presentable again. Or maybe my hair will be a family science experiment. What exactly does nutmeg to auburn to light brown highlights actually look like? I wish I could see that I am embracing the very idea of looking foolish and managing it, but it was much easier when I was using lame language on my blog. Looking stupid, now that's harsh. Did I really? Yes, I did. Gimme a broomstick, pierce my tongue, my cheek, my brow, I'm ready to ride.

Eating, Fake Television Eating, and Sexy Food

2007-04-20T21:11:00.000-04:00

I ate so much I sorta made myself sick. Sick because my intestines were crammed full, and sick in the figurative sense, as in disgusting myself. But it was all so good. An analysis of food and television is in order. Of course, this will not be a comprehensive analysis; it will be from a more engaging and Lucy-ish perspective. Yummy and entertaining!

We all know in the old days, people pretended to eat on t.v. Why? Maybe they were worried about food in the actors' teeth? Or perhaps it was the concern that food doesn't film well. Thus the use of wax or white glue or something on cereal commercials. Perhaps that's an urban myth? What does it mean to watch television and eat, and watch people eat? Not much, but it could be a proper analogy for the show, and logically, and excellent analogy for actual people. But it's not even an analogy. Like if you drink coffee from a diner mug whilst watching Seinfeld, there is no analogy, you're just sticking yourself into a diner with them, or pathetically paying homage to an actor (in a re-run, no less). Eating crappy food while watching crappy television - that's appropriate. There's nothing left in the house so you're stuck with something like a can of old soup, and there's nothing on t.v., so you're stuck with an infomercial, or even worse, the Unfunny UPS guy sitcom re-runs, and his perpetually annoyed wife. How did they ever get Jerry Stiller to agree to that? Television imitates life, and life is like television, especially at the mediocre moments, and people eat, or not, in both places.

When I first stayed over at a girl we'll call Priscilla Harrington's house - we'll call her Priscilla Harrington but we won't name her house - I was aghast at the small servings her mother gave us. It was a fraction of the amount we gobbled at my breakfast table, which made me realize how big and uncouth we were. We always had seconds and thirds and we argued over the toy inside. These folks discussed the day's activities, an apparent imitation of a scene they had watched on television. Priscilla's family was preppy and put-together. In later years, her sister developed an eating disorder, but I digress.

Take the mushroom. People who like mushrooms are foodies. People who don't like mushrooms are either young children or unable to get in touch with their sensual side. When Will and Grace go with their dorky friends to The Olive Garden, and the friends rave about the food, you just know that Will and Grace have had risotto, and they are aghast to even be seen at the de-classe establishment. They have tasted of something a little sweeter, if I may. I'm betting the Olive Garden is tasty, but I am not raving about the chain-restaurant-frozen-shrimp flavor.

Another show on which people actually eat is Malcolm in The Middle. I didn't watch it much when it was on for its regular run, but the repeats are hilarious for any person who has ever been a parent or lived with boys. For people who have done neither, it probably seems like a perverse and cruel take on the American family. And they do eat. With their mouths full. Dad also feeds the boys as if they are puppies, throwing morsels into their mouths. They may not be foodies in the mushroom sense, but they do eat a realistic amount of food.

Back to not-television, and my mostly-excellent culinary experience this week: Halvah, which was sub-standard (tahini paste Middle Eastern candy that is crumbly and almost-buttery, akin to a scone but with no ingredients in common); papaya and avocado salad with arugula; and chocolate hazelnut mousse. Also: fresh and still-warm -from-the-machine/cooker maple syrup. Shrimp curry, and naturally, mushroom soup.

I do not associate eating and sex simultaneously but I do associate them. The very idea that an oyster is meant to be an aphrodisiac, and the fact that they are pulpy and salty and smooth in my mouth, definitely puts me in the mind of something smooth that feels good. This cannot be experienced on television. Also, a great meal seems to have been the predecessor to much of the great sex that I have had, but I think that gets back to the sensual food and sex connection. I cannot fathom, however, the food-sex combo. Like I'm not hungry for the oyster when I'm hungry for the meat, if I may be a bit less refined than I claimed to be a few paragraphs ago. I may have written awhile back that I have no interest in licking any food item off of any body part. I would be open to it, I suppose, but really I don't need it. It seems like the overlap of two things that are not meant to be together.

There was a scene in the movie, Blaze, years ago, with Paul Newman and a voluptuous dark-haired actress - in which they shared a watermelon as she rode him, and they laughed and talked as they fucked. He may have worn a cowboy hat. That was memorable - my first exposure to sex as a fun activity. But not anything that would make me want to chow down while getting down. It seems when I write, that I get back to sex a lot. Perhaps I am not so different from your average male: a lotta talk about feelings may be included, but it's the sex she really wants. Or maybe I'm just menstrual - which affects me similarly to ovulation - and I am a wee bit more interested than I am at other times. Some days sex is like that can of old soup. Prediction for this day: I may eat something tasty, I may watch a movie or a re-run, but I will be riding tonight.

Pathetic Insecurities & Biology

2007-04-15T07:39:00.000-04:00

My head is all over the place because first my little tiny vulnerable son went to California on a big bad airplane and I had to put away all thoughts of scariness that I cannot even write here because that will bring the thoughts back. Also, Ball & Chain is going through some process of dealing with the use of alcohol and I am the unconventional partner yet somehow still vulnerable to being blamed for something that has nothing to do with me. And my job is lovely except for Lou Grant is so unpredictable I never know when he will bark at me and it is unnerving. Plus I was a scheduling nightmare this week, overlapping all sorts of things and causing many people to be rightly irritated with me. Perhaps the use of commas would have been appropriate back there, but I am not in a comma mood. Maybe if I was a bit calmer! (Yikes.)

What is my life, anyway? I have several people who love me unconditionally. Notice how I skipped right over my life and went straight for how other people feel about me. These people are related to me by blood, if you will pardon the expression, or even if you will not pardon it. Other people may care or not care for me but they are not in my fabric of who I am because it takes 500 years and a lotta bullshit for me to trust people. I notice them, adore them, I listen to them, but they must witness an unnamed number of bad weird episodes of This Fucked-Up Lady, and live through them, to be eligible for me believing that they care about me. Bad grammar embraced.

Does it help that I went to fancy schools and ended up a mere teacher? Does it help that I'm a writer who is too lazy or too busy to submit her work? Now I have demonstrated that my head is, indeed, everywhere. What to do with the information? First: I plan to clean my room. That's always a solution. Once people wake up I will call Miss Kitty on the phone. She is an excellent sister and our experiences are parallel to the extent that I sometimes feel like a twin, although I do not know if I have ever mentioned that to her. Oh and back there when I said "mere teacher," not all teachers are mere teachers, but I am because I go from job to job and because I am me, I am feeling quite mere today.

This morning's blog was going to be about linguistics, actually, and link to a New Yorker article. I wonder if I will write about that later? Instead I am going to say right here right now and even these words are delaying it but I would definitely like to have a partner like my high school boyfriend, who doted. Could someone please appreciate me? Verbally? Am I the clone of women everywhere, under-appreciated and nagging about it? Or stereotyping myself? Why am I so verbal when my partner is so non-verbal? Please do not tell me about the studies that show men talk less than women. The reason is that they are stupid, and withholding, and too busy reading the paper. My high school boyfriend just knew how to make me happy, get himself laid, and get a head.

This is who loves me, and by the way, I have been doing this exercise for years, and I am putting my children last so it doesn't seem like I rely on that love, or depend on it, even though I think I might, and I am lying to myself. Right, here they are: Mommy, Miss Kitty, Daddy, Baby Brother (whom I miss terribly), Cousin Darling, and Big Kid and Rugelah. Mabel loves me, too, and she is a blood relative and I am not required to explain how that works, so I won't. And Chrystal is not theoretically a blood relative but she might as well be. Sheesh, that's a lotta people. Who am I to complain? Be glad for what you have. Or, alternatively, how pathetic that one must list those who value one for one to feel any value at all. The people on my list are intelligent, too, so that must mean a little something about me. Also, while we're being both honest and dishonest, I do very much love Ball & Chain. He thinks I should know how much he loves me but since I don't I think he should do something about it, for crissake.

Now is the point where, in regard to narrative, one would expect me to link back to what I think my life is. Despite the intent, I do not have an answer. I can describe what I do, or who I love, or what I think, but I have no idea what my life is or the purpose. I get the mother part. And then, and then. My life is a series of losses and gains, maybe a sort of football game despite the fact that I loathe the sport for its symbolism. (How ridiculous, then, to use it as a symbol.) My life is an exemplar of devotion a la my Jewish nun moments. No, my life is that of any hectic American woman living in hectic 2007. Bullshit, all of it. I have only one clue. Lately I notice that I have more habits like those of my mother at my age, and more of her physical idiosyncrasies. So I am following her imprint on the world, and to some extent, my life is like my mother's life. Biology is a little trump. And now, like my mother - every night - I am off to take a bath.

Let It Out, Hold It In, and Eat

2007-04-09T00:38:00.000-04:00

It is wicked late and I am still working because I am so diligent, and also I didn't really start until ten p.m. Passover passed. I sat at the table and cried so hard I could have parted any color sea you want. Then I drank a lotta Peach Manischevitz. Peaches are my fave food and this stuff was heavenly. When I ran out, I guzzled white wine. Instant sedative.

It is not easy to cry hard at a seder table. You hafta shut up, or shveig, as we say in Yiddish. You cannot make a scene in front of the children. Even if you have made a scene in front of the children before, if your mommy is stoic, then there is some expectation that you should have your shit together, so to speak. And the kids deserve a little happiness.

Let the tears stream down, and be proud that you just bought that waterproof mascara. Look up long enough to see that your beloved sister-in-law, Mabel, is also imitating a crying statue. Notice that your sister, Miss Kitty, is doing fine. Wonder how long that will last. Be so fucking glad that your kids are not right next to you. Follow along with the seder, and be cautious as you look at the Haggadah you made years ago.

Dry up a bit, wipe off your face, eat some parsley in salt water. Realize that you love your husband and consider sleeping with him sometime soon. Keep eating. Eat, eat. The next morning, come downstairs to find that breakfast is over and most of the food is gone from the serving dish. Eat the leftover matzoh brie off of all the kids' plates.

The Crappy Truth

2007-03-30T06:19:00.000-04:00

In the interest of honesty, which is part of the moronic theme of my blog - what was I thinking - I gotta say that I know where my anger is from, and its not related to work. I thought it was, but in a deflating moment, I realized that my huffery is a cover, a distraction, an obsession that helps me to cope with the real shit.

Someone murdered my brother. That someone is, unfortunately, still alive, and I have seen It. It is unfathomable to me. When I have seen Its face, imagining that this is the anti-person who killed my brother is not possible. Beyond the realm of possibility. Yet many people saw it happen, and there is no question, no doubt. Only a ridiculous legal procedure during which strangers and pay-for-pseudo-psychiatrists will decide if It was insane.

That's all, nothing more. Except the hurt in my belly and an inability to think hard about this.

The Goddess of Gotcha Back

2007-03-29T19:10:00.000-04:00

Wouldn't it be great if you could post a crazed blog about how much you want things to change and literally the next day they did? Well, that's exactly what happened! First: I walked into work yesterday morning ready to rip someone's arm out of its socket. Before first, I saw pointy little pathetic crocuses popping up from the ground. Don't show me fucking flowers, I thought.

Second: Lou came out of the office to tell me I am going to be teaching writing for an hour a day! I almost pissed my pants, but that might have seemed less-than-dainty. He was all happy for me and smiling and I was saying writing!? Gotcha, you bastard, I thought. Finally, I had scored a piece of my job back. I will be working with two people I really like, one of whom is a man, so clearly Lou is not worried about me as a sexual predator. How utterly awful to have even written that, especially since I have had the sexual prey experience. Back to happiness mode: the plan is for the students to write a research paper, or research and write a paper, whatever order you wanna put it in. And my job is to plan the projects with my colleagues, create the rubrics, and teach the kiddos how to write a paper. I really am a word nerd.

Third: When I received the schedule with my name on it, it said writing in big letters. It was an advertisement for Lucy Teaches Writing. How utterly lovely. I considered framing it, but that seemed a bit grand. Lots of people teach writing and they do not get as worked up as I do. But lotsa people do lotsa stuff and they do not get as worked up, or as dragged down, for that matter, as I do. I am like Bette Midler in Ruthless People combined with, um, Bette Midler in The Rose? Anyway, it's a big deal to me and that's what matters. Right? Right. I'll be a published novelist at age 20 in my next incarnation as someone who doesn't yak on the phone, hang out, go to the movies, read, read, listen to music, and patchke (mess with) her every blemish. That's polite talk for all of the zits I've squeezed.

Fourth: Today, Opie (for whom I confess to feeling a smidge of compassion) came to my classroom to ask about something. I was just walking out of the room. As Opie approached, Lou popped out of his next-door office! Opie began to stammer, and say it's no big deal typa-stuff. How convenient. How many people seek out someone who is harassing them? Well, people don't! So there. An answer to my blog. And I thought there wasn't a God. Clearly, she exists, she believes in karma, or she understands what it is to be petty and immature. I like her. Today.

Regarding the compassion, Opie is so disorganized, and also I am an idiot, since he could have cost me my job. The whole point is that I can't stand him and he messed with my integrity, or something. It's hard to be all all-or-nothing, even though I 'go there' a lot. The guy is anxious, and young, and stupid. Plus, if I am going to believe in a goddess today, one who helped me get back at him, I need to love thy enemy, or some shit like that.

Dickless Opie Stole My Job

2007-03-27T21:06:00.000-04:00

I hate work and I hate going there and I hate everyone who works there. Opie acts so much like everything is fine and dandy even though he almost lost me my fucking job and I feel like give me a goddamn apology, grow some testicles, and go tell Big Boss that you were off the mark. Either that, or he could at least apologize to me. We're all assigned to a special project and I will be working with a person who is awkward, loud and sometimes nasty. A firm teacher is good. A loud nasty teacher is bad. And I am convinced - because I am paranoid and also smart - that Big Boss is trying to fuck with my head, keeping me from the people I get along with and isolating me with some temporary-type discipline freak. She knows I know how to do all of this stuff, so on a good day I'm thinking okay, I see that she's also isolated another experienced teacher, and has her doing hard crap. Today is not a good day and I am sure she is marginalizing me so I feel desperate.

But puhleez! And I hafta shut up. That's what I totally fucking hate. I don't want to shut up. I want to say Hey! Why do I hafta specialize in reading? Why do I have to be all loyal and all kiss-ass and all piloting this fucking program? Writing, I wanna teach writing. But no, Opie is teaching writing. Is he teaching it well? Maybe! I wish I could say no. But I can't. The fucking bastard has become much more creative, ever since I encouraged him to do that, and there is no payback. No payback. No one has figured out that he is a creep, and my dear friend is now all cozy with him. Okay, maybe not a dear friend. Maybe someone who was all freaked out about how weird he was at me, and now is all teasing and flirting. She's married too. Why is she not criticised? I don't care that this all sounds vaguely sexual - Dickless made it that way.

I am pretty sure this "guy" has the tiniest penis in the world. You know how it's sorta obvious when there's a lot there or justa tiny bit? Chrystal has confirmed this observation for me. And he is all skinny and petite and like I am ready to kick his non-existent ass. That's it. He has my job. He has the job I was hired to teach -with him - and I have the we-so-need-you-to-fucking-do-this-job job.

I am trying very hard not to look up his shitty little fratboy myspace page so I can hate him even more, but it feels like obsessing again. I want him to apologize, I want him to disappear forever, I want him to be assigned to teach farting in a little room so I can go back to my my my job.

You Never Know, Girls.

2007-03-25T22:18:00.000-04:00

I was going to write all about the Lucinda Williams concert and how The Heartless Bastards totally rocked so actually maybe that's what I'll do. First, though, I must sing a little song here, figuratively, of course. I'm sure a techno-wizard could add sounds, but I cannot: I Love My Linkers. This is my song because some truly very funny and smart people who put their funnysmarts into their blogs have been hanging out here, and I am so happy because one must find one's soul sisters in order to answer the truly deep questions like: why would anyone wanna tint her nipples, why do my breasts do what they do, and how many ways can we make fun of people who are assholes? Those are my priorities, anyhow.

I do make up a lotta songs and I do sing a lotta songs. One of my old faves is a show tune I learned in middle school, "It's All for the Best." I oughtta google that or something. I was watching t.v. and an ad where a car-tester guy makes a gear shift play "Purple Haze" came on. I remembered that I sang that song at a talent show in middle school. It was intense. A room full of arrogant preppies, getting down to Hendrix's"Purple Haze." I had a microphone, large breasts for my age, and the sense to scream rather than to actually sing. Would that I had pursued the guitar after that. Instead I spent my time gossiping, an apt pre-occupation before my heady foray into blogging, complaining about my husband, and forcing loud sounds to come out of my mouth.

The Heartless Bastards are three people rockin out, punk and fun at the same time. The lead singer's voice reminds me of The 4 Non-Blondes, a flash-in-the-pan band that had a great song about feeling fucked up and crazy. We were in a high-up balcony, waiting for Lucinda Williams, and the opening band came on and of course I had no expectations. I certainly was not prepared for the major drums, the heavy-wild voice, and the excellent guitar. This was not middle school. I was absolutely jazzed the whole time, and I did my nerdy text-message my musician friends near the end of the set. It turns out Ball & Chain had just read about them in The New York Times. (I do not mean to imply that a band's quality is related to their popularity - often it is the opposite.)

Farbeeyit from me to say anything about Lucinda Williams beyond that she is a phenomenal writer and musician. Her voice is both smooth and crackly, and she is up there saying all sortsa shit about sex and love and hatred. The woman is emotional , she is pissed off, and she knows how to tell someone to fuck off. I love that. But but okay okay, stutter stutter, how come she talked so very very much? (I guess this is my Gertrude Stein imitation.) She thanked the audience and said she was humbled and grateful a few times. I think, maybe maybe, she had a little too much mind-alteration? Oh Lucinda I am sorry, the show was fun. But I kinda thought Heartless Bastards were great and you were a bit too relaxed. And didja hafta say that women complain too much about being too fat and too old? Didja hafta tell us that it takes talent and hard work to succeed? That was a little, well (I'm whispering now), cheap.

I came home and today I am loving the new CD. But this is why one should not ever hear too much from one's idols. It's like the time Audre Lourde wouldn't speak to me when we were introduced, or when Marge Piercy rolled her eyes at me, the bitch. Her husband apologized for her and said "she's been sick". I had just told the woman that we used her poem at our wedding, for crissake. Anyway, Grace Paley was absolutely, well, gracious, so that worked out.

Lucinda Williams is 'a shitkicker,' to quote B & C, and maybe when I'm 54 I'll be confident enough to tell an entire concert audience that I'm talented. Maybe the point is, though, not to say too much when you've had a few drinks or tokes or whatever, because you might say some shit you regret. But of course, if you are Lucinda Williams, you could write a helluva song about that.

The As-Yet Unrecognized Art of Being Me

2007-03-23T23:03:00.000-04:00

I finally figured out where my talent lies, so to speak. All this time I thought I was mediocre, and actually, it's an under-appreciation problem. I heard myself complaining about finances one day - as I am wont to do - and saying that someone should pay me for being me, because I am really good at it, and I do it better than anyone else. This is true, but first I must explain the money complaint thing. No, I do not think I have anything real to complain about. But quit lookin down yer snout at me. I am great at kvetching (complaining), and so it all leads back to that good-at-being-me thing.

The money story is that I grew up in a big house and my father made a lotta money. Not like trust fund, but like plenty. I did not know that I would ever hafta worry about money because I assumed that I would grow up and make some. That's what they tell you at private school. went to shitty public schools until sixth grade. That gave me grit, or something. Then I went to private school. It was weird, because there were other Jews there, and also kids who seemed sorta like me. Also, there were Levi's, fair-isle(?) and argyle, and Lacoste shirts and absolutely no training bras. How embarrassing. Lower middle class and working class girls had tits by then, but the well-educated daughters of professors, doctors and lawyers were flat-chested. This is not a phenomena I will pursue here, and of course it changed in middle school. Wait, where was I. Oh, so of course I know that I have enough money. But making enough to pay a small mortgage and a life-for-four without saving anything kinda sucks. Sorry, oops, I shouldn't say it. But I would like to have a lotta money, and yes, I tell my kids that compared to most of the world we are rich because we are, but christ could I please just have some fucking cable t.v.? And I would like to go out to dinner, a lot. And I wanna travel around and see stuff.

Who is the Director here and how did I get to money? The purpose of this entry is to explain how great I am. I am using reverse psychology to disgust the reader with my materialism, only to endear her to me later when I explain that I am a teacher in a city school. God, I'm obsessed with rationalizing and pseudo-joking with liberal excuses. But I'm not liberal, I am me. And I gotta say something about that.

Right. First, I look good. Good in a warm way, I think, and people seem to enjoy my company, unless I hate them or dislike them or sense something that is simply not right. I am beginning to look my age, and that is because I have circles under my eyes and lately the make-up isn't working. I was opposed to make-up when I was younger, but then when the under-eye issue became visible enough to look like 2 tiny bruises, I said screw that natural stuff, cake me now! Also, I am quite accepting of other people, unless I hate them or dislike them or think that they are assholes. I have a good sense of humor unless I have my foot in my mouth. Then I apologize pathetically, and have faded old visions of what a weird little girl I was, and I think of myself as a weird big girl. That goes away because I manipulate the people closest to me into giving me compliments, and then I believe them.

I love dogs. Loving dogs makes a person that much better. My dog is the best dog in the world, and everyone says so, which is fun. He does all sorts of hilarious shit to make me feel better. I know, because his personality changed after my brother died, when I cried like a faucet that won't stop - and loud too. Let's don't get all maudlin: everyone cries when someone dies or else they are very sad. And my dog - we'll call him Rover - can read expressions so very well. Recent research that showed that dogs are better than apes at interpreting human facial expressions. He began to always be near me, sit up on his butt like a person at a table, cross his front legs like me, and crawl under my legs when I was at the computer. He also does a most excellent head-tilt when I talk to him, as if to say he can't quite gather what I am saying, but he is trying. I like other dog people but I think it's odious when people rail on about their pets (I would never), and I have little interest in cats. My sister's cats are good - and I am obliged to say that for fear of reprisal - but most other cats suck. They say nothing, they do nothing, they won't make eye contact. Plus they stink up the house and shed everywhere so ya feel like you just went through the dryer without a lint collector.

Otherwise, I like to serve tea, I like to drink vodka and to listen to loud music - new or sometimes old - currently The Feelies - and I sing along loudly. I like to go out because then I feel a bit relieved. I don't know what else to say about myself, except I am superb at doing all of the things that one must do to be competent being me. I throw my clothes on my chair, I wear hip outfits, and I hang out with my cute little family. My teen family member is tired of my voice, and that is fine and normal. Really, it's fine. Honest. I love it! One less kid to look after, and another adult to criticize me. I am good at taking criticism because I become defensive and I make sarcastic remarks. Other people pretend to be mature. I am too honest for that.

Tomorrow we are going to see Lucinda Williams. She is an idol of mine because she says what she means, she sings, and she has a foul mouth. I will go as myself and there will be no one there who can even approach my mastery of the art. Now if I could get someone to pay me for being me, then my pettiness and my talents as my self would be realized. Lucinda Williams certainly gets paid, and she is Lucinda Williams. I can go be me at her concert and yell loudly and collect my paycheck at the end of the week, which happens to be tomorrow. If none of my plan to be employed as myself works out, I could easily be a brash obnoxious bitch. Does that pay well? And what should I wear?

The Blue Area, Better Bras, and My Mini-Bosom

2007-03-05T06:12:00.000-05:00

Is it verboten to write about my blog hits? I think it may be, so here I go. More than one person and the dog have been looking at my blog. Not like as many as anybody else's, but a few more. Like maybe three, two hamsters, and the dog. But there are a lotta people in the blue section on my stats page. That means that a lotta new people are coming to look. Not clear that any are returning. Oh who am I kidding? Clear that many are running for their lives. So my concern is: who the fuck are these people, or small animals, what do they want, and what am I doing to scare them away? Here is my theory, and please forgive me if it seems a bit harsh: they're all mainstream, narrow-minded, nose-pickers, and when they read my blog, and realize that it is not porn, I am not warm and cozy, and I truly dislike Oprah, they scatter in fear. Whaddaya think? My other theory is that the site is mediocre so a buncha people come and read and then never come back. Aw, but that's so far-fetched. And don't write in re-assuring me that I am simply the undiscovered voice of females everywhere who wish they felt comfortable writing about vaginal discharge. I know.

Also, my bras don't fit. Chrystal taught me to wear a lightly-lined bra to work so that my nipples aren't sticking out like weapons - I'm a clear shot at thirty feet - but that isn't quite working anymore. Those bras sorta lose their shape, or something. So they're sticking out, and my tits are just like 'hey! we're over here.' I am at that strange size of needing a bra but having small breasts. They are remarkably perky, so I no longer feel gypped for having missed the massive-tit breastfeeding experience. I did breastfeed, but my tits did not get that much bigger. They were spouting fountains, but they were no more than a C.

Anyhoo, yesterday, once again, Chrystal has on this hot-as-evvuh Victoria's Secret bra (not linking to that exploitive establishment) that fits her perfectly. When I asked a bra lady to help me find my actual real true bra size, she said I was a 30DD and that the whole real bra size thing is a crock. At this point I'm a near-B - thank you Playtex - but maybe I should be an A and pop the hell outta there. I'm returning the 2 bras I ordered and heading over to Victoria Slut Bras. It's not just the size, it's not just vanity, it's the fact that my sister, Ms. My-tits-are-Bigger, saw one of my bras lying around in my clothes mound, and she was like "sexy bra." And she did not mean it, except with bosomy sarcasm. I looked at it after she left - "I'm not into that whole sexy lingerie thing" I had lamely replied "- and it was like 2 triangles of beige I don't-wanna-fuckness.

If you are a new reader, and after reading this, you are thinking 'get me the hell outta here,' I plead with you to try again. My next entry will be about something super-important: I'm thinking of why people like me so much, or maybe why I hate Hilary Clinton. Otherwise, I'd hand out candy and stickers, but that might seem a bit pathetic.

Oh I Admit It

2007-03-03T19:39:00.000-05:00

I kinda like the Ball & Chain today. He was all himself and everything and we discussed an argument that had me a wee bit steamed and he was like all but I have been supportive and I realized well, yeah, you made one mistake. One mistake. That's not so bad really. Also, his hair looks excellent today, and with B&C, he's actually good-looking, but if the hair is off, it's all off. Oops am I not supposeta give a shit about how my partner looks? Oh well, too late for that. What am I, a saint? Oh, right, I am, except I missed that category in relation to shallow topics. Although, certainly, maybe, I could qualify as a Semi-Saint of Shallow? But I dunno if I could really live up to some of those wicked rich California Barbie people with dumb names and no talent.

On a related note - me - I took the Official English Teacher Test today, and it was fun. I guess I'm a word nerd. I remembered taking tests years ago and feeling like I was learning as I was taking the test, and that's what it was like today. I remembered so much. James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, the Old Testament even. I gotta admit, being me has been a rather literary experience, despite my choice to switch out of English-majoring (very conservative department). And the two essay questions were on gender (which I did study, intensely), and a poem. I write poetry. I read poetry. It was good. Maybe I'll pass the test.

And because I am embracing all realm of emotion these days, in particular loathing, there is a final note. I hate people who proctor exams and then whisper to one another while I am trying to be a fucking English teacher, for godsake. Actually, being a fucking English teacher might involve teaching people how to fuck in English, or to go to the UK to fuck?

Where's The Love? Not Over Here.

2007-03-02T06:24:00.000-05:00

I am Not Better. I took one of my emergency PRN (when ya need it) medicines and I was sedated for maybe an hour. It's supposeta fucking last. And now I feel crappy and my hair is up and I've never worn it up at work and I feel self-conscious oh and by the way, I hate everybody, except for certain women I know. Like any blog pal, Chrystal and Becca, other formidable friends, a coupla people at work, and my neighbor women. Everyone else, I hate. I hate the lady at work who talks like she knows everything. I hate the castrated assistant to my boss. I hate all the fucking la-di-da parents who are going to a breakfast for Rugelah's class at a time when a working mom cannot. I hate their fruit salad, their bagels, and their fucking horses. I hate policies about no personal time at a time that is most certainly Passover. I hate the goddamn idiots I have to speak with directly every day because they lack the backbone.

The only male people I like are the best male people in the world and they are not married to me but they are my son and my brothers and my students. I like men who wink at me but I hate men who are intimidated by me. I swear I could shrink a probably-already tiny dick into a thumb-size nothing with justa coupla jokes about something completely unrelated. Pardon me for being tall. Ha! Pardon me for being confident. Ha! I kicked my boyfriend's ass when I was nine years old - am I daunted now?

And when I get to work today if that goddamn fragile Princess complains to me, I am going to reassure her in the most condescending of ways because I hate her. She is a whiner, and a passive-aggressive 'mealy-mouthed' spinster-before-her-time. The brilliant Mary Daly deconstructed the word spinster to detail that it really means someone powerful. In this instance, it means someone who darns socks, only dates good boys, and never broke a fucking rule in her life.

Here are the other people I hate:

All politicians except for the ones I like. I do not like Mitt Romney or Hilary Clinton.
Bureaucrats
Preppy suburban moms
The lawyers who keep stringing my family along
People who drive under the speed limit (hello)?
Hairdressers who pretend they know how to cut curly hair
People who rag on beggars for being a hassle
All the teachers who hassled The Big Kid because they were too stupid to figure him out
The little people in my computer who fuck it up
And a lot of other assholes about whom I cannot write because I hate them so much that I have repressed it.

List of people I love: I'll write it posthumously.

This Is A Fucking Rant

2007-03-01T18:26:00.000-05:00

Lou changed his mind, temporarily. I do not start teaching my new doobers this week. I teach some other doobers for a coupla weeks so that their regular teacher can teach about MCAS (impending standardized test). Lou is quixotic? Impulsive? The teacher for whom I am covering, Princess Priscilla, is all freaked out and I'm like this is my fourth job here since November-fuck off! And remove the argyle sweater before I puke. It is all a flashback to Freako (former co-teacher who got mad at me and then complained to Lou). Why oh why? My schedule, my lunch break, it's all changed. But only temporarily until the next big idea.

Fortunately, Ball & Chain has been very supportive. Until last night. Last night he told me to forget about it, drop it. Then he told me that things with Freako were intense, and then they "just flipped." Dontcha hate it when people cannot say what they wanna say so instead they say something so meaningless and stupid you're like 'shove off' and you fall asleep and wake up 7 times?

I called my therapist. How cliche. She said it is normal for me to continue to be upset about Freako, despite Ball & Chain's advice - "forget it" - such classic repressive bullshit. Pearls of wisdom he gives me. Freako jeopardizes my job and I should forget it? Princess Priscilla told Freako that she does not like working with other people. Ha!

Why should work matter to me? Because it does, for fuck's sake. Half the time I am doing great stuff with students and the other half the time my head's shoved so far up my ass I could suck my navel in like a pacifier. Tuesday I have a new class; Wednesday I'm covering someone else's class for two weeks. Would this not make an otherwise fucked-up person even more fucked up?

Oh I know. It must be hard on the students too. God I'm sicka that - I put kids first all day every day. Kids are resilient. Let's focus on the real problem. I'm middle-fucking-aged, a cheese with just the hints of mold, and wherever I work I seem to cause a disturbance because I am either dysfunctional somehow or else I have a big fucking mouth. Not literally a fucking mouth, but I suppose at some moments it has been. You get the gyst.

The absolute worst part is that I have no fucking goddamn crumb of an idea whether Freako regrets being an extreme ass, realizes how much I did, or even notices any of this crap. After being "friends " for a coupla months, I suspect he's all flippy about it - a very sensitive and bizarre-ish type - but why the fuck do I care? It's half juicy gossip and half I-thought-it-was- all-good but it was all bad, and working in the same vicinity when two people have discomfort is discomfortable.

I am a fucked up emotional angry needy bitch. I need a cigarette a vodka some very loud music and someone to yell at. I should probably be saying something like he tried to take my dignity, but my ovaries are intact. Instead I'm more he fucked with my job and now I'm a paranoid doormat. In more practical terms, I'm I gotta go cook dinner because my people require food three times a day.

Something Excellent Happened & I Will Say Something Positive About My Self

2007-02-27T19:08:00.000-05:00

Something quite excellent happened, at work. And I was due. I have been soldiering forth, my head up, my mind finally calming down. Today I must have given twenty reading assessments. Holy shit it gets boring. But I teach a lotta kids who are way below 'grade level,' so it has been a righteous, if not thrilling task. That combined with recovering from my co-worker's true craziness (the really crazy people are rarely the ones who know they have mental health issues).

So, so, so, my boss, aka Lou Grant, who is such a bossy pain in the ass and also a good person, told me, finally, today, what the plan is. I will be teaching reading and writing to the kids at risk - about 1/3 of the kids - at the same times I taught them before. Lou had thought previously that I would teach reading only, and that had been a painful idea. Hence the soldier metaphor.

I will have lovely little groups of personable hilarious and adorable students (I know them), and the students who really drove me to wanna valium will stick with Opie, or Opie's evil twin, as it were. Mean girls, farewell! Attitude boys, seeya! Okay, it's true that some of the stronger students are okay, but the ones I am truly attached to come visit me anyway. And not all of the weaker students are hilarious, but a lot of them are. It's a combination of defense-mechanism and their smarts leaking out in other places apart from literacy. I am a very very very happy lady.

My vindictive little tidbit, too, is that Opie/Satan is also extra-fond of the students who will now be my charges. Not his. For all the mishegas (nuttiness) about my being bothersome, the fact is that I am experienced, and he is not. So in the end, or what is the end at this particular time, I am doing what I like to do best.

You know it may seem weird, but I do love teaching. Today in one of my classes, I joked about being "reluctant" to come in to the classroom - we were studying vocabulary - and Georgia said "Miss, that's not true! You are always smiling when you come in here!" I guess even when I was flipping out I managed to do my job. Actually, yes: even when I was flipping out, I managed to do my job.

Quiet As A Monk

2007-02-25T00:21:00.000-05:00

Big Kid doesn't talk to me. It is not his way right now. Man of few words, stuck with a mother who's all 'how do you feel/how-do-I-feel.' So a solid piece of my home life is controlling my impulse to speak, inquire, opine, or chat in Big Kid's direction. It is a vow of almost-silence for me, but I break it to much. Hello, good-bye, and whazzup are okay, but I may not initiate substantive conversation, and over-excitement at his conversation initiation is also a communication-killer. Big Kid does not say these things to me, as that would not be his style, of course.

And when he is doing or saying something obnoxious, I hafta work terribly hard to swallow my sarcasm and these icky nasty remarks that pop out of my mouth before I realize how goddawful I sound. This is not a theory. Big Kid and I have talked about it. It is one of the rare instances in which being a bitch is not working for me. I pray to the Goddess of Chatty for wisdom. Perhaps I should switch to a Silence Goddess, but that seems so dull?

Tonight, I drove Big Kid to the movies. It was really far. We took his friend too. Friend had to look through all of the movie listings once we were on the way to a particular movie. Then he had to read off each movie and listen to my summary. I did pretty well. I thought maybe Big Kid was getting irritated at Friend, so I tried to sound relaxed about the fact that I was already driving toward the theater where the original movie choice was playing. And it was a million fucking miles away, and I am a saint, a Jewish mother saint. (I finally said it - it's a relief to come out with the truth.)

Friend alluded to paying for himself, but I assured him I would pay, even as I was getting nervous about how much that particular theater costs. Big Kids eat like swines. Pregnant swines. So it took me a few minutes to locate the theater, and I dropped off the Big Kids to go get tickets. The excellent movie we were supposed to go see was sold out. Big Kid looked bummed and mopey. Friend popped around chatting about which movie to see, sorta like a Pez dispenser, but without any offer of candy. He seemed to have missed the concept of all other movies having started half an hour earlier. There were no goddamn choices. I behaved, though, like a pious monk. That was a foreshadowing of the bad-as-crap movie we would end up seeing. (Monks featured, and they were not Tony Shalhoub. They were draped, colorless, and silent.)

We "chose" the monk-y British King flick with Peter O'Toole and Richard Burton. I was so preoccupied at that point that I forgot that they're both dead. It was a fucking sixties epic, except there was no fucking. It sucked. It was not Children of Men. It was not Clive Owen. It was the disturbing mashed-potato face of Richard Burton in a big religious dress and a crown to match. It was agony. I kept looking over at Big Kid - I had assumed I would sit in the back, but they were both like sit with us, whaddevvah - for some sort of sign that we were sharing the this-movie-sucks moment. But we weren't. Friend had actually studied the King Henry number something history and now had an interest. The very idea of an interest in conflicts in England hundreds of years ago is science fiction for me. I'm a world history dumbass, with the exception of a few "explorers" who claimed they discovered shit that was already here and belonged to someone else.

In the car on the way home (finally), friend said he really liked the movie. He asked me what I thought, and I told him I didn't like it. Thinking he needed to defend his opinion, he said "Well, I don't get out much." I thought that was hilarious, and I reassured Friend that everyone is entitled to his or her own taste. So perhaps Friend had simply been very anxious to go to just the right movie, or perhaps he was a tad nervous being out, hence the pre-movie ruminating about what to see.

After that, The Big Kids talked about science fiction authors, and plots, and books they had liked a lot. I hummed along, eyes on the road, very proud that I had seemed so patient, even during the half hour we had to wait for the monk movie to start. After Friend got out of the car, I did not ask if he is a good friend. I did not ask if he was more of a buddy or a confidante. I said absolutely nothing about feelings. Big Kid, however, said several sentences to me! I responded appropriately. I did not thank him for talking to me. I did not tell him how much I love him, or how mature he seems compared to Friend. I was so good. Now I will pray for a few more sentences in March.

Notes on Nurses & Other Pearls of Rage

2007-02-24T17:44:00.000-05:00

It was the welbutrin what fucked me over. It's not even clear at this point whether I will continue to have bipolarish symptoms, or if that was a reaction to the medication. I thinka little bit o both. So beware side effects, even if you have been on a medication for a while.

The Nurse Practitioner, Nurse Sobedda, who was covering for Distracted Doctor, was remarkably attentive and also had excellent fashion sense. One of those great short haircuts, and a noticeably appropriate affect when she heard my story. Sobedda had chutzpah, too. She said something about being comfortable contradicting what Distracted had said, and having her own opinions. Well, sign me up!

Once she heard my story, she said she was sure that I had been through so much trauma that that was first thing to address. It was validating, and it also really sucked to hear the truth. Couldn't we pretend that 18 months is plenty of time to regain one's footing after the loss of a sibling? Oh, okay, the sudden loss? The violent loss. Ach.

It is all so Joseph Heller ala Catch-22. I would be crazy not to be crazy. And what is it to not be crazy? Is it marching along with life and looking like I'm okay? I can do that. Is it managing to be consistent, or keeping from being depressed? Ball & Chain said that I will need to accept Baby Brudda's death. We were on the phone, and I had one of my I-wanna-reach-out-and smack-you moments. I am not going to accept that someone killed my brother. I refuse, and I consider it an insult. I completely reject it. I need to 'face facts,' or whaddevvah, but one cannot make nice, emotionally or otherwise, when a young man is robbed of a huge portion of his life.

So I say fuck the stages of fucking grief. Fuck the bullshit about everyone experiencing the same thing, and to hell with the idea that someday I will accept my brother's murder. I keep going, and I do a lotta shit, and I hafta know what I know and proceed. But I don't accept violence; I don't accept cruelty. Death is as natural as birth, but not when a person deliberately kills another. That's a fucking crime against humanity.

Calmed Nerves, Friendship Requirements, and The Difference Between Late and Early

2007-02-22T13:29:00.000-05:00

Mania Receding. Anyone who actually read the longest-fucking-blog-I-evvuh-wrote (that's you, Suzanne ): hey that's not a weird blog frown, it's a colon after end parens Thank You for tolerating the unbottling of feelings and thoughts that probably should have remained in an unwatered seed form, left to dry up and blow away. ("Oh, dry up," my former friend Shithead's mother useta say.) Shithead dropped me after twenty years of friendship because she said, basically, that I was too fucked up. That was very sweet, especially since we'd already drifted apart and I assumed we weren't hanging out anymore. But as a "good Christian" she said she had to be honest with me - in writing. What a Shithead. I had the nervous breakdown, got over it, and she lost what would have been the most entertaining moments of her life. Dumped by a friend, though - that's harsh.

I have about 577 unfair and biased litmus-tests for people who apply to be a good friend. Friend, fine. Good friend: fuck off. That's test number one. Can you take a joke? Have I known you for awhile? (Otherwise you may be a former beauty queen, or who knows what?) Have you been a beauty queen and now you realize it was ridiculous? Are you super-polite (deal-breaker - too much etiquette freaks me out, unless you're my mother). And on and on, of course. Do you believe everything happens for a reason? If yes, fuck off, unless you passed 576 other tests, and then I'll take it into consideration if you compliment me a lot. Okay, considering my state of reality, I cannot list the other 567ish other tests. A few days ago, the number would have been bigger, and I could have enumerated each requirement. Like I said, mania receding.

So I stopped taking Welbutrin and ta-da, I'm kinda sad and sleepy and the way any normal gal would be during the month in which her late Baby Brudda was born. Funny thing is, Baby Brudda was always late. I couldn't stay mad at him, though. He was the one person in the world I could not remain irate at, or with, or whaddevvah. Regarding the description of dead people as "late," it is absurd. Late for what? Late for lunch? They can go wherever the hell - or heaven they want. It's been proven, time and time again. Think of all of those walk-through-walls ghosts. Or maybe it means late like 'seeya later, in the after-life?' BB was early, folks. Early. By about sixty years. His bald spot had just started and he pouted when I inspected it. His band was mid-recording for their newest CD. He and Sweetheart were planning to start the fuck-for-a-baby program.

Well that's why I'm sad, that's why I am anxious, that is why, if you are able, you should listen to music you love and hang out in your pajamas and watch movies and eat a lot. Because that's what BB did, and he passed virtually all of the 577 tests. No one can pass all of them, because I cannot remember them all. I just know they're there.

How Does This Work?

2007-02-21T18:42:00.000-05:00

Here I am, linking myself, or something, to Technorati, since apparently they sorta know me anyway. We'll see what happens.

Technorati Profile

Why Doesn't Life Imitate Television?

2007-02-21T11:43:00.000-05:00

I love Grey's Anatomy. I love it like candy: it has everything good, even though somehow it seems like it's really trash. It's not the Hot Doctors - okay, they're an extra bit of syrup - and it's not the grit of surgery (oh please). It's the way everything folds over onto everything else, all narrated by Ellen Pompeo's soothing voice. It's as if doctors are excellent people. They're flawed, but just a teeny-tiny bit. And they care so much.

I was at my psycho-pharmacologist's office in December, telling him how utterly sad I'd been. I'd met Dr. Big Guy before, and he seemed an unusually bright fellow, and all up on new research and drug interactions. He 's the type of person who always socializes in couples - straight couples, of course - and manages to be a semi-involved dad. Not that I'd stereotyped him completely: I still wasn't sure whether he had played football or soccer. I'm thinking football now.

Back to the December visit. I was almost ten minutes late (usually he's about twenty), and on my way in, Big Guy told me that he had to leave at exactly five. Fine, twenty minutes was good. But then, then, he didn't make very good eye contact. He interrupted me a coupla times to tell me how I would finish my thought (he was wrong). And he answered his cell! Phone! To tell his wife that he would be on time! As my grandfather would have said, "Oy-a zuchen-ves-amiyir." Finally, when he flubbed something else, I said "you really are distracted today, aren't you?" He didn't answer. Hmmm.

But that's only because he is not starring in the above-mentioned Grey's Anatomy. George is really the best. He is so little-boy cute, so earnest and sincere. Of course Meredith is lovely, also, (Ellen Pompeo), and The Chief. Now I realize tomorrow night is the season finale so this is all rather predictable of me.

Still, if you are ever the mother of a teenager whose cousin gave him a laptop, and you are on school vacation, be sure to watch old episodes from years ago - to catch up on all you missed - while looking at old letters and lying in the sunny spot of your bed, watching the dog do the same on the floor (the sun bit, not the t.v. show). If you are truly wanting to have an excellent time, listen to Elf Power simultaneously, or intermittently. Elf Power? Next post, I suppose.

Rhoda and Opie: A Coupla Freaks

2007-02-20T09:21:00.001-05:00

Here's the story, or the query, or the mystery, and if any one out there is able to decipher exactly what happened, or is willing to give advice, surely you are going to heaven, or whatever your version of it might be: a really good concert, a delicious dinner, or an amazing sexual experience?

How does one decipher the difference when you are in a bad situation with someone and they are a freak and you are a freak? You both behave badly, but your own perspective is shot. Do you blame the other person, especially since you have concrete evidence that he or she is thin-skinned, naive, and, well, young? After you know he's fudged a few stories at work to cover himself? Do you continue to trust someone after he's complained about you to an authority at work? In another context, that question would seem absurd to me, like "he punched me in the face - should I try to forgive him"? What if you know the other person has at least as much anxiety as you? What if you feel you are introducing the whole story with a clear bias, so that the reader is already won over to your side, without even realizing that lapses in judgment occurred? (Notice the cute illustration, to feign compensation for above-mentioned bias. ) Did I ever claim to be Jewish saint? (Maybe I did, but that's a rhetorical question.)

Don't get all hot and bothered over there - I made it sound worse than it is, and this is not someone I am currently talking with more than a professional hello. I don't know why I care, and I don't know if it's genuine caring, but I know I am beseiged with questions and hopes. Hope that I haven't messed with my job too much; hopes that something can be salvaged. How embarrassing. The connection between us was chipping off anyway, due to circumstances described below, and when I asked a colleague to check on said person, said person became enraged that I would "gossip" about him. So maybe that means he has not demeaned me to every human at work? Why am I not more angry? Anger is a huge part of my identity, with a specialty in self-righteous anger.

Let's take a more serious look. Say Rhoda - not Mary, of course! - is at her job. She's a beading teacher, creating beads to stroll through for all sorts of folks. And say Rhoda is having a hard time, like Joe's been kind of a jerk lately because he wants to leave the show, and even though Rhoda knows it's better that way - a happily married Rhoda was an oxymoron, really, and signaled the demise of something pure - and so Rhoda goes to work and everything seems good at work, despite personal woes. (Oh I know Rhoda had a spin-off, but that's besdie the point.) She is beading with a young, inexperienced guy - we'll call him Opie, although that's not exactly right - and he seems nervous a lot, but then they realize that they both love, well, beads, and the same hippie music, and he is almost as funny as she is. No, definitely as sensitive, and sort of funny. They yak about all sortsa stuff, including their respective assessments of their beading students, movies, books, 'the works.'

She neglects to notice as more than a nagging whisper that he is wildly disorganized, and she doesn't quite know what to do about joint projects that he doesn't seem to care about. When they actually have to teach something to a group of prospective beaders, it's great, and they are even using Bob Dylan-style beading. (Isn't it weird that Bob Dylan's name is Bob? Bob is such a mundane and fun name. He seems more like Caleb.)

Oh, anyway. So Rhoda's all like so middle-agey-bogged-down and she's having a lotta fun with this guy at work - he should be Ritchie, actually - and people at work are like, hmmm, big-personality Rhoda is maybe going overboard. Rhoda doesn't notice. Often, they leave at the same time because the mini-guy has signed on for extra duties that he hates, but he is unable to tell The Boss that he hates them , and Rhoda is stuck with extra work. She doesn't really mind, and she helps him some. They talk about it, but Rhoda tells him beaders help each other out, and Richie is new: after his first year, it will be easier. One night, The Big boss moves a deadline up, and they take all of their papers out to eat, and correct them together, alternating between serious work, serious chat, and very not-serious chat.

I am really truly getting to the point, but this is hard difficult painful and I need to not glass over either Rhoda's or Ritchie's freakiness.

One day Big Boss, not an unfair person, but idiosynchratic, at least, and not so far off from Lou Grant, or Ed Asner (there really wasn't a difference: he played himself, like Peter Falk aka Columbo), sits Rhoda down. So Lou says "Rhoda, I had to learn this. You hafta learn this. People are talking." Oops, I left out a part.

Flashback! (If you were hoping for logical sequence you wouldn't be reading this, anyway.) Big Boss, a week earlier, tells Rhoda that she - Rhoda - is going to specialize in a certain type of bead design, as many of the inner-city students are way below bead-level - and that she and Opie will not be together any more. Rhoda is taken aback, she cries even, later. Lou is tactless, telling her in the hallway, while beading students gossiped and compared styles all around her. What is going on? How did this happen so quickly? Why had Lou spoken to Ritchie that morning - to ask his opinion - yet not to Rhoda? It is all quite disturbing, yet still, Rhoda proceeds, in her quirky, nervous-energy way, to do her work.

Lou says - back to the hallway - he went to a conference yesterday, and after all, the two jobs were originally meant to be separate (that's true). Rhoda has to move her things out of the joint office, and she tells Opie - he reverts back at some point - that she has been evicted. Opie had honestly talked about wanting to work on his own because he needed to do well without an experienced beader always there, but he was torn. Rhoda told him to do what was best for him. He had informed Lou one morning that either would be fine; he told Lou later in the day that he wanted things to remain the same. Lou interrupted - "I'm splitting you up!" Maybe Opie had realized how much Rhoda is working on (cynical view). Maybe he remembered how well they had worked together (who knows). They had received a lot of praise about their work together. (Notice that was all past-tense/pre-split, and that it quickly became a moot point.)

Rhoda spends a week trying to connect with Opie - he is stand-offish. He has the flu or something and whenever she sees him he is blowing his nose. He teaches a creative lesson that she had planned without thanking her or mentioning it. The beaders all love the lesson. Rhoda is wildly jealous, working on what seems like far less interesting stuff. She pesters him for her things. Remember how Rhoda had asked a colleague how Opie was doing? by now the tension between them is clear. Rhoda googles "apology," although she is already pretty good at it, and manages a strong apology on a Friday morning. Unbeknownst to Rhoda, Opie had ratted her out the night before. Wow, you can really tell how obsessed I am with this whole issue, huh? It's starting to seem a little funny to me at this point.

Oh God, back to the story. Lou says, "Look, Rhoda. People are talking. You and Opie had an argument and you sent him a text message asking him to talk to you. You mentioned drinking. You gotta stay away from him." Rhoda is mortified, horrified, embarrassed, angry, and fearing for her job. She is a married woman, devoted to her kids and family. Somehow all sorts of feelings had leaked out. She had been out with a bunch of colleagues and invited Opie. He had shared the email out-of-context. He was so wrong, and such a freak, and such an asshole to 'tell on her,' without ever talking to her. He was the classic, fearful, afraid of-conflict guy. For Rhoda, the anniversary of something painful had just passed, and despite knowing how righteous she was, Rhoda sorta knew she'd been acting crazy, hounding Opie about little remnants of connections, like supplies she needed back, books, and information beaders share.

She and Opie had confided in each other. They were both wounded souls. They hung out in the same places. He gave her one of his CDs. But there was an undercurrent of something, and instead of letting it be, it just sort of flared up.

So the question is not what should Rhoda do, because she already did exactly what Lou prescribed, and he told her at the end of the week that she had done well at the new-fangled beading assignment. He had said to stay out of staff meetings while things cooled off. He had said beaders gossip. He had said that he had been in a similar situation once, and that he would teach Rhoda how to avoid it again. He told Rhoda not to speak to a soul about it; he told Rhoda that he knows everything that 'goes on' at the beading establishment. Yikes! Could that possibly be true?

She is working on trusting herself again. She is still obsessing, but not as much. Eating? Not really. Sleeping? A bit better. Watching movies, listening to loud music, writing, looking through papers, thinking about beading. Joe is suddenly very supportive. Maybe the show will stay on the air, after all. Or maybe she's a bit more of a Phyllis (Chloris Leachman - off the fucking wall, and almost as over-sexed as SueAnn Niven)?

But why would Rhoda still care about Opie, who basically betrayed her, and actually complained to Lou? Is she obsessed or compassionate? The original sentiment was some maternal-type concern about his lack of professional care-taking re beading requirements. She became a pseudo-stalker and it was all wrapped up in confusion and - as the DSM IV manual says - a loss of awareness that her behavior was out of the ordinary. Rhoda still wants to contact Opie! Why? Partly because she doesn't like to leave things unresolved - she hates it - but also because she misses the sudden, intense companionship, she misses another lost friend from a while back, Edward, and she misses her little brother, although Rhoda refuses to over-do this point.

I wrote a poem once called "I love too much." Omigod that's like that pop-psychology book. but it's not that I stay with people who are bad for me, it's that I see the details in people, I feel for them, and I love them as whole personalities.

Obviously Rhoda was so mortified that she didn't quite tell anyone, even here, the whole entire exact story. She tried to tell her great and excellent friend Gotcha, an older and wiser confidante. She told enough. There was nothing physical that went on between them, there was no lying to Joe; there was just so much intricacy to the friendship that it is still impossible to 'pin down.' Other folks validated the fact that Opie was something of a freak, but what am I, if not a freak?

Opie still has some of Rhoda's books and beads and other things, but she is leaving them in the old office until a light moment comes up. Rhoda fears that she will be removed from the team completely, and she is prepared to switch from the idea of a hiatus to a division. Rhoda adores the people on the rest of the team, all of whom are professional and kind adults. Rhoda is always going to have to manage mental health issues. She really, really wants to go back in time, in a lot of ways. Not like Aunt Bea, or anything, but definitely before the bad things happened, and before the really bad thing happened.

I've always thought it was absurd when people detailed their shit at work, because who really cares about other people's work shit? Nevertheless, I needed to air this one, and I need some sanity. The former may be happening already; the latter is going to take awhile. After all, Rhoda settled for what she could get, and I eat life up like I'm starving, despite the consequences.

I Have Been Crazy

2007-02-18T20:08:00.000-05:00

Oh hello. Isn't it a funny situation when everything seems lovely, charmed even, and you go to work and you are perky happy good-looking, and then things start moving along a bit fast and you are oh-so-capable and then after all of the nausea, missed sleep and racing thoughts you find out, as you sort of already knew, that you are hypo-manic or manic or just too fucking fast. Oops, that was a question - right, so isn't it odd? When you are spinning but you don't quite know it? Like the way we useta play records on the wrong speed? Was that a question? Huh?

I have wanted to write many times but it has been hard to pin down, so to speak, exactly what I would be saying. The letters would be barely enough to communicate the hash of emotion and the words would be sluggish, with the slimy-dull trail that slugs leave behind. My brother's birthday was in the first week of February, and I remember the actual day very well - or more to the point, the actual moment when we heard that we had a baby brother. Now his birthday is a psychological squeeze, the paradox of his not-alive self. "I cannot fathom it," he once told me, in response to an awful experience I had had, and now those words are truly apt.

So rather than fathom, my clever gray cells have developed an altogether new situation that provides so much distraction from true feelings that I can pretend I have none (apart from nervous anxiety, of course). The clincher, the rub, as it were, may be that one of my anti-depressants is actually fucking me up. There is no way to really know at the moment so I am taking something on top of everything else to calm myself, and waiting to do it one-by-one. I am not going to change a whole buncha crap so that we can guess what happened.

I would like to state, for the record, or for posterity, or for my one dear reader and the dog, that anxiety is painful. It fucking hurts. It caused me to do things that showed less-than-perfect judgment. Other people may have less-than-perfect judgment anyway, but mine is usually excellent, despite my other flaws. Fortunately, no one in my personal life has the opportunity to judge me, nor would they. And that is the patched-together first attempt to write; and so I boldly, or simply, go on, externally functioning and internally visualizing the old 'Road-Runner' cartoons: surely there was a swish, after he went "beep, beep," that no one could truly see, and no one had taken the time to deliberately draw. Too fast to decipher - that was the message. Aha! A goal. Perhaps a swith from the old Warner Brothers to the calming and contemporary Miyazaki?

Yogaphoria

2007-01-21T10:42:00.000-05:00

You know you are having a good yoga class when you are able to clear out all of your thoughts and all that is left is a sensation akin to excellent sex, the kind you feel all over. My absolute favorite yoga teacher - GuruMama - is brilliant. She knows all about varied types of yoga, how it will make you feel, anatomy, and emotions. She knows how to get me feeling like I am important, I am strong, and I can do some cool things with my body.

If I sound a bit over-the-top, it's because I am. The class put me into a clear euphoria. We started with a type of yoga where you do some repeated movements with your arms and basically you continue past the point at which you think you will have to stop. I have always loved it when people have told me to try harder. It is a comfort to me, a hand on my shoulder leading me to my best self. Since I know GuruMama well, I know that she insists that people listen to their own bodies and minds. So it was my choice, and it felt like someone had spiked my blood with a bit of something extra.

What a phenomenal world: one great teacher can bring profound happiness. Who would have thought a few months ago that I could feel this good? I dunno how long it will last, but it's super right now.

Off to contemplate my wonderfulness-

The Beauty of My Nature

2007-01-16T20:35:00.000-05:00

Isn't it funny how something in nature can look so like something in nature? This is a magnified photo of my vulva. You may have thought that it was a flower, but that's because my vulva is so flower-like and sweet-smelling, too.

Isn't it amazing, the way you know something wonderful is inside, but you can't quite see it? And no, I did not shave for the picture. It was simply taken in red-photo-cellular light, and all other colors are faded to virtual transparency.

I admit that I did clean up a bit. Any residuals that might have been there were tidied away - who wants to see discharge on a picture of a vulva? Anyway, I have always loved the way there are so many folds and unique spots. After childbirth, the whole area seemed to enlarge just a bit. Soon the vagina and everything shrunk back to the original size, and the newborn prepared for his driving test.

For those of you walking around with a small vulva: don't worry! Size doesn't matter. You may not be able to carry a baseball around the house, but you can still enjoy life. It could seem like I'm showing off, but it's just my self-love shining through. At night, the petals fold in and protect my vagina, just like a princess in a fairy tale. It's a bit disconcerting in the a.m. when I unfold, but one grows accustomed to one's gifts.

On an unrelated topic, I'm having trouble finding a comfortable bike seat. Any recommendations?

Bio-Slut Confesses: Ovaries Outmatch Wits

2007-01-13T15:04:00.000-05:00

Let's analyze the situation, shall we? Forty-ish woman, who had the wisdom to demand that her partner be spayed after birth of second child, fears she is pregnant. The vasectomy is years old. The Woman has experienced peri-menopausal symptoms for a year or two. The very same woman had a menstrual period not too long before the pregnancy worry began. We shall call her Bio-Slut.

During the workday, Bio-Slut forgets about the concern, apart from an occasional notice of the slight belly protrusion. She eats like an absolute swine - no, a swine with parasites - and has done so for over a year. She remembers that she used to be quite thin. Of late she is more in the normal range. Bio-Slut forgets that she has gained the wight gradually, and decides it must all be from the past few weeks. She frets on the phone to her sister, who keeps wondering why she doesn't pop over to the pharmacy for a home test?

At home, the breasts are sore, as they have been every month for about thirty years. Bio-Slut thinks they look veinier than usual (not vain, although they are quite nice, but veiny - those long blue things). She examines her breasts closely, and she remembers the same pale appearance from pregnancy. She is pretending to be in an earlier chapter of her life, but she is unaware of the dimming of her wits. Bio-Slut detects a slight enlargement of the areola, and even notices some milkish under-the-skin orbs on her nipples. Or she thinks she does. Maybe there's a little pressure somewhere, a bit of nausea.

You know how the story ends. And it's not with a splash of blood - how tacky. Obviously! I, Bio-Slut, Discharge Dork, Sterilization Sap, am a victim of my own pathetically strong biological urge to be pregnant. And I arrived at this epiphany - of biology overcoming intellect - despite the fact that I don't wanna baby, I don't wannanother kid, and I certainly don't want anything pushing on my bladder for 9 months and completely ruining any chance I might have for a not-chaotic life. Yet somehow, some part of me, and that part may very well be my uterus, seems to be thinking about pregnancy.

Why oh why would a woman of my maturity, my self-possession, be subtly wondering about pregnancy? Don't answer that - it was rhetorical. I am a victim of my own maternal instinct, hostage to my ovaries, and beholden to my vagina and all its accoutrements. Insanely devoted to my children. Always able to get up in the middle of the night, to think clearly in emergencies, and to put them first. How awful.

Not only that, but even my relationship with Ball & Chain is a matter of biology. As some close friends have heard me say, when I ovulate, even telephone poles start looking good. If a person tracked my sexual history, and graphed it, there would be a spike for every little ova that was preparing to come along, and a definite lull when fertilization was not a possibility.

Inevitably, Bio-Slut had to wake up. I began to remember a few essential facts. Each time I was pregnant, I knew it within days. It was either women's intuition, or extreme nausea. I recalled that almost all of the current "symptoms" come and go monthly; I imagined the absurdity of purchasing a pregnancy test. More to the point, I considered my now forty-ish body, post-ruptured disc, as well as pregnancy complications, bed rest, sore butt, and sores in my butt (hemorrhoids). I remembered how hopeful I felt when she was pregnant, and thus, I became one with My Inner Bio-Slut and actual reality.

It is appropriate for me to attempt the state of hoping, of optimism and looking forward to happy moments. However, one cannot replicate the feelings from old moments, and it's pretty foolish to try. I am too busy to ponder pregnancy, menopause, or even the first day of my last period. My true developmental phase requires a heart-felt yelp at the teenager, attendance at yoga class, and awareness of the pubescent girl as she experiences body hair, boobs, and bitchy outbursts. I am officially Not A Young Mother, and my Bio-Slut needs to go take a nap.

Readers: Please Come To My Ego-Party?

2007-01-11T18:25:00.000-05:00

The Blogs that I read say that it's "De-lurking Week." That means that if you read stuff on this blog, it would be cute to tell me. It would actually completely stoke my ego. Women often don't ask for presents, but I will be bold. Couldja? Wouldja please?

Since I use a pseudonym, I thought it would only be right for Readers to do the same. I know! If you lurk here, use a pseudonym to confess. Think of how truly worthy you are of a title. You know, Queen Sally, or maybe Ms. Goddess? Try making something up that is just stupid enough and/or silly enough for the Say Anything sorta theme here at Say Something, Sister. (Why do bloggers say "here"? I feel silly writing here here. Because it's not really a place, like Lucy's Femmy Cafe, or The Complaint Store. And it's not a piece o paper, either.)

You can post as Anonymous but make up a name in your comment! Puhleez? If ya can't think of one, try robbing from the annals - harhar - of potty talk. Oh how rich with expression that phase was: Madame Toilet? I Don't-Wanna-Wipe? Mama Help? Or maybe flatter yourself, since no one will know it's you? Diva Jane? Beauty? I.M. Greatfuck?

Oh okay. Did I mention that teaching middle-schoolers has brought me back to uncontrollable giggling over really stupid shit? Obviously, I made the point anyway. And I really am laughing at my own dorky self now.

Oh My, Sex

2007-01-08T20:29:00.000-05:00

I'm telling this story for Vaginella, my Sex Story Siren and Consultant Extraordinaire. This is a true story, but kinda like Lucy's Canya Believe This? It is utterly shallow but intriguing in the way that supermarket rags catch your eye. I like sex, but in my middle age, or almost-middle age, it just doesn't compel me so utterly as it seems to do for other people. It is quite lovely, but not the center of my universe.

Vaginella's ex from a while back had an erection problem. He - and his brother - were both able to have about 8 orgasms per day (we hope not in the same room, of course). Not just able, but it was something of a necessity. Before I go any further, I must reveal my own bias, upon hearing that news. Gross, Man! That is just too much hard dick for me to fathom. And what did he do in between masturbation sessions? Vaginella had a grand old time with him, but even She of Large Erotic Appetite became a mite fatigued.

After the inevitable break-up, Ella looked back at his profile on the dating site through which they had met. He wrote some less-than-flattering things about women being needy (yawn), and then revealed that he was thinking he might be bisexual. For some reason, this really bothered Ella. She was convinced that he had not been too interested in her at all, and that all of that sex they had was really his poor substitute for sucking a guy's dick. That sounds harsh, I know, but Ella kept repeating this dick-sucking thing. So I was like, get over it. And why should it matter anyway? Gay men do that, and they like it, and geez, we do it too. Every once in a while, when referring back to the Ex/Busy-Penis Guy, she would gripe about the idea that he wanted to suck dick.

Finally, last week end, Ella told me the real story behind her suck-dick issue. Justa few weeks after the break-up, Ella's close pal at work, Labiaretta, questioned Ella fiercely about her sexual habits, and finally told Ella that she was privy to some very personal information about Mr. Suck Dick (aka Busy-Penis Guy). Are ya still with me? Because there really will be a point, or two points if you count the dick - oh, you know what I mean. Or maybe the point is that I will never mature? That sex is actually funny? Back to the totally-convoluted plot: Lab had met a guy on a dating site, and did I mention they all work together? And this guy told her that he had discovered that it was his fondest wish to suck a guy's dick. He also revealed that he had had sex with innumerable groups of people, following his break-up with his last female friend. His favorite experience was to lie beneath a woman while she was having intercourse with someone else. He wanted to explore his submissive side. (I'll ignore the premise that women are submissive because it's so fucking stupid (ha), and irrelevant here.)

More confessing: I am so naive and I am such an adolescent about this stuff. His submissive side? Is that like what sex sophisticates talk about? I must be the female lefty version of the '50s housewife. It's all okay and good when consenting adults express their love, but omigod do people truly tie each other up or eat an ice cream sundae offa someone else's crotch? Yikes! Help! I'm not ready for that. It's so, so, out there. I am not out there. I am in here, with the other nature gals and uptight folks who fuck sans acoutrements. (I hope sans does mean without because that sounded so good.)

But, but, butt(?) - I am getting punchy here - back to the story: neither Labiaretta nor Mr. Dick knew who the other was. That is, until Dick sent along his photo. Behold, it was not a dashing stranger, but instead, her dull co-worker. Lab realized that the dork across the hall was the Dick that doesn't stop and that he is Mr. Suck Dick, all rolled up into one. Lo, he was/is the ex-boyfriend of her pal, our very own Vaginella. Labiaretta naturally told Vaginella everything, and that's when Ella began hounding me with her concern that her ex actually had things in mind when they had sex, but they were not the things one woman could give him.

The tale is instructive because you never know when your most personal sex wish and your anonymity may be torn from you so that an ex's repressed friend can wonder and poke fun at the coincidence of it all on her blog. I am happy for Mr. Suck Dick that he has figured out what he wants to do, but he might fare better if he does more fucking and less emailing. And if you are on the web meeting fantasy-folks, don't send the picture. Ouch.

The Positive Re-frame, Re-framed

2007-01-02T19:45:00.000-05:00

Back to work. I was absolutely brilliant (notice me embracing the new resolution), except when I wasn't. No comment on the ratio there. The students were like "Oh God" every time we talked about actually doing something. They seemed to expect us to hand out cigars and flick on the tube. I am very thankful that I don't take shit from people. I told them to shut the hell up or I'd go back to the banging-knuckles routine from the old days. Really, it is amazing how a small group of people can monopolize a situation, if you allow them. Kinda like those right-wing religious people who talk as if they are a mammoth group of righteous churches, all banded together in their zeal to be saved while the rest of us drown. Oh, but I do exaggerate. I'm quite sure the students were simply a mite perkier than usual after their wholesome family time. And many religious zealots are my best friends. Or maybe I just met one once, and I almost sorta thought about liking him?

Another tidbit of strange phenomena: my stats page, which I check to see who's perusing around here, says that no one is reading. Yet I have 4 comments. Obviously there is a glitch. That little gal in the computer may be on holiday. My brain is so busy creating ideas and expressing innovative thoughts that it cannot take on a techno-question. Plus, I'm not quite as adept at figuring out cyber-crap than I might be. What am I doing wrong? Perhaps a reader, or maybe the dog, will let me know what's happened?

Oh my. All of that positive re-framing was an incredible drain on my naturally bitchy ego. Must stick with thinking positive thoughts about my self for a portion of the day, and determine the portion on random whim. Off to "chillax," as one of my students says. I'd call it meditation, or quiet time, but my portion's up, and I gotta go lie on the bed and rest my weary ass.

The Good Stuff In Me

2007-01-01T01:11:00.000-05:00

Ta-da! It's a new year. I haven't cared in the past - it seemed a small stretch from the thirty-first to the first - but now it seems significant. This year I am going to consider seriously my many strengths and spend more time thinking about the good stuff in me. Today, for example, I had a jungle party and I decorated the house with bananas, green leftover Christmas crap on discount from the store (vines), and some tropic-esque stuffed animals. We made pina-coladas and put in some actual pineapple. Becca and her kids came over, and my sister stopped by.

But back to the positive parts of me. I am a good teacher and, on occasion, I have had a positive connection with a student. I am a loyal friend, and a great dog-owner. My dog loves me! It's because I know exactly how to take care of him and be his alpha gal. I have no interest in cats, and I believe that that is also a positive attribute.

My silly songs are rather enjoyable. And I can whip one up for any occasion, be it an awkward moment, or a statement of affection for my family. Also, I sing in the car. Not just anything. I sing along to the music I have been obsessing over at that particular time, and I sound really good. To me, anyway. This cheers me on my way to work, and when I get there, I am all "good morning," and "how are you."

Finally, I don't bullshit. I hate bullshit. I say things directly, and I speak with clarity. I am rarely at a loss for words, even when I need to say "I don't know what to say." This is preferable to saying something disingenuous or untrue. I am a good listener, even though I interrupt a lot when I am excited.

The best thing about me is that I am a very emotional person. My life is filled with millions of small and large pieces of sentiment, and I am fortunate to know overwhelming joy, as we all inevitably encounter devastating loss. The very idea of being a bit less emotional, or a bit less perceptive - somehow they go together for me - is unimaginable. I know at times I wear Ball & Chain out - my talk, my ideas, my laughing on the phone, and crying at night. But I don't do boredom, and life with me - and as me - has few dull moments.

Black & White: I Know I Don't Know

2006-12-31T09:07:00.000-05:00

I saw Blood Diamond yesterday, and I just finished reading Makes Me Wanna Holler, by Nathan McCall. The movie is about white greed, manipulation, and the ensuing genocide in Sierra Leone; the book is a black journalist's memoir of street to prison to the white mainstream. Now even writing about this gets me a little anxious: what do I know? Am I supposed to say something about guilt? I don't feel guilty, so there? I might feel guilty, but it's more like confused? One classmate in graduate school told me "that's just white guilt, and I'm over that." She shrank me down, but why? I am certainly ignorant. Personal politics interest me. World politics intimidate me. Racial politics intrigue me, but seem too complex for any but the very well-informed to comment. Still, if I don't say anything about race, that's a bit pathetic. Saying nothing would mean I think every thing's okay. I know it's not.

I think one branch of my ancestors was slave-owners, and I think I have black relatives somewhere. My other grandparents were Eastern European Jews who came here to avoid the Nazis. The Nazis murdered the family members who stayed behind. I grew up in the same town with the immigrant - yiddishe side of the family. We saw some combination of them every week. I was also particularly close to my southern grandparents, despite the distance. My southern grandfather - who converted to Judaism after he married - had ancestors on the Mayflower. My parents have the family tree, which a southern relative created and distributed about thirty years ago. All of my grandparents, those who spoke Yiddish, and those with a southern drawl, died awhile back.

A few hundred years after the Mayflower gig, I was on my couch doing bed rest, watching television. The dreaded Oprah was on (anyone who has ever been on bed rest knows one sinks to the lowest levels just to have something to do). In this particular episode, a young white guy talked about how he had found his black relations. He had researched his family tree, discovered that his ancestors had been "slave owners," and further discovered that he shared ancestry with black people descended from the same place. They shared the same surname, which happens to be my middle name. Hmmm. It is an old name from the southern side of my family. (I do not mean to imply that I had - or have - anything but affection for them, but refer to them as "the southern side" for clarity.)

(Regarding clarity, is 'slave owners' an accurate term? A person cannot really own another. Should we say murderers? Torturers? Mainstream southerners? Slavery is utterly inhumane. One can hardly skip over that for semantic purposes. I do not know that proper nomenclature exists to describe the act of enslaving another person.)

Back to the show: naturally, Oprah trotted out the black relatives, and everyone was happy(?) to see each other. The white man talked about how weird it was to think of his ancestors owning slaves, an idea that was apparently abhorrent and confusing, and the black people seemed far less surprised that he did that they had white relatives. They certainly knew that their ancestors had been slaves.

Following this discovery, I could never figure out if I was related to those people. Other relatives seemed to have little interest. I soon had a new baby. And even if I did have black relatives, what, exactly, would that mean? I dunno. A few years later, I saw my name as caption under a photograph of a black woman. I saw it a couple times after that, as well. I tried googling. Really, nothing came of it. Today I googled again. Many, many people have the name, and they are all black people.

So here I sit, perhaps the quintessential stereotype, but bewildered nonetheless. Nathan McCall wrote about the cruelty and humiliation of white society, and the violence he propagated in response. Eventually, after serving time in prison, he was able to gain perspective and re-gain his soul. In Blood Diamond, white people manipulate black people, and terrible violence ensues. The genocide in Sierra Leone was real, and the movie dramatizes the horror of the situation there. How does the following fit in: a short time ago, my great-great-great auntie may have sipped tea on a porch while a black lady, separated from her children, poured the cream. Or maybe the black woman worked in a field. Sometime later, a white man raped her.

So here I sit. What the hell does a white lady do, really? Try to lead a good life? Check. Study sociology in school, read the works of African-American writers? Check, check. Work with people of color? Check. Live in an integrated neighborhood? No check. Live in a place where my kids can get a good education? Check. Pretend it's all fine with me? No check. Feel that something is very wrong? Check. Notice the irony of having written all of this without more than a passing mention of money? Check.

I was raised to speak up, so I am trying to say something here. I don't know what to advocate for: political organization, human kindness, compassion, informed consumerism, an anti-racist outlook, pacifism. I got all those. Some thing's wrong - a lot of things are wrong - and I know enough to know I don't know.

A Flintstone Friendship Fable

2006-12-28T11:13:00.000-05:00

I gotta tell a story about my parents. They definitely have flaws. Fortunately, I don't, but I am compassionate, so on with the tale.

Years ago, like in the seventies, they had three couple-friends, as in six people, in hitched sets. We rarely do the couple-friend thing nowadays, but they did, along with The League of Women voters, the casual cigarette, and dinner parties to which I was not invited. We hung around the top of the stairs, coveting the adult conversation and undoubtedly excellent food. Or, if Mom & Dad went out, we had a range of babysitters, some with boyfriends on the phone, and others with apparent abnormalities that kept them from having boyfriends: short brittle hair and a mannish expression, or another with a birthmark running down half her face. We ate American Chop Suey - macaroni, hamburger, and tomato sauce. Yummm.

My parents had more elegant ideas. Chinese food, the symphony, and movies. One set of friends, The Rubbles - as I actually thought of them - were particularly intelligent, polite, and also petite. My parents were both tall, so there was a physical similarity to The Flintstone situation, as well. The other two couples were very friendly, except for one woman - we'll call her Wicky - who seemed to have a bitter edge, and looked at me like she might clip my ear off if I said the wrong thing. Her husband was a jovial furniture salesman, aptly named Joe - at least here, if not in reality. The other folks were a charming and wealthy couple. The wife, Flora, was a gracious, warm woman, and her husband, Earl, was easy-as-pie. He had a pipe hanging out of his mouth and a croquet court in the back yard. She had a large mole and crinkly eyes.

After a few years, it dawned on the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls that they had not been invited to Barney and Betty's for years. There started to be tension, and Wicky made lots of cutting remarks, out of earshot, or when the Rubbles were not in attendance. No invitation was forthcoming, however. The four couples visited together at three homes, but never at the Rubbles' house. My mother told me about it, and I got a bit Wickyish, really. It seemed unfair, and just plain wrong. Friends were supposed to reciprocate. Mom said that she knew that when she called, Barney and Betty were happy to hear from them - my parents, of course, were Fred and Wilma. Jeez, I thought, when Mom rationalized the Rubbles' behavior. My mother's such a wimp! I wanted to tell her to get a grip, that if they were never calling, and never inviting, the Rubbles just weren't great friends.

Eventually the Wicky-Joes and the Flora-Earls dumped the Rubbles. Someone had finally had words, and what the words were remains a mystery to me, but they were had, or whatever. It was awkward for my parents - Fred and Wilma - but they continued their friendship with the Rubbles. They saw the other two couples separately.

Eventually, the Rubbles confided in Wilma and Fred. Barney had had a major problem with major depression for a long time, and having people in their home had not been an option. They never knew when Barney would be well, or not. They also never told Wicky et al, and they remained my parents' dear friends. Later, Barney got rich and gave bucketloads of money to universities and hospitals for research and support for psychiatry. He spoke openly about his own depression, and when we talked on a few occasions, he tried to be supportive of me as I became accustomed to living with depression myself.

The morals of the story are: the Flintstones and the Rubbles were better friends than any of those other extras that wandered into the scene now and then. Also, even when they didn't understand the eccentricities of the Rubbles, Fred and Wilma stuck with them. Never mind that Bam-Bam was a horrid kid, and Barney a bit of an oaf. They were pals, and that was that. Also, Pebbles may have grown up to be a lovely person, and she undoubtedly tolerated her parents' foibles, because they were themselves so forgiving. Plus, Pebbles knew that her own perfection would be hard to match. Finally, it is wicky important to say something when a friend's behavior is hurtful. Otherwise, you may never get to be in another episode.

Secrets, Rejection & A Plastic Jesus

2006-12-25T14:20:00.000-05:00

I found a very excellent book at the bookstore called "Secrets." A man named Frank put it together, based on his blog, Post Secret. People send in artful-ish postcards and disclose secrets. Many are quite powerful. One of the first notes said "I don't like sex," mounted on an Calvin Klein ad close-up of a man's crotch. Others were about suicide, cheating of various forms, and events people regretted, or felt they should have regretted. I found myself drawn to the book, as I do have quite a few secrets myself. Despite my efforts to be open here, there are certain matters of which I am so ashamed, or so confused, that I choose not to write about them. Or maybe I do write about them, without realizing it, when I write stories or poetry. I am never been able to express my state of internal isolation: I approach, then balk. My first attempt, thirty-five years ago, failed, and the rare efforts since then failed as well. I could write a book about that, but it would probably not be of particular interest to other people.

Today is Christmas. My parents accepted an invitation to come be Christmas Jews with us, but then decided to go to my brother's home instead. This is the second year in a row that they committed the same blunder. Even when reminded of the gaffe, they chose to go to my brother's house, since his family is usually less available than us. It is a new low to be ditched, not by a friend, but by one's parents, for a sibling. It is even lower when the faulty parties - Mommy and Daddy, as it were, do not correct the error, but choose to keep the second commitment. My mother occasionally reads the blog, but it is my blog, so I will say whaddevah I wanna say. Perhaps my parents will write into the Post Secret guy, Frank, and tell him what exactly they are thinking: the firstborn really is the favorite? Our house is too small? They have better food? Daughters are more loyal and so ditching them is not a hazard?

Other secrets I am not keeping: I am in a genuine, actual panic about the state of both my hair and my face (if I am not pretty, what the hell am I?); I really wanna cigarette; I would like to have more sex but I am fundamentally shy and remote; I am not as smart as virtually everyone I surround myself with, so I often have to 'cover,' I have a vast amount of affection for people, and that embarrasses me, because often they like me, but they don't quite adore me as I do them; my former therapist, who is a world-renowned, much-quoted expert, said a lot of personal stuff to me and I sorta knew it, but I was flattered until I realized it was wrong, and I, well, I gotta stop there because the others just aren't coming out.

One more thing: there is an inflated plastic, bigger-than-life sized Jesus about two miles down the road. Not a secret, but rather an example of something that never should have been let out of the bag.

The Tele-Polygamy Solution: A Cure for Man & Strife

2006-12-02T10:41:00.000-05:00

Oh I do so question the fundamental idea of American marriage. Why are we so down on polygamy? I could still be with my kids, but the Ball & Chain's tendency to act as if the television were a soul-mate would be another gal's burden. Actually, I may have hit on something right there. It was gradual - when we first met, there was no t.v. in sight - but over time, B&C has made a heart-felt commitment to the television. There was no sudden something, there was just a gradual tendency to tape shows, assume that I knew he'd be watching hours-long homo-erotic videos, i.e. football, and the tendency to pay far more attention to that square box, its general health and schedule, than to me.

Jealous of the television? Hardly. If we can ever get a big-screen plasma mega-wall covering, I may covet the television, and devote myself. Currently, the television has saved me from the above-mentioned drench of American marriage. Here are my perfectly lovely kids. Why must they be related to B&C as well? It is so inconvenient when I am compelled to listen to his opinion regarding their care. In truth, his efforts have improved of late. Nevertheless, I am confident in the assertion that any of my judgments regarding children will be superior to his. Not necessarily because I know all, but because I always know more than him. Adolescent boy sex education is the exception. But even then, I had to direct him from 'behind the scenes.' This is what fathers do, etc. Yawn.

My main consultants are the women in my life, of course. My Mama, once smart and now phenomenally smart regarding people and child-rearing; Chrystal, whose child-rearing talents include kicking out her lazy-ass ex; Becca, who also lives with 2 children and a human husband; and other peoples, including my sister and two lovely and intelligent neighbor-friends who are with "grown men." We often chat, house-to-house, about the mediocrity of marriage and the most recent unfortunate events. I'd call it a series, but that name's been taken.

Back to the television. Not all marriages have a television. If you have been with the same man - lesbians, I envy you, I once thought I was a lesbian, I am certainly oriented in either direction, but I must exclude you from the idiocy that is man and wife - I do recommend getting a television and introducing him to some nice attractive shows. Perhaps he likes sports? Cleavage? Sexual content? Guns, car chases, idiotic cartoons? If he fits into any of these categories, you may have a chance at the Tele-Polygamy Respite Program. Mind you, it's not for everyone. If you enjoy your partner's company most of the time, well, you have obviously not been married long and I don't know why you're reading. Similarly, if you have a long-distance relationship, you're all set. At-home-moms may enjoy the solution because even when he's there, he's not. But then again, you may want to use his at-home time to bitch and ditch, off to see a friend and get a break from the house.

I am hereby creating the Tele-Polygamy Respite Program for all aggrieved overly-married women. More qualification requirements will be forthcoming, but I suspect you know who you are. In the meantime, there is not much on today, so I have some serious errands to run. The daughter rejected B&C's offer to go to an event, so that she could be with me. Like mother, like daughter: a genius.

Modern Woman Shuns Self-Improvement

2006-11-27T18:39:00.000-05:00

Yesterday this smarmy lady on the t.v. news which I do not usually watch (and now I remember why - it's so fucking stupid) - obsessively gave whispery-sweet advice on how to raise a girl who feels comfortable with her body. She said not to kvetch about how your ass - or my ass, as it were - looks in jeans, not to make self-deprecating remarks about my body, and to encourage Rugelah to exercise with me, or some such shit. Too late! She said it all with a condescending smile, as if she were actually giving new advice. This after another woman wrote an entire column in the New York Times about how to "re-gift" politely. That one had little hints like remove the card that was on the original gift, and if it's a piece of crap don't give it to someone else. This is the Seinfeld of the news. Write about nothing!

Far be it from me to write about the fact that women seem to be writing about nothing for the benefit of other women who presumably want to read about nothing and how it applies to their vacuous lives. That would make me an accomplice. Still, the magazines! I understand that they are all part of an evil plan to convince women we could all be better, but why must so many of the articles be about void of substance? How do I know they are brain-draining crap? My dear sister-in-law, Betty, came to visit. She hauled over all of the Self and Self-less and My Self type stuff. Some of the clothing in those ads was excellent, but the articles were about eating vegetables and injecting the fat from your ass into your cheeks. Cheek to cheek-ha!

Naturally, I have my own more pertinent advice for the modern woman who feels she looks like crap, has too much to do, and wants to read in-depth coverage of real women's issues:

1.) Wear a mini-pad. In your undies, please, and nowhere else. Inevitably, you will bleed irregularly due to medications, mothering stress, peri-menopause, break-through bleeding, an ovarian cyst, or simply a suddenly heavy period. If you are post-menopause, quit gloating.
2.) Don't wear the wrong color lipstick. Orange is always the wrong color. You'll look like a clown - the bad kind.
3.) Don't watch The View or any other mainstream female-ish show. It's a mysogynist and anti-semitic plot to convince you that Barbara Walters is actually a Jewish woman. Ack!
4.) Finish that delicious thing on your plate because if you don't when you're hungry later you'll be like why oh why can't I eat that now?
5.) Drink a lotta coffee with sugar, and I don't mean decaf! This will keep you perky and awake, even in the middle of the night! Added benefit: increased productivity.
7.) Practice dental hygiene. You may look haggard, you may feel like you're one hundred and one, but if your breath stinks, you have really sunk to the depths. Alternatively, if your partner is bothering you, avoid dental hygiene.
8.) Save time by giving your kids frozen food. You can stick a large frozen thing into the microwave, and within minutes have pseudo-food. Put some dressing on some lettuce, too - no, not spinach, for crissake - provide a glass of cow's milk, or soda, and it's a healthy meal. If your kid has allergies, well, you're screwed. Also, unless you know the cow personally, opt for the soda.
9.) If your kid does not have allergies, think about what a lazy bitch you are. Only for 10 seconds, though. Give them fruit for dessert and you'll be like the goddess of pseudo-health. Unless you grew the fruit in a hydroponic container, opt for a Twinkie instead.
10.) Don't wear a winter hat if you have curly hair. When you take it off, you will have clown-head, as in Bozo. Refer back to item 2. If you really wanna look like a clown, you know what to do.
11.) Stay away from any magazine that purports to give advice about how to feel better. Some days you will feel like shit, and other days you will feel good. Most of the time you will be somewhere in-between. No amount of self-hating pseudo-improvement can change that.

I hope my list is of help to anyone feeling oppressed by the pod-people. Gotta run - I have an appointment to sit on my ass and create a scrapbook of these, the days of the empowered woman.

Photos, Drama, and a Few Twists

2006-11-19T18:26:00.000-05:00

Blogger fucking beta is giving me a beta headache which is turning into an alpha. I tried to play with it to see why exactly I should switch to it even though I already did, and finally I am able to share a photograph of myself. In truth, I needed assistance from Thing One. But before digging into the joys of technology - which is probably more of a monologue on my lack of tech prowess - I would like to respond to the many people who have commented on my very eventful life. First, as you can see, I haven't lost my looks. For that, I am grateful.

My life is indeed very eventful. It's Africa, it's Asia, it's the unsafe Eastern Europe of my ancestors. Unpleasant people, unfamiliar smells and hot spicy soup. There are legal matters and medical crises. Estrangement and financial woe. It feels like Agnes Nixon of ABC soaps fame - All my Children and One Life To Live - is writing the cheesy script of my life. Way too many dramatic events. Clearly I am worthy of a heartier, more realistic plot. Or at least some cleavage to boast.

I do feel like I got a good job, and if I were one of those people who believed that "every time a door closes a window opens," I might see myself locked in a room, but escaping through a window. What an odd expression. Since I am not one of those people, however, and I am also not a trapped bird, I generally steer clear of open windows - at least those without screens. I view my small bit of good fortune as a probability game. The chances of another unpleasant or awful event happening in my life seemed to be less likely, after the many bad twists of plot. About twists, and turns, why do people always use that phrase - "twists and turns"? It sounds absurd. When I first heard it, I thought it was a parody, something Will Ferrell might say on SNL (is it SNL now, instead of "Saturday Night Live"? Is that an update to the effect of KFC? We all know The Colonel fries his chicken so I don't respect that switch.) Regarding twists and turns, it seems that people really do use those two words together. I can understand a twist, I can understand a turn, but twists and turns together sounds ignorant, like saying "nucular," or perhaps "irregardless." William Sapphire would certainly scoff, and I scoff as well. I also digress madly.

At my new job, where I am teaching Language Arts, people seem to understand that I am intelligent. It's wicked fun because I do not have to explain myself or defend myself or even prove myself because my competence is assumed. It is remarkable how much more one can do with just the notion that the people who hired you to teach sense that you can actually do the job. On that note, let's get back to using some of the functions of the Blogger beta, which is supposedly bedda than the old Blogger. It seems it allows me to make things look schnazzier so that you - my devoted reader, and the dog - will be more attracted to what I say. To that end, I suppose I should have linked to the aforementioned soaps, or perhaps KFC. Do ya really wanna go there, though? I guess I've lost the initial emotion that lead me to criticize Beta in the first place. The issue simply pales in the context of My Eventful Life. Oh and one more thing, as Columbo useta say: in truth, that photo of me is from my college days. before I really got good lookin'.

Speed Blog

2006-11-13T07:53:00.000-05:00

I gotta get ready for an interview so I cuddled with Rugelah and tried to figure out how Thing One is doing, called my sister and my Mama to check on how they are (grieving still in the forefront many days), picked out clothes for Rugelah which I do not usually do but I have been lately since she's blue and a little tlc never hurt, and then I checked my email. Friend of friend sent info about job for which I have interview today and so I emailed her friend about the school because she's familiar with it and now I hafta figure out how to make copies of references when I forgot to get new cartridge for printer. Like duh.

I looked at the clock and thought okay I will take ten minutes to write and in truth I did read a profile of Will Ferrell in the New York Times magazine this morning and it was somewhat disarming to read about his normal life leading to mega-success in comedy. John Belushi he is not. Nor Margaret Cho. His imitation of George W got him a few invitations to The Big House - not prison, the home of W! - and to his credit he refused them. I know this is one of those times I should link, but do I really have time to link? Didja ever wonder what a person with anxiety and a bit of cycling into not-quite-mania could be like before she takes her meds in the morning? And why is the font different? Aha! Ten minutes and I just finished editing. Now that's a writing process.

My Fictional Life & The Televised Influences

2006-11-11T18:27:00.000-05:00

It's hard to write a semi-anonymous blog when controversial events take place in one's life. Why, for example, did I reveal my identity to certain people when it would cause me to lose a definite amount of imagined freedom? It's sort of like Anaiis Nin knowing, in her gut, that people would read her journal. I think she may have known it well, since she wrote about showing it to certain acquaintances, 'if my memory serves me correctly.' Back to my thesis statement: It is a challenge to be one's self when those people who actually know the outer image are looking in, and there is a particular awareness for the author. Me, that is, being self-conscious as I write.

My remedy for this conundrum of identity is so simple it's laughable. From here-on-in, this is pure fiction. Got it? I'm making this shit up, I have no family, no friends, no ideas to speak of. Any similarities between what you read here and real characters that you may know are pure coincidence. Phew.

Ya know why they talk about marriages being 'on the rocks?' It's because often alcohol is involved. My case is no exception. In my general Appeal to the Universe, when I am making it, as one does at moments of shittiness, I ask, how did my life become so utterly predictable? When did I become a lady with a rough marriage? I feel like a character on MacMillan & Wife. Of course, Rock Hudson could have one drink and stop. And they never had close family members die. In those days, main characters were never killed off. But they had dear friends who might suddenly pop up on a new episode, kind of like Maude on All in The Family. Rock and Susan Saint James would kindly condescend to their old pals and chat about them after they left. What had gone wrong? Estelle was acting strange, and never spoke to Buck. Well, Estelle may have wanted him to stop imbibing or maybe he had actually stopped but was now so unpleasant without the alcohol that she wished he'd have more.

Is there a particular diagnosis for a person who continually refers to old television episodes to reference her life? It is a bit twisted, I know, but television was an integral part of my entree (is that a main course or an entry point?) to our culture. Susan Saint James really had it good - so her husband was gay? She still got to solve crimes, look slick all the time, and she always had a happy chuckle ready to pop out.

Whew! That was lotsa fun to make up. This fiction thing is going well. A fictional character referring to actual television characters - I am feeling more optimistic about my fictional life already!

Unwitting Commenter Slight by UnderTechno Gal

2006-11-11T13:28:00.000-05:00

Alert, alert! Somehow my comments were not all coming to me or more likely I have been a doofus. Now they are all here and many apologies to folks who commented. I am truly back and happy to be reading some of my fave writers again. Rugelah's gotta get on the computer right now, but I shall be posting and reading. Best update: on to new job, marriage is crap, my son seems better but it's a long haul, Rugelah is just peachy. I continue to be what some may think is a 'mental case' (a compliment, really), but what I know is utterly insightful and with a better haircut this week. (Grammar I forsake thee.) Ego on the mend.

Responsibility Overload and Other Amusements

2006-11-09T21:34:00.000-05:00

Didja ever have a job interview the next day and you think you would really like the job so you go out and get Spanish tapes to review your "proficient" Spanish and you practice interviewing in the car, and you research the school, and then you get to a point at which you think, oh crap, I think I need to watch television? Not Spanish-language television, just the usual models-on-parade that's on there. I am newly addicted to Gray's Anatomy which makes me out-of-synch with the rest of the culture, who all seem to be watching Howie Mandel's goddawful soul patch. So I watched an episode of Gray's Anatomy on this here computer, but this computer is getting old and right in the middle, well, that was it. So now I am stuck wondering about who is mad at who and whether the surgeon guy will get caught not using his injured hand and relying on his manipulating resident girlfriend to do the stuff he can no longer do.

Notice that this precludes much thought about teaching Language Arts to middle school students from Spanish-speaking families. It's one too many variables. What am I wearing? What am I saying? How do I get there? Have I notified all references? Did I feed the dog? Too much.

With these questions in mind, I made an edible and nutritious dinner for Thing One and Thing Two. We had protein shakes for sort-of-dessert. Love that Trader Joe's. Why do bloggers link so much? Was I supposed to learn about computers at some point? Am I supposed to link to Trader Joe's? That would be like an ad, really, and I have no interest. Plus I did some laundry, played a duet on the piano - I played only one part - and pet the dog. Petted the dog? Apparently I did everything possible to emulate motherly middle class traditions and avoid other responsibilities.

Maybe I genuinely want to be proud that I bought cole-slaw cuttings to make the salad crunchy? Or maybe I realized that I had prepared enough for a first interview and now I can relax? I still have time this evening to review what I need to do and make other preparations...or, perhaps, my computer will somehow work later and I'll be able to watch the show. Yes.

Goodbye, Ego

2006-11-05T21:32:00.000-05:00

I don't have a job now. I did have a job and now I don't because apparently the people there did not feel I fit into their schtick, their code, their fucking smug little group and so without warning I was asked to resign. How utterly humiliating. Why does the worst shit take place at the warmest, fuzziest schools and agencies?

Alright I cannot write much more about that now because it's too embarrassing. That's over. Who gets told that, that, ugh I cannot even write what they said because you may read it and think oh she must have done something strange and she has an issue yet blames all of these other people. Well, isn't it a mite weird when the Big Cheese basically tells you to blow off and then his First Lieutenant - how the hell does one spell that? - calls up the next day and apologizes? Isn't that kinda wacky?

Or maybe you're thinking why didn't she realize that the place was wacky, and if you are, well, you got me there. I did know it was wacky, I did have that pit-in-the-stomach thing, but I ignored it because it all sounded so good and fitting well with my family obligations and my kids' lives and all. But this guy asked me questions about my family in the interview. What a creep! So I said why are you asking me this? And he went on and on - one of those I love the drawl of my own voice old guys - about how he knew it was inappropriate but he did it anyway and he's a social worker blah blah blah.

Then I spoke to my therapist about how the first people were thoughtful and smart and engaging but the Big Cheese is a repulsive fat old guy - no offense to not-repulsive fat old guys - and we discussed it. She said maybe he was just one icky guy with bad boundaries and the rest of the people seemed kosher, so to speak. Ah! I could blame her. My therapist, that is. Let's call her Eileen because she looks like one of those women in an Eileen Fischer ad, although nowadays all the women are quite thin and younger than they used to be. No more gray hair.

Couldn't we, please, blame someone else for the fact that my professional life is in the toilet? That I hafta call references and be like "hi, they booted me after two minutes?" Is someone going to say it's about them and not me? Well, save it. I have had a hard time at work for years now. The pattern is they really love me, then I have a personal crisis and get really stressed, and then they don't love me. At my last job, I really could not keep up the pace and mourn my brother at the same time. But at this job they found out my son was in the hospital and ten days later it was like "seeya."

No punch line, but maybe a tremendous law suit? Alternatively, I could start applying for other jobs and watch a little daytime t.v. Oh, yeah, I'm doing that already. Goodbye, ego.

Loaning & Lurching

2006-11-03T21:38:00.000-05:00

I have not written in a while. One of my children has been experiencing technical difficulties. I have been in the bizarre position of going to work every day and traipsing the earth, feigning health and humor while one of my children has been ‘having a hard time’. Why so cryptic, you may wonder. Why not lay out the whole monstrosity of the problem? Well it's my prerogative to say whaddevah the hell I want to, but it is not my prerogative to do so in relation to the topic of my children's lives. Because they’re not really mine, goddammit. It’s like that Sweet Honey and The Rock song which is probably quoting the Bible or some version of it, about how your children are not your children but they’re on loan from someone like Mother Nature or Joni Mitchell. It is quite shabby of my progeny to become independent beings whom I must respect in regard to their personal lives. It was simpler when I could rail on about the poop leaking out of a diaper without any concern at all that I might embarrass someone. I could discuss every detail of nursing without worrying - Boopy never minded if I detailed the amount of milk sucked out my left tit, and the subsequent soreness left because of my unremitting love and all-natural maternal instinct. And now they want to be individuals. That’s a kick in the ass.

My children are utterly separate from me. They breathe on their own, they eat, occasionally with utensils, and they seem to have relationships that do not include me! It's humiliating and fundamentally wrong. Who are these people for whom I shop, worry, and listen, as they analyze the tiniest flaws in my character? Is there not some faint whiff of loyalty that requires them to ask my permission for, like, having their own opinions? Especially when their opinions are so immature. What child of mine would ever reject a slice of apple pie, call “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret “ boring and old-fashioned, or reject the all-American blue-jean as uncomfortable? What kind of judgment is that? And I nevvuh, evvuh, gave my permission to be so casual about both burping and farting. Farting? Passing gas? I could hardly admit such a thing existed until I was 27 and about to give birth. And it was not an admission I gave willingly.

There are a number of other liberties "my" children have taken in the past, and at this particular juncture, I am drawing a line, holding up my middle-aged hand, hollering out: no way, you ingrates. I say enough meaningful bonds with other adults - whaddevah happened to the mother-child connection? No more opinions about politics, ethics, etc. If I want to call a person a dumbass, and then smile sweetly when I see her, I feel I have the right to my hypocrisy. Who needs a personal critic? And if I ask my child, my flesh and blood, to please do me a favor and get me something from the kitchen, like a cookie - hypothetically, of course - I expect a little service. That’s right, service. I didn’t pop those people out and fawn over them for years just so they could leave me in the lurch. They may want to pursue the devolution of their dependence on me, but I am holding firm. No. More. Growing. I cannot reveal my methods, but I will keep my readers - you over there, and my dog - posted.

I Am My Diagnosis & Cheery Tips for Patients

2006-08-22T23:02:00.000-04:00

As I was driving to my new excellent job today where the people are actually like me, or to be more specific, not so dolled-up or formal or formatory that I wasn't sure whether or not some of them were pods, I noticed that I was rapidly humming along, rather like a sweet little birdie on speed. Listening to the news didn't calm me, as they don't speak quickly enough when I am in that mode. So I turned on The Shins. Of course I had chopped 5 minutes off my commuting time, imagining that I would miraculously get there more quickly today. The clocks would adjust themselves for me, as they do when I am super-duper-cheery. After all, I was speeding through time. This was not a mega-caffeine morning. This was me in a slightly manic mode that I have been loathe to label because it sounds, jeez, so manic. My psychopharm guy referred to "cycling, " and I was all with that, because fast to very very sad to faster is like a sudden whip-around of your head, so that a tiny and fierce neck muscle spasms mid-whip, but the movement continues.

Why mention this now? Because Spotted Elephant wrote a super-brave posting about the joys of having a chronic medical condition. I think it is really fun. My medical condition(s), that is, although the posting is also excellent. My diagnoses make me unique, and without them, I would have no identity. Who would take my pills? The dog might find them unpalatable.

Also, my healthcare practitioners are the best, and I worked my ass off to find them. I help to validate their professional lives, and it's always intriguing to get a Case like me. And of course, 'every time a door closes, a window opens.' (That's because when a psychiatrist closes a door, the claustrophobic patient begs permission to open the window.) I have learned so very much from my medical misfortunes. They are like little gifts, or lessons, as it were. The following is a list, inspired by two men: my first neurologist, who taught me that other people had it worse than me, and that his wife had an important job; and also, Jerry Lewis, whose telethons helped me to realize just how much attention a wheelchair might get me.

LIFE LESSONS FROM A VARIOUSLY DIAGNOSED PERSON

Always trust your doctor, even when he leaves you sitting in a room alone for 40 minutes. He's busy, for crissake!

Never listen to the nurse - she's just a little helper, and she's probably been at that same job for years. So what does she know?

Don't expect a call on the actual week the doctor said she would call you! Holy cow! When she said Thursday, she meant Thursday of any week, any month, any year.

Quit learning the medical jargon: it's unnerving to your physician, and you certainly could not truly understand it.

Just because it burns when you pee, you constantly have to go, and you've had five urinary infections in the past, don't try diagnosing yourself. You must be seen before anything is prescribed. The doctor will see you in two days.

Your diagnoses are an opportunity to grow and learn. You are an example of heroism for all of those around you. When you feel like absolute crap and everyone is sick of hearing about it, remember that suffering builds character. Plus, no one likes a complainer, so quit bitching.

Remember, regardless of the dehumanizing diagnostic test, it is important so that the doctor can know exactly what's going on. It may turn out to have been completely unnecessary to make you shit all night, for example, or prohibit you from sleeping, but just be a good girl. The doctor has never had the diagnostic test, so he has no idea what the hell he's talking about when he describes it. Nevertheless, you can ask a nurse, and dumb as she is, she will probably, somehow, remember something about the test.

Although people do get genuine bodily ailments, women are known for their, pardon me, hysteria. Should you think you have a psychiatric disorder, you're probably crazy! It's undoubtedly related to your hormones, your cycle, your tendency, like all women, to exaggerate. Just cheer up, honey!

Everything happens for a reason. Like, the reason kids are in wheelchairs in the first place is that people like Jerry Lewis need to exploit them. Furthermore, the reason I wrote this is because of the joy it gives me to have many diagnoses, and to be part of the hysteria.

Whoopi Goldberg and Other Musings

2006-08-20T17:53:00.000-04:00

Whoopi Goldberg looking over her glasses from out of the Sunday paper is far superior to looking at the pouchy faces we're ordinarily subjected to with our coffee. That crackly voice and her relaxed attitude have always appealed to me. The nun movie? The comedy shows with Robin Williams and Billy Crystal? And look at her - no make-up, or at least something akin to an actual human face. A humored, wide smile, and happily wild hair. When I opened the New York Times Magazine this morning, there was a Deborah Solomon interview in which the reporter attempts to either prove her superiority or her irritability - it's hard to tell which. Nevertheless, she was woefully outwitted by the ever-clever Whoopi.

I had sorta forgotten about Whoopi since I hadn't seem any of her recent crappy movies (I think they are all crappy, but I like her in them anyway, especially the one in which she coaches the baseball team). New York Times Magazine readers often complain that Ms. Solomon is uptight or biased in some way. Today she played the straight man, as it were, to perfection. She actually used the phrase "never mind," because Whoopi out-quipped her. How many people can spurn a reporter by saying "I'm not that deep"?

I guess there's been some big hoo-ha recently about Oprah not inviting Whoopi to a big Diva Dinner. I have reported my opinion of Oprah, and it was only reinforced recently when I saw her magazine, O, on the rack. What is that? Is she like O is for Oprah? Orgasm? Oh! It's me again, Oprah! And every single how-to-be-healthy-in-ten-easy-lessons issue has Oprah's sandwashed photo on it. She may be narcissistic, but she is also the center of the O-niverse! In contrast, Whoopi is on the radio, talking about how people oughtta be more considerate of one another. She plays fun music in between, apparently, so she can run to the lavatory if necessary (Deborah dislikes the music). Oprah's all 'O Me O Me' and Whoopi's talking on the radio, and posing in her very regular clothes.

Why should I compare two black celebrities? It just so happens that these two people are very prominent celebrities and one of them is a talented comedian;I am an opinionated woman, passionately involved in sociological issues, and comparing celebrities is practically an advanced seminar in cultural literacy. Also, there's the matter of my ego: how come no one pays as much attention to the people I like? That actor in Crossing Delancey - he was great. "Do you think my job defines me?" he hollered at Amy Irving, who couldn't admit that she had the hots for a Jewish pickle-man. Where did he go? Gotta google that. The Green Party woman - Jill Stein - an intelligent person, not a celebrity, but close - a politician. Why didn't people vote for her? She was intelligent, warm, articulate. Would there ever be a J Magazine? Well, of course not!

What if Whoopi had a magazine? "Ten Reasons to Listen to The Radio," or "There is Nothing About Oprah in Here." If she had a magazine, would I still like her? More importantly, if she were as rich and famous as Oprah - and she's probably pretty rich and famous as is - would she still talk about the natural need to fart when one is on stage for hours? Most important, if I were as rich and famous as either one of them, would I be deep, like Oprah, or shallow like Whoopi? I'm off to call my psychic. I think I'll fart along the way.

Jews Can Confess, Too

2006-08-18T11:34:00.000-04:00

Oy vesmir to be a progressive Jewish girl these days. Oy gevalt I cannot watch the news I cannot talk about it. When my goyishe husband criticizes Israel I get nervous. I am sure a uniformed officer will come for me, noting my unruly hair and Jewishy face. When I hear politicians support Israel, I feel oppressed. I keep myself at a news-exposure minimum, because after reading and listening about the war the cease fire the families the terrorists I am overwhelmed. And I'm just a Jewish gal in North America, living my little life with nothing more than a few pauses here and there.

Sometimes, I am reduced to thinking about Hebrew school: the way we were taught that we should never forget The Holocaust (so true), the oft-repeated words - "the chosen people" - that I always knew were wrong, and the unflinching support of Israel, along with the notion that all Jews, some day, would go to Jerusalem. We were our own proud little band of soldiers, with Hebrew workbooks, and Hebrew names.

I read about a local Jewish family moving to Israel, and I thought what about the children? Those people could die from a bomb. People believe so fiercely in Israel and somehow that intense devotion missed me. It feels sacrilegious even writing that. Other Jews assume that I accept Israel's actions unconditionally. But I don't accept anything unconditionally! When a country's weapons kill innocent civilians, I won't be an apologist for it. Israel has the right to exist, but I wish all the neighbors there could exist without killing each other.

I am already on some organization's "self-hating Jew" list, whatever that means. Please forgive my feelings of humanity for Lebanese people! I don't understand, for example, why the progressive temple we attend raised money for Jewish children in Israel last year. What about all Israeli children in need? I simply do not value Jews more than I value Arabs. I was told as a child that Arabs are evil. It didn't sound right then, and it is not right now.

So don't hak me a chinek (give me grief) with the Israel talk, and don't tell me who did what to whom. I tell my students, and my own children, that I'm not interested in who started it, I wanna know who's going to finish it? Not finish it with bombs. Talk about some real peace. It would be a grand trip if we could ever afford to travel to Israel. Will we ever feel safe enough that we would even consider it? Ach, what kind of a Jew am I?

The Pill & The Poof

2006-08-16T08:02:00.000-04:00

My anti-depressant is great. It's an SSRI. That means it inhibits the flow of seratonin, which maybe my brain squirts out a bit too freely. Or something like that. It's Prozac, only not. How ordinary of me. The theory is that the anti-depressant helps with depression, and it does. But where's my orgasm? (As you read that, please imagine it asked with outrage, in a loud voice that has a bit of wail, similar to a cat's, mating in the distance.) It seems to have gone the way of bikinis, abdominal muscle, and regular periods. Let's not get the issues confused, though. The peri-menopause has not taken my orgasm; the yellow pill I take twice a day has taken my orgasm, and even the requisite great feeling right before the orgasm, and deleted it from my hard drive.

Now Chrystal would say "forget the drug! Embrace your depression and get the orgasm back!" That's why I don't ask Chrystal about this particular issue. I don't ask anyone. It's the Catch-22 of My Pathology, or one of many, really. If I don't take the meds, I will not want to have sex. I will not want anyone near me. That's my guess. If I do take them, I am vibrant, exciting, a regular Bugs Bunny, but female, and not a cartoon, and with just a tad more depth and better ears.

I do think about sex, and the interest is there. But I suppose it's not as there as some people have it there. And then what is strange is that if I do engage Ball & Chain, or he engages me, or, more to the point, we are doing it, I do not end up frustrated, the feelings simply disappear, mid-heat. Every appropriate cell is aroused, everything is in place, and when I say "thing" you know what I mean, and matters are proceeding as they have throughout time, except those folks probably hadn't had their husbands spayed to avoid worry about pregnancy, and then as I approach the moment, poof. Poof, truly, that's all. The SSRI is in there somewhere, a little mad scientist with troll hair and a polka-dot dress running through my bloodstream saying "she cannot have the orgasm - it is the price she pays!" and the demon turns off some switch. It's like going to a great film with a terrific soundtrack, and suddenly you're watching old black & white home movies of a distant relative serving himself macaroni salad. The soundtrack is gone and there's just a crackle.

Ball & Chain has been understanding. After all, his bloodstream is not poisoned. What's to understand? He saw the whole movie, including the credits and the little tiny extra if you wait until the very end, and I listened to some old guy gumming macaroni. Should I talk to my doctor about the macaroni? I dunno. Other than the sex part, my medications are working well. I'm caught in the 22. In the past, when on an SSRI, once I have manage to have one peak experience, as it were, that was it, the Polka-Dot Lady was gone, and I could do it again and again. Like magic.

For now I'll have to hope that Ball & Chain can come up with a few tricks. He does have some talent, so we'll see what happens. I'm not about to stop the SSRI. I suppose chastity would be a bit extreme, and I do still have an appetite. Only not for macaroni salad.

My Pal Chickie

2006-08-14T22:52:00.000-04:00

My pal Chickie is a walking encyclopedia of relevant knowledge. Need a car? She knows where to get a good used deal. Does your child have a conundrum at school? Chickie has managed a similar issue, knows the school authorities, as well as three other mothers who have dealt with it, and she can suggest an article. Chickie doesn't advertise, though. You must discover her talents on your own. And here's a query that I posed for The Knowledge Chick: if one's daughter begins to wear a bra sometime in the next decade, what is the proper protocol? What to say? Where to go? What to do? Not only did Chickie's advice assuage my fear of budding breasts, or breast buds, as it were, but she directed me to the proper retail outlet.

I have discovered OneHanesPlace. All this time I have been writing, you, Dear Reader, as well as the ant crawling across my screen, may have thought that I was a buxom, large-breasted, womanly type of woman, whaddevvah that means. Well, no. (For extrapolation on the matter of post-mastectomy bras, stay tuned, I'm on the job.) I'm a B. Thirty four B. That's a lie. I'm in between, really. An A is too small. Yes, it is! Do I want big breasts? No. Do I wish my tuchas (ass padding) was proportional to my breast size? Yes. Do I care that much? Not nearly as much as if I suddenly grew a moustache, but a little more than if Condoleeza Rice grew a moustache. I don't think anyone else in the executive branch could grow a moustache right now, due to either a testosterone omission in their rabies series, or the intense concentration required. Nothing against Condoleeza personally, but I think she'd do well with some facial hair.

Back to OneHanesPlace, where I imagine all of the panties and bras go to gossip -"See you over at One Hanes, Thong!," - they have every single type of brassiere ever created anywhere including "Near-B"! So I don't have to look down at my small breast lolling meekly inside a B-cup, as if waiting to be joined by a partner, and I don't have to strangle my entire chest by squeezing into an A. And everything's returnable. Not the breasts - the bras.

There's a measuring guide on the site. Does every other female in the world have a measuring tape in her sewing box? My sewing box is a lame sight. It's a fake, really. I don't sew, except buttons that fell off. Someone gave me the box as a work gift and I threw in some tangled spools of thread and a pack of needles. I've used it, but it's more of an emergency management service as family members attempt to leave the house and discover holes in unseemly (terrible pun, really) places.

Obviously, I have no measuring tape at all. I look at those grids for sizing and I'm using a plastic ruler trying to figure out how many inches my bust is. The dog is peering up at me like he knows he should be embarrassed. I call out to Thing One and Thing Two "do you guys know where a tape measure is?"
Thing One says "No, but we have a yard stick."
"Um, no thanks," I holler down. I pretend not to hear him when he asks what I need it for.

Regarding the mothering of a budding girl: I am confident that Rugelah, aka Thing Two, and I, will find a mini-bra, or pseudo-bra, or, perhaps, a bra bra for her, when the time is appropriate, just as Chickie and Chicklet did a few years ago. Meanwhile, I do not have to shop for bras in the company of women who actually need them, although I did note that over at One Hanes they have many handy bra types for women who are carrying a lotta tit, a bit o' tit or some type of mix. They have post-mastectomy bras, too, so a bra for every gal who wants one. Now there's a pause, an oh my, as it's hard to end on a mastectomy note. But ladies in all cleavage and non-cleavage categories are on my mind, so there.

Not Deleting

2006-07-06T07:11:00.000-04:00

I've been writing on here and deleting on here because I'm unsure of myself and actually one day it was inadvertent. What happens to one's ego when a sibling dies is apparently well-known: reality is skewed and it takes a while to adjust itself to a new place. Here I am rounding over to almost a year without my brother and so many words to say but they are a fraction of what one feels. It's as if I can't think of the right word, but then, of course, there is none.

Adding to the lack of detail in my picture is the phenomena of Not Getting The Job. I think maybe now I am experiencing that again, but one doesn't know until a few days have passed. Will I be working at a progressive school with lofty ideals, or at a school for disabled children with a grittier curriculum? I'm not sure how much it matters.

My dear friend Mary just married an absolutely right-there, way smart and truly funny man. I wasn't sure how a wedding would do for me at this particular moment. But Mary is no ordinary person, and when I met her other close friends - all of whom I had heard about for years - I liked each one immediately. A bunch of strong personalities, and all indifferent to the superficial crap that women compete over in subtle ways. Two of us gave Mary a foot rub - Stacy on the right, and me on the left. Mary hadn't realized that there are certain details one takes care of before a large function - like where people sit - so we happily worked on that for her, too.

I was in a bit of a muddle: all new people, a few days before the anniversary of my brother's death. But I adjusted my lenses and I watched the event and all of the surrounding mini-events, planned and unplanned. Now that I have processed it, I can clearly imagine who my own very close friends are, who would be here for me should I decide to marry. (Oops - I did that years ago.) How absurd, as these people were, and are, here for me as I experience the most horrendous time of my life. My parents, of all people. I call them every day to check on them. Ha! Chrystal and Becca. My first cousin, Barbara. My 2 California friends, both of whom have come to be with us. And my neighbor friends, one right next door. Ball & Chain, even.

This is not a close-the-door and a window opens deal. A door closes and never opens again. Quite a few people lean against it with me, watch while I bang on it for someone to open up, and hang out while I say nothing much of interest, and offer little back. There is not much food at my table. I'm starting to accept my brother's death a little bit. So I wrote about it and I'm not deleting.

Job Hunting: No Sweat?

2006-06-29T06:03:00.000-04:00

Please hire me. I am an experienced teacher hoping to teach at a progressive, independent school where I can be open about my own values. No - boring. Please hire me. I am an anxiety ball and if you do give me a job, it will really make me feel better. Job seeker losing brain cells by the minute - and reading Temple Grandin's Animals in Translation not helping. Please save me from reading the drone about animals. Not persuasive? Hire me - I'm sweaty! I get sweaty every night - peri-menopausal, dontcha know. Could you please hire me, because maybe sometime I'll sweat at work, too?

I have a portfolio and I just realized there is virtually nothing in the "Inclusion" section. And when I say virtually, I mean a picture of an Asian kid, a white kid, and a black kid hugging - someone strike me now - and an "Inclusion statement" I wrote in graduate school. I am an inclusion teacher, so why the hell did I ever make that section? Should I make a list of the disabilities my students have had? Oh- but when I teach autistic children, I will not encourage them to write hundreds of pages of useful information and call it a novel because autistic people often do not have any kind of idiosyncratic voice with which to write creatively. They have other strengths that are outrageous - like empathizing with animals - but creative writing isn't a biggie. Please hire me. I know a lot about animals and "I like kids" (I hate that expression, as if they're a different breed), and kids and animals are both cute. Except for pugs. And except for those bald dogs. And except for those babies who are born with their big-kid faces - ack! That's scary.

Please hire me because the kids in my class always think I'm funny and weird so then they go home happy and everyone thinks I did something. I'll do recess duty? I'll be quiet and obedient. No, can't even pretend. Aha! I will be well-dressed, albeit sweaty, and good-looking. That just comes with the package. I won't fart in front of the kids. Or burp either. I promise not to teach them any bad words, or talk with them about how girls are better than boys. Can I pretend to be Italian? Please hire me. I know all of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, I hate the new crappy animation and I love the new excellent animation, and I'm likeable, especially to people who like me. And sweaty.

Calling David Lynch

2006-06-05T06:54:00.000-04:00

Hard to manage the fact that ex-shrink emailed me, among other "colleagues and friends" to encourage me to spend even more money at his office, but now on "body work." I love it when men write me about body work. I am not a goddamn car. It makes me feel like I'm getting an ivy-league, or new-age catcall. Body work! Holy shit. I'd like to give him some body work, and at women's college we referred to that as "castration with a dull spoon." I'd definitely hire out for that job.

I might be more charitable had it been an error. But no. When I wrote to say, er, doctor, take me off your list, and by the way, you arse, I am not your friend, Dr. Creepo's response was similarly icky. No apology. No pretense that he spammed in error.

Shrinks do not contact ex-patients for business. Yikes. Yuck. Shrinks do not contact ex-patients. Shrinks do not contact patients unless they need to change an appointment or there is a crisis, and they are checking in. Call me old-fashioned, but for crissake, Dr. Fuckup, don't call me.

After taking in the implications of my stern, formerly traditional headshrinker becoming a dirty old man, I contacted our on-again, off-again marriage counselor, who is absolutely brilliant, and who I do trust. Nary a boundary crossed, ever; not a defensive statement ever made. Let's call him Dude. This guy could mediate between two rabid dogs, or even Ball & Chain & me. He completely confirmed that Creepo had been Creepy. I was wondering about my ethical obligations, and we discussed that as well.

I am getting that dread feeling in my gut so this may just be part one. I never liked that David Lynch guy who did Twin Peaks, and I don't like world-famous doctors who violate ethical standards and show me their whole goddamn email list in the process.

Oy vesmir, oy gevalt.

Experience The Mystery

2006-06-03T07:37:00.000-04:00

I wake up sticky, like a lollipop someone licked a while back, and when you try to lift it off the windowsill it's not glued yet, but it has pull. My thighs, my palms, under my breasts. And now I have a low backache, too. But this is all wrong. I was perimenopausal, so to speak, and then it went away, and I reverted back to normalcy for a forty-something gal. That's making the long story short, but we don't really need the list of symptoms - it just sucked. Estrogen patch became a necessity, lest I lose all of my hair. I could not abide the hair loss.

But back to the current situation. What the fuck? I wake up a slimeball, an undercooked piece of fish, a person who hasn't bathed in months, soaking the sheets with her blech. Yet I shower daily. My thinking is that I'd rather not experience the menopause thing or the perimenopause thing which is so utterly stupid it makes me think that maybe God is a man except I don't really believe in god (caps or no caps I'm confused), but no matter.

We should eliminate menopause. We should call it something nifty, like The Feminine Mystique. Is that name taken? It rings a bell. So maybe The Mystery. And no telling any boys about it. Or you can tell them because they won't listen. And when a woman is experiencing Mystery, everyone in the community brings her things to remind her of the beauty of her body, like sweet lotions and chocolate cake and cash. If perimenopause - oops - The Mystery - lasts for up to 10 years, this could be an excellent time of life. It would be a cultural taboo to avoid the gifts and courtesies bestowed upon a woman in Mystery. Little girls will ask "Mom, when will I begin Mystery?" Moms and other wizened elders will just smile knowingly, as clumps of hair fall to the floor.

I'm going to go mysteriously drink some more coffee now, which my physician would surely say is not recommended for anyone experiencing the symptoms of a pause. I'll think about that later, after I stick myself to the chair.

Caffeine, Anyone?

2006-05-24T07:20:00.000-04:00

How much can one person write in five minutes while she's really wanting to delay going to work and having to give assessments and talk about MCAS and be all orderly on a sunny day when children could be outside smelling the daisies or actually I believe that narcissus have the truly best spiciest smell and this sorta reminds me of the time I sent a slightly drunken email to chrystal as a sociological study to see which was more interesting - the sober email or the drunken one. Results are confidential. Sent out 3 job applications today but have not had time to work on my current story. Just remembered i dreamed tht Glimmer Train rejected another story and that it's such crap when I say a rejection is a sign that I'm a real writer. As far as I can tell I'm a real mother a real friend a real teacher and something of an on and off writer until some legitimate person publishes something more recent because I am victim to mainstream culture which says publish and 2001 is too long ago. can ya tell I'm wound up? Why don't they allow dogs in school, and why why do we have so many clocks and I need more shirts. Edited for spelling only.

P.S. To the hoardes: comments now moderated due to one less-than-friendly person on bizarre vendetta that has nothing to do with me.

Morning Chat

2006-05-22T07:13:00.000-04:00

Monday mornings suck. I didn't do my homework. I'm giving an MCAS test. And I have to look decent. Who came up with this system? It's time to go but I'm writing here instead. Both of you readers, and the dog, I hope you appreciate this, because of course it's for you. I found the perfect job but it pays half of my current salary. That is because the children are too small to matter. Any dumbass could teach those kids, and their development is like, wow, I learned how to count. Big effen deal, right?

There's a school around here that was giving electric shocks to autistic children. Some of the parents said it helped, so the courts never prosecuted the place, and now people are angry again. I don't want to name names, but it's The Rothenberg Center. I have a policy of not judging parents or hard-working teachers. Oh well. That is cruel and unusual. I wouldn't shock my dog. Who convinced these people that this was humane? Sure, I'll bet it worked. I'd stop any strange behavior whatsoever, I'd be docile as a lamb if the alternative was to plug me in. I'm betting those parents were desperate because that's another area - helping disabled kids - that gets neglected. People raise money at Jerry Lewis events and wheel out the cutest cripple, then they pay an idealistic young woman who wants to work with that kid enough to eat a pickle and a vegan burger once a week.

Well I gotta go to my suburban teaching job now. If I sound like a morning talk show host, that's because I am considering that as my new profession. Yes! Exciting, isn't it? I could take calls from those beer-belly cigar smoke people who have gads of time to yack and swear at the host, or hostess, and every time they say shit like "the market determines the rate of pay," or "you're one of those crazed peacenik-feminist types," I'll be like "yeah, I'm the one that castrated George W. Bush back in '2000."

I'm sorta glad we skipped the anesthetic. The kids like looking at the remnants in a jar in the basement. Don't worry! They're really, really small, and the jar's sealed tight.

Health Insurers You Are Going To Hell

2006-05-18T07:08:00.000-04:00

And when you get there, I will be the demon that won't pay for your meds because the pharmacy shorted you and I don't listen about that atall. I will not wear red - so passe - I will wear whaddevvah the hell - haha - I please and you will have a helpless 'I wonder how much sicker I might get' feeling. My pockets will be rather large on either side of my garment, and yes, you will have taken it with you, and then you will proceed to give it to me. I'll hurl it upstairs for my offspring who had to live with me while you said I didn't need any more treatment.

It would be too cruel to subject you to the sudden death of a sibling so instead you will just experience all of the symptoms of, I dunno, leprosy?, And then just as you are getting better, one arm gone maybe, but the other still hanging in, I will send you an oversized letter, pages and pages, describing your diagnosis, and confirming that after 8 visits, you will be recovered, completely. Never mind the court dates for the person who willingly gave you the leprosy, or the actual hospital visits at which you will be injected with more of the disease - 8 visits.

More later. Next time I write on here, I'll be down to 7 visits, and much much better.

Guide to Mediocre Mothering

2006-05-15T19:05:00.000-04:00

Here's how one gets into The Crappy Mother Book. I have referred in the past to the Good Mother Book, particularly when insisting that my children eat two spears of broccoli even when they're not in the mood. But I'm changing course, moving into my realistic phase. Here's how to get into The Crappy Mother Book:

Wait long enough to make dinner so that your teenager volunteers to make it.

Spend a lotta time communicating with guidance counselors and teachers while completely ignoring the children.

Take on all emotional concerns of your children because you know you can do it better than your partner, even though your are exhausted. Be smug about it.

Complain about work so that your kids get a complete picture of the experience of adulthood. Then lamely tell them that you really do enjoy your job, proving that parents truly are hypocrites.

Go on a trip and forget your asthmatic child's new medicine, despite the fact that he just had a problem a few days before. When your pathetic health insurance won't pay for a dose at a different pharmacy, leave him no choice but to take the old stuff that makes him queasy and dizzy. Say you are going to call the health insurer later and give them what-for, or what-have-you. Take a nap instead.

Let your children watch cable t.v. for hours when they visit the grandparents, then feign surprise when they mention something wildly inappropriate in front of a neighbor.

Say "that's right, shithead" to stupid drivers while your little one is in the back seat.

Skip her bedtime ritual when 24 is on.

Make them clean their rooms when yours is an absolute sty.

And finally: take a third cookie when they're each having two, and tell them it's because you "feel like it."

Is there a martini and cigarettes category or would that be gauche?

Testosterone Visits and Streams of Semi-Consciousness

2006-05-10T18:06:00.000-04:00

Some men are reading my blog. Part of it is my fault. And part of it is hilarious. But the original intent was that I could write about the two-ton hemorrhoid what I gave birth to, along with my children, without feeling hampered. What if a man should read about the excess hair? The lack of any real substance to my personality? Actually, that's a bit disingenuous: I do have a few quality items to express about politics, parenting, and childhood, but my fashion comments and my penis curiosities lack the intellectual rigor and research that I should have given them.

Note to self: when giving blog name to old friend at reunion, pretend you did not have extra-strong margarita (I never did triple sec in there before), and remember to say it's kinda confidential. But then if a man reads this it ends up being funny anyway because it's so estrogen-bound. Maybe someone will write in and actually clarify the whole burning issue of gender? Nooo - anonymity? Women finding spaces in which to commune without male feedback? Why does this strike me as funny? Did I take an extra little pill today? If an issue arises vis-a-vis people of the male gender peeking in, I'll letcha know.

So there's this guy, right? Speaking of guys. (Did I just write that? Am I a middle-aged man sitting at a bar?) And he makes it seem like he's giving me a job. Being naturally negative, I am not one to pretend that someone seems to be giving me positive signals. When he decides no, he emails me the rejection! I spend half a day at the goddamn place and all I get is a lame-ass email. When I ask him why he's basically like: well that's what we decided. I think of chicken testicles, only I don't know if chickens have testicles, but if they do, I bet they look like that slimy yellow chicken skin with little lumps.

Remember the guy from "Crossing Delancey?" He was kinda hot in a Jewishy dark way, and Amy Irving was sultress/idiot stereotype, too foolish to realize her lust target was a cad, but the good Jewishe boy was decent, loyal, and certainly circumcised. At one point, Jewish boy says, referring to his pickle barrel business, and forever winning my politically incorrect heart, "What? You think it defines me?" And he is so right because he was a hottie and intelligent, despite the fact that he was cast as a pickle guy. He went on to make some excellent films, and poor Amy Irving spent years wondering what color to dye her hair. You knew after a few days she'd go back to the artsy cool stereotype guy and pickle man would settle down and have a buncha kids with braces.

Personally, I adhere to no stereotypes, unless women writers who start out writing about one thing always inevitably end up writing about the dish on mediocre actors, job rejections, and lost anonymity. All of these topics tie together, actually, because I am taking poetic license. I earned my poetic license after years with a permit and now I am allowed to say whaddevah the hell I want to. And what I want to say is that any man who reads this and actually knows me should skip any part that you think maybe is just for females, start selling pickles, date a confused Jewish woman, or, even better, call the lady if you don't wanna hire her, instead of sending a chickenball email.

Sluts, Reminiscing

2006-05-07T01:44:00.000-04:00

I went to a high school reunion tonight. We went to an avante-garde type school, very small, academic, eclectic. The reunion felt a bit more like a dinner party - which it was - than a meeting between a bunch of young people who had so much promise. I suppose that's the stereotypical reaction. Once my friends and I left, though, it was quite fun to reminisce about absurd liasons and folktales regarding penis size. Is there anything more compelling than a second-hand story about an old friend's habits with his old friend, so to speak? Fortunately, we had a male to consult, who clarified the situation somewhat.

It reminded me of the time when I asked a high school boy, sort of on a dare - because we all were wondering - where a guy puts his penis when it's not in use. Did he wrap it up? Push it down? We were on a school trip in the country. The boy I questioned was very open and relaxed about such matters. Still, I got a muffled response. Later,my friends and I walked up the big hill and saw a group of smiling boys. They called over with different explanations of where they put their dicks. We all laughed about it. That was the kind of intellectual interaction that took place, and noticeably, without any malevolence or repercussions.

Anyway, some of the best people at the reunion are my friends already. And others seemed like distant photos, barely catching my interest. I wonder why people are driven to reunite, even knowing that it'a a brief encounter? I wonder why women so quickly gravitate toward the subject of the guy with the tiny penis and the guy with the huge one? It's questions like these that are the hallmark of a prep school graduate. (Or perhaps life in early academia is different now.) Our experience could be called budding scholar/ practicing slut; or budding slut/practicing scholar. Either way, the study of the penis was an essential element.

Blogsource is Hurting My Brain.

2006-05-06T09:57:00.001-04:00

I go to Kloe's blog. I read good stuff. I wanna comment, especially when she lists the things she likes to do, and I continue to find similarities between the two of us. But blogsource won't let me in. He keeps telling me there's already someone in there, and it's me. Finally today, he said I could come in, but only if I create a blogsource blog. No thanks! And the worst part is that I know it's because I am a tech doofus, and the solution is probably quite straightforward. How frustrating. The only person who can really help me is Jude, or !, the teen formerly known as my son. Meanwhile, times goes by, and I wanna talk to Kloe, goddammit! The little men inside this computer are really bothering me this week.

Skewering The President, a la Colbert

2006-05-01T21:00:00.000-04:00

George W. Bush's people tried to add some levity to a fancy-pants dinner, and although I found Stephen Colbert quite clever, some of the folks there looked less than pleased. It seems I should be visiting Salon.com more often.