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.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
A Flintstone Friendship Fable
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.
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.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Secrets, Rejection & A Plastic Jesus
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.
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.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
The Tele-Polygamy Solution: A Cure for Man & Strife
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.
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.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Modern Woman Shuns Self-Improvement
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.
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.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Photos, Drama, and a Few Twists
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'.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Speed Blog
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.
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.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
My Fictional Life & The Televised Influences
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!
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
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.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Responsibility Overload and Other Amusements
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.
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.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Goodbye, Ego
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.
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.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Loaning & Lurching
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I Am My Diagnosis & Cheery Tips for Patients
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.
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.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Whoopi Goldberg and Other Musings
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.
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.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Jews Can Confess, Too
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?
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?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Pill & The Poof
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.
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.
Monday, August 14, 2006
My Pal Chickie
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.
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.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Not Deleting
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.
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.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Job Hunting: No Sweat?
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.
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.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Calling David Lynch
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.
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.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Experience The Mystery
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Caffeine, Anyone?
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.
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.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Morning Chat
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.
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.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Health Insurers You Are Going To Hell
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.
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.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Guide to Mediocre Mothering
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?
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?
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Testosterone Visits and Streams of Semi-Consciousness
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.
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.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Sluts, Reminiscing
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.
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.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Blogsource is Hurting My Brain.
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.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Skewering The President, a la Colbert
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.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Compassion, Realism & The Random Nature of Life
There is a homeless woman who started writing a blog to keep herself sane as she manages the reality of her situation. Most bloggers probably know about her because the media found her and interviewed her. Following the media coverage, hoardes of people looked at the site. There was quite a reaction from some who believed it to be a hoax. The details of her humiliation, however, seem genuine, and her writing is compelling. She goes by the moniker "Wandering Scribe," and she lives in her car, in the UK.
At some point she had serious emotional problems and that contributed to her disconnection from people and general society. It is both humbling and bizarre to read the site and the comments. At one point she wrote about feeling overwhelmed. People have so much well-meaning advice. I find myself checking the blog, and worrying about her, as she seems so sensitive. Yet the Ball & Chain works with homeless people, and they are more remote to me, even though I see them frequently. When I have met people who are homeless, I have not been struck by their resilience, or their ability to persevere. They have been people going through a hard time. Certainly not heroic for being hurt: just hurt. The Wandering Scribe could be me, without the family, the medications, and the friends.
Why did Ball & Chain stay with me when I was breaking apart years ago? Life is random in many ways: who can have children, who can have money, who walks, who stays. Many people with mental illness have written to Wandering Scribe to tell her that they, too, have been in a bad way. I very much hope and want to fully believe that she is there, and she is genuine. And every time I write an encouraging comment to her, I wonder if I am an idiot, if I will be exposed as one of the many who fell for a con artist interested in manipulating people. Then I am mortified.
At some point she had serious emotional problems and that contributed to her disconnection from people and general society. It is both humbling and bizarre to read the site and the comments. At one point she wrote about feeling overwhelmed. People have so much well-meaning advice. I find myself checking the blog, and worrying about her, as she seems so sensitive. Yet the Ball & Chain works with homeless people, and they are more remote to me, even though I see them frequently. When I have met people who are homeless, I have not been struck by their resilience, or their ability to persevere. They have been people going through a hard time. Certainly not heroic for being hurt: just hurt. The Wandering Scribe could be me, without the family, the medications, and the friends.
Why did Ball & Chain stay with me when I was breaking apart years ago? Life is random in many ways: who can have children, who can have money, who walks, who stays. Many people with mental illness have written to Wandering Scribe to tell her that they, too, have been in a bad way. I very much hope and want to fully believe that she is there, and she is genuine. And every time I write an encouraging comment to her, I wonder if I am an idiot, if I will be exposed as one of the many who fell for a con artist interested in manipulating people. Then I am mortified.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
My Parenting Spirit Guides
Remember when Mork & Mindy had a little baby boy and it was Jonathan Winters, a big, middle-aged, wise-cracking comedian? At the time I didn't appreciate the brilliance behind that casting choice. Why choose some everybaby, spawn of a crazed still-lactating stage mother, when an articulate bratty adult was available? And could his parents control him? Understand him? They gave him advice and he sorta listened, but he was already wizened by years in show biz.
My little tiny baby boy, Jude, is now a mammoth and upon return from 5-day school trip has absolutely no interest in any acknowledgement that I exist. I think perhaps I'll refer to him as a symbol - ! - meaning: the kid formerly known as my son and now parading around as a slacker/smartass. At first I thought, how quaint, his expression resembles that of the cat who's swallowed a few dozen canaries. After all, he shared a room with 3 other teenage boys, and teenage boys seem to be fundamentally deranged. A while later, I asked about whether he'd ever read Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. The sarcastic, or rather, patronizing, response was delivered with such lack of affect I was taken aback. When did he get to be so utterly obnoxious? A friend of mine had simply wanted to give him a copy of the book. I now want to smack him with a hardcover copy of the book.
Similarly, he disdains any questions about anything involving the trip, unless Rugelah asks. He bought her a postcard and wrote her a note on it. I know all about this. ! indoctrinates the second child so that she loathes me even earlier than he does. They stop arguing because they figure out that united, they can leave Ball & Chain & me in the dust. We'll just stand there, a coupla dorks, or Morks, as it were.
Of course, some of this is premature. ! doesn't drive yet, and he doesn't have a job. Therefore, I am still the Ruling Witch and he cannot just grab keys and go. Mindy never could do bossy as well as I can. When he gets to be of driving age, we are not the type of parents to buy the kid a vehicle. He'll need to buy his own if he wants one. Still, he'll be able to call another ! and get a lift outta here. Rugelah will be yelling that she hates me, and by that time, my good looks may not be enough to carry me through every emotional crisis.
The lesson here is to be careful not to get too attached to one's children. Think of them as temporary houseguests, or middle-aged comedians with a paunch - if you must - and think of yourself as bolted down to a floor. Any freedom is an illusion. When they need you, be there, and when they reject you, you're stuck there anyway. Teach them to be respectful, have compassion, and to be true to themselves. Then watch them treat you like shit as they figure it all out. If I follow my own advice, I may be able to go the way of Mork, and head back to my own planet some day. Either way, I am warmed by the knowledge that crappy television characters from years gone by are still guiding my moral center. Who needs parenting books?
My little tiny baby boy, Jude, is now a mammoth and upon return from 5-day school trip has absolutely no interest in any acknowledgement that I exist. I think perhaps I'll refer to him as a symbol - ! - meaning: the kid formerly known as my son and now parading around as a slacker/smartass. At first I thought, how quaint, his expression resembles that of the cat who's swallowed a few dozen canaries. After all, he shared a room with 3 other teenage boys, and teenage boys seem to be fundamentally deranged. A while later, I asked about whether he'd ever read Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. The sarcastic, or rather, patronizing, response was delivered with such lack of affect I was taken aback. When did he get to be so utterly obnoxious? A friend of mine had simply wanted to give him a copy of the book. I now want to smack him with a hardcover copy of the book.
Similarly, he disdains any questions about anything involving the trip, unless Rugelah asks. He bought her a postcard and wrote her a note on it. I know all about this. ! indoctrinates the second child so that she loathes me even earlier than he does. They stop arguing because they figure out that united, they can leave Ball & Chain & me in the dust. We'll just stand there, a coupla dorks, or Morks, as it were.
Of course, some of this is premature. ! doesn't drive yet, and he doesn't have a job. Therefore, I am still the Ruling Witch and he cannot just grab keys and go. Mindy never could do bossy as well as I can. When he gets to be of driving age, we are not the type of parents to buy the kid a vehicle. He'll need to buy his own if he wants one. Still, he'll be able to call another ! and get a lift outta here. Rugelah will be yelling that she hates me, and by that time, my good looks may not be enough to carry me through every emotional crisis.
The lesson here is to be careful not to get too attached to one's children. Think of them as temporary houseguests, or middle-aged comedians with a paunch - if you must - and think of yourself as bolted down to a floor. Any freedom is an illusion. When they need you, be there, and when they reject you, you're stuck there anyway. Teach them to be respectful, have compassion, and to be true to themselves. Then watch them treat you like shit as they figure it all out. If I follow my own advice, I may be able to go the way of Mork, and head back to my own planet some day. Either way, I am warmed by the knowledge that crappy television characters from years gone by are still guiding my moral center. Who needs parenting books?
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Don't Say That Shit
Coincidentally, or maybe not, if you're into phases of the moon and what's your sign and all that crap, both Sage and Kloe are writing about the cuss words in blogs. Some asshole academic-type wrote somewhere that using swear-words is somehow indicative of a person's ability to articulate, or perhaps just the general quality of on'e writing. So in sisterhood with Sage and Kloe, but also in defense of the art of hurling bad words around, I am expressing my absolute outrage at the idea that the use of a word like fuck, for example, is offensive. Hardly. It's actually rather expressive, and it has many uses as a verb, noun and an adjective. Because of the sharp ending it is highly satisfying to use when you are insanely pissed off, or simply pissed, in the British sense (a wee bit tipsy), and you want to say "fuck it." Excellent with the artificial British accent. Similarly, when referring to other drivers - a let-off-steam exercise - the use of words like "dumbass," "bastard," "fuckwad," "dipshit," and, of course, "asshole," can be both satisfying and a great relaxant for the fast-paced pulse.
Ya know, if some shithead wants to write drivel about profanity, he oughtta try using some himself before he judges me. If he's too prim to give it a whirl, how does he know how good it really feels? I'm grateful to live in this proud country because I can say whattever the hell I want to, and every time I think of my dear mom - still the model of elegance - telling me to be ladylike, I can be content with the knowledge that I know a lotta great ladies who can swear a blue streak.
Ya know, if some shithead wants to write drivel about profanity, he oughtta try using some himself before he judges me. If he's too prim to give it a whirl, how does he know how good it really feels? I'm grateful to live in this proud country because I can say whattever the hell I want to, and every time I think of my dear mom - still the model of elegance - telling me to be ladylike, I can be content with the knowledge that I know a lotta great ladies who can swear a blue streak.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
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."
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.
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.
Friday, April 21, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Hither and Thither in The Springtime
Omigosh I haven't posted in so long and ya wanna know why? It's spring out there, the crocuses are up and so are the daffodils, along with my caffeine consumption, I'm applying for jobs hither and thither, and I have been a wee bit depressed. But see my depressed is far more exciting than your depressed. It's because of the cycles. After a bit of depressed, I become like obsessed, and kinda happy, and I listen to loud music, pluck my eyebrows, and sort through old jewelry. Also, I am excellent at creating a pseudo-healthy dinner out of virtually nothing. If you have frozen peas and frozen tortellinis it actually becomes something, especially if you give them milk, too. Not the peas and tortellinis - the kids. Now I get a footnote in The Good Mother Book. Woo-hoo, a good day's work. Then, regarding my other depression cycle skills, I can also speed-talk on the phone, or speed-listen. What's speed-listening? That's talking to Chrystal. She and I are quite alike except that she doesn't obsess sometimes; she does it non-stop. She apologizes all the way through, and then I listen, truly, to the whole monologue. My own kid, Rugelah, also does the monologue, but she is describing the building or the idea she has imagined in all its intricacies and if I am to get into the Good Mother Book for real (a heading, maybe) I am compelled to listen. Her ideas are rather exciting at times, so it's an easy one. Oops - I gotta go now because I am bound to call my neighbor about the fact that some of the rich people where I live wanna tear down lots of regular people trees near the regular people neighborhood so they can save the rich people trees. Can ya see how busy a gal can get? Depression is rough, especially when you use caffeine as your medication of choice.
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