Don't Be Stupid

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

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

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

Kloe Kan Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Friends Are Not Dentists

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

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

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

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

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