Since Zeeb went and let the old birthday swan out of the bag, yep, it's meh berfday.
However I've been lying about my age for so long now, I had to get out the calculator this morning to figure out which birthday it was. I discovered I am a full four years younger than I thought; what a nice present. See, I've always lied about being older. It started at fifteen, and having to memorize the name, address, and birth-date from my fake ID so I could pass the interrogations of correctly suspicious bouncers. But I kept it going, and boy has it payed off. Tell people you're five years younger than you are, and you're opening yourself up to all kinds of tongue wagging about how you haven't aged well. But add five years? Or more? Trust me, you'll get tired of hearing how great you look, what great shape your in, and the advances from little hipsters twenty years your junior looking to catch the older woman, yet-so-hot-for-her-age train.
It's a real esteem booster, let me tell ya. Just don't add too many years. Then everyone will gossip about what kind of (and how much) "work" you've had done.
To the person named Cein who wrote expressing confusion about the above graphical image:
I started blogging because I'm too poor to visit a therapist. And trust me, I need one. I'm sure you know of what I speak, judging how your letter, well, quite frankly screamed "anger issues".
However for those of us too poor to afford mental health care administered by a certified, trained professional, there is still an alternative--The Bartender. The only person on earth who--for the measly price of a cup of hooch--will attentively listen to you blather on about whatever nonsense consumes your stupid, meager existence. And nod like they give a shit even! But most importantly, strictly adhere to the barkeep's code of ethics to never utter your secrets to another living soul. Until you sleep with them, and then you've got to find another bartender to listen to your stories about your stupid affair with a bartender who blabbed your business all about town. (Lesson: do not sleep with your therapist bartender.)
So you see, since my blog is a form of therapy, and the only decent therapy available to the drunk and impoverished (coincidence? hmmm) is the bartender, the above graphic is a representation of that. There is the woman, me, sitting at the bar, buying drinks and going on and on and on (in posts such as this), looking over at you, the bartender, who is compelled to listen as long as I keep my glass full. I've never taken an art class or anything, but the way I drew the bar in what I think is called "perspective" it's supposed to convey that you are the bartender/therapist, and I am the customer/patient.
So that's it Cein! And Thanks For Asking!
This blog gets some strange email. Not just the stuff from fancy-pants literary types all in a snit over how I brutalize the English language with such abandon. Or their cousins, the punctuation police. Man, they're a testy bunch. I feel sorry for the writerly folks who find this blog. I do! Poor things...sitting in a coffee shop somewhere...laptop on the table next to their latte...smoke coming out of their ears because they happened to follow a link to my diary--and then had to be subjected to a sentence like this. Because, god, if you actually know how to use commas and dashes and ellipses and stuff, it's gotta be like nails dragging down a chalkboard. I can identify. I can't watch the house porn shows that set the home-owner amateurs loose to paint a room. *shudder*
Anyway those letters, though annoying, aren't strange. I'm talking about letters that, how do I explain?...there is no way to tell if the person is serious. If the person even exists. My bullshit detectors say the whole thing is a joke, that they're just being mean and fucking with me--but I'm never 100% sure. For instance, after a post I wrote going into great detail about our crazy ex-landlord, I received an email that said, in part: "...maybe you move up to new house and then you and fellow get married and he pay with your father."
Um. Okay. Now...could be someone mocking my situation, and the thick Russian accent of our former landlord (which I explained in detail), and the whole of feminism. Or it could be a well-meaning, albeit crazy and stupid person for whom English is a second language. I harbor no ill will toward stupid, crazy people, and have just slightest grasp of English myself, so I'd like to answer that person's email and thank them for their concern over my situation; if in fact they exist. But then, you don't want to play into the hands of a prankster either...what to do? What to do? Because contrary to what my potty-mouth and coarseness might lead you to believe, I'm actually a loving and gentle person. Bosom all filled with the milk of human kindness and such. Well, as much kindness milk an A-cup can hold.
So, I'll answer them here. They found me here, they can read their answer here. I won't post their emails...but think of it as part of the fun. A mystery.
Thus, I bring you...Thanks For Asking! Pay attention if you've written me a weird letter. If not, just go about your business. Or write me a stupid letter, whatever.
It does not surprise me that our politically motivated FDA would nix approval of an over-the-counter contraceptive without a lick of research, without so much as a fucking peek at the application; that's no big shock.
The surprise for me is WHY this drug?
I mean, we progressive-type lefty leaners understand the pro-life agenda against termination, both procedural and pharmaceutical. We don't agree with them, but we get their point. Because see--we're not huge fans of abortion either. No, it's true. Grab the first pro-choice person you see, and ask. Not one of them, not a single one will say they are PRO abortion. We simply feel it should be a legal option for women who--for a number of often times grizzly reasons--find themselves faced with an unwanted pregnancy. Which is why lots of smart people think it's a good idea to have safe, effective products readily available so one might NEVER GET PREGNANT IN THE FIRST PLACE! Because contrary to popular belief, we pro-choicers don't want to have abortions just as much as the pro-lifers don't want us to have them. Hard to believe, but true.
So what's their problem with Plan B? It's no more an abortion pill than a condom is a coat hanger; it's an emergency contraceptive that--if taken as soon as possible after intercourse--makes it 89% certain conception will not occur. Furthermore, it won't cause an evacuation of the uterus if you are already pregnant. So you couldn't use it for an at-home abortion even if you wanted to.
Now help me out here...doesn't that sound like a Godsend to the life/choice debate? If their problem with abortion is that it stops a fetus from becoming a viable human life, and the problem with morning after drugs like RU-486 is that it stops the chemical reaction that might eventually become a fetus that could become a human life (since life begins at conception); is the problem with Plan B that it stops an egg from being fertilized? Is the whole fucking PROCESS now sacrosanct? Oh, duh. What am I saying.
I have been stewing over the glut of blatantly Christian agendas all day--as I do whenever I read any of the horseshit coming out of Washington--and I continue to be amazed at their success...all the while evoking the intentions of the Founding Fathers...who came here to get away from religious persecution. My hope is that it'll backfire: if they get rid of pro-active, non-abortive contraception, and get rid of our rights to terminate unwanted pregnancy, it will leave only one option for 100% effective birth control: gay sex. Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it. I hear it's even all the rage with the anti-contraceptive, anti-abortion Christian set.
A delightful Friday short story, via Annie, via Maud, which answers the question; what is an ultra-advanced alien race to do when it receives an intergalactic message from...meat?
This from my friend CCP: The most awesome Halloween costume, like, ever.
Quick question: Know of a good way to get rid of flies?
Because every night, just before bed, I open the kitchen window leading to the shaftway, screen and all, turn out the light, and say aloud, "Oh flyyyyyyyys...smell that? That's yummy Brooklyn out there! Full of garbage, and dog poo, and rotting food, and waste processing plants...mmmmmm. Doesn't it smell delicious? And look! The window is open! Nothing to stop you from the bounty of your dreams!"
And every morning I wake up and get strafed by the same two flies.
[If you're wondering why I don't just kill the flies, blame the buddhist father, insert stories about who the fly may be, add some species hierarchical relativism, and a lifetime of being told your worth is judged by how you treat the lowliest creatures, including the meager ant, or spider, or even, yes, a cockroach, then finish this sentence; "She couldn't hurt a ____" --and you've got your answer.]
This morning gave you no hint that it had arrived. Well, here in NYC. I'm sure there was a sunrise at the usual time, but since there wasn't any quantitative difference in the amount of light between the pre-dawn and post-dawn hours, I had to take it on faith that there had been a dawn at all. Dark, dark, dark. And wet. Ish.
Which was fine by me. Of all the complaints I have on a daily basis, the millions of them, I rarely if ever complain about the weather. I like it all--rain, snow, sun, cold, wind, sunny rain, snowy cold, rainy wind, even sleet, even fog--with one exception: hot and humid. I don't do hot and humid, I don't go places where it's hot and humid, and unless it's a dire emergency, I don't go outside when it's hot and humid here. In my opinion the only thing keeping the Northeast from being paradise on earth is August; the month I spend planning my emigration to Canada.
So the dark wet-ish morning didn't flap me. It's all in finding the joy, or even anti-joy, in the kind of day you are dealt. When I woke to this totally miserable, perfectly dreary, soul crushing excuse for a morning, I thought, "What a perfect day to make a big pot of soup." No, I did, really. First thought. No wait, that's a lie. It went like: "What a totally miserable, perfectly dreary, soul crushing excuse for a morning. Cool! I'll make a big pot of soup." Because see, it's all about having the right attitude, and then romancing the hell out of it, as I am want to do.
Which is what I had done, by nine or so. I had romanced the bejesus out of the prospect of an entire day of soup-making. The padding around in the sock feet, the soft music, the chopping of fresh vegetables, the scritching of the pup's ears when she comes begging for scraps, the tick, tick, tick, hissssssss of the radiator in the background. The afternoon, and a glass of wine and the couch, and drifting off for a nap in a home filled with the scent of simmering goodness.
However--and I know I started this whole thing bragging about how I never complain about the weather--when I had dressed to head out for the ingredients for my day of soup and domesticity...the fucking sun came out. Brilliant sun. Blinding sun. The temperature rose 10 degrees. The kind of totally genius fall day you spend outdoors, at a park, riding a bike, traipsing through the leaves. And I gotta say, I'm thrown. I don't have a fantasy worked up for a crisp, sunny fall day. It took me hours to get the soup thing all worked out, and I had! Down to the sock feet and Corey Flintoff! This sun crap is really pissing me off.
Well alright. A coupla wins. Big wins. Not as many as we'd like. Not as many as there should have been considering the state of the nation, but nice, solid, message-sending wins. It feels good, doesn't it? Some winning?
I'd feel extra peppy this morning had the Dems won NYC, but--let's be honest--Bloomberg had this baby sewn up. I'm surprised Ferrer's numbers were as high as they were. He trounced Bloomberg in the Bronx; which is fitting, since his childhood stomping ground was what he based the 'two' in his 'Two New Yorks' campaign upon. Although I couldn't agree with him more (that there are two NYC's--the one for the rich people, and the one for the rest of us), and as reticent as I am to even hint at the infamous "divider" jabs thrown at Dems so often, I can't help but wonder if that tactic is what screwed his chances. Because the 'We're all going to work together, be as one, address our problems as a team...etc.' line goes over real well with the voting public, even when whoever is saying it is LYING, which is the case more often than not. Okay, always. Anyway, thus endith the Wednesday morning quarterbacking.
And then look! Surprise of all surprises! Texas is now the 19th state to have spent untold millions to push through a piece of legislation whose singular purpose is to ban something that doesn't exist. Now THAT is proactive governance at it's best, no? You guys really showed those gays who can't get married that they, um, can't get married! But not to criticize you Texas...have you thought about the future threat of other non-traditional marriages? Like, hermaphroditic aliens from other planets? You haven't? Because, I mean, I know aliens from other planets haven't landed yet, but when they do, someday, inevitably they will develop the desire to have the same rights and privileges as everyone else, as do all American citizens. And if you don't have a Hermaphroditic Aliens From Other Planets marriage ban, like, already on the books, they might be able to slide on through a crack in your current gender-specific guideline. Being as they got both sets of sex-parts, and all. Have you thought about the threat to the American Family if the unisex aliens were getting married? Do we really need our children reading a book called, "My Two Nurturers" in kindergarden?
You'd better put a stop to that shit toot-sweet.
Today is G's birthday, and I'm broke. Not extra-spending broke, like, down to just enough for the bills, gotta tap into the savings, or make this fifty last until the next paycheck--more like...broke broke. Already took the pot-O-change to the CoinStar last week and now that money's gone too, broke. So besides a little home-made card and last night's leftovers, G ain't getting no birthday presents. Well, none that I will discuss here.
However, I've heard that it's the thought that counts. My grandma said it all the time, "It's the thought that counts, dear." Unfortunately necessity has forced me to test her theory. So here you go G! A list of things I really wanted to get you for your birthday!:
Willie Nelson's "Who'll Buy My Memories?" aka, the IRS tapes.
Marjane Satrapi's "Embroideries" to fill out the collection, and a gift cert to the comic store so you could pick up those other graphic novels by that guy whose name I can never, ever remember. The name that has forced me to participate in the most shameful activity one can engage in at a bookseller..."Um, yeah, um, I'm looking for a book. A graphic novel. I don't remember the author, but he's like, uh, French? I think? Or German? The book has a blue cover..."
A trip to Austin for huevos rancheros (and a handshake from Juan..."How are you my friend?") at Juan In A Million.
A plain-old, everyday, just stick the pre-ground coffee in the filter and press "go" coffee maker, so you could throw our fancy-pants piece of shit off the roof.
[Our current one is so complicated, it has so many bells and whistles and must-be-done-perfectly-right processes, that you have to go out and get a cup of coffee to be awake enough to have the dexterity and mental acuity to make a pot of coffee. I'm not joking.]
An eat-your-weight-in-ribs dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue in Harlem.
Everything you need to turn your laptop into a recording studio.
Oh, then a new mic. Cuz the old one is toast. And I'd get you this one because looking like Bob Barker while recording would be so fucking worth the crappy low-frequency response.
A selection of gourmet olives so that you may find that illusive perfect olive you so desperately seek. YOUR olive, baby. We have to find YOUR olive.
Lazy Susan Scrabble. So you could give me a sound beating without the added insult of your having found a place to put 'xu' on a triple word score while reading upside down and backward.
Fuzzy bear claw slippers. So you can kick my ass at scrabble, reading upside down, wearing ridiculous fuzzy bear claw slippers.
Rum. Of the world.
And I don't know if all the money in the world would have pulled this off...but a telephone conference with T.J. You know why.
Okay mom, I know that you know that I know you read my blog. And thus-far I've enjoyed our agreement: you don't speak of it, ever, because admitting you read my blog would make you have to admit that you figured out its name by snooping around on my hard drive when I wasn't home (tip: always empty the browser cache and history, and the "recent documents" file if you don't want the person whose computer you are using to know WHERE YOU'VE BEEN POKING AROUND).
However, since you are currently just outside of Paris, where everything is fucking burning, and I can't get through to your cell or your hotel or the nightclub, and have spent the last two days in a neurotic fit over your welfare, and this is your first time in France, and you don't speak a word of French, which not only tends to piss off the French but also makes it difficult to follow, oh, like, safety precautions broadcast on the television and radio...since that's happening; if you have access to a computer and happen to have stopped in on my blog, and are therefore reading this--would you please, please give me a call? Collect? Or send an email? Please? And yes, you can pretend that you just "happened" to call. Like how we play stupid when you just "happen" to mention an intimate detail of my life I've only written about here.
Don't make me get on a plane, sister. I don't care if you work out six times a day, I can still take you.
So I wash my face, take two blind steps sideways to the door where the towels hang, grab onto a towel, quickly pull it (and the door) to my face, and whack myself in the nose with the door.
I yell "Ow!" because it hurt.
I inspect my (still wet, soapy) nose with my hand. It feels okay. So I reach up, grab the same towel, pull it toward my face, and again, whack my nose with the door.
In a fit of toddler-like rage, I angrily pull downward on the towel with all my might, and rip it--and the wooden towel rack--off the door; at which point the towel, now a make-shift slingshot, launches the towel rack into my nose.
I scream, "What the HELL!" after the towel rack falls to the ground, and lands on my big toe.
I stand perfectly still for quite some time, aware that jerky movements and childish outbursts were the cause of my calamity. When satisfied I had regained composure (and certain the comedy of errors had played itself out), I pick up the towel, and the towel rack, place them on the sink basin, take a step toward the door
...and set my foot squarely down on a wood screw; from the dislodged towel rack.
Today is the first day of The World Can't Wait. How timely that the Dem senatorial smack-down coincides with the first march here in NYC, and those in progress all across the country. I hope it gives the movement momentum. Because it's true--the world cannot sit and wait another year, another DAY, to rid itself of the Bush regime.
But since I'm me, and the me that is me has a tendency toward criticism, some criticism for the organizers of NYC protests:
Guys? Ditch the Union Square thing in the future. I know it's a groovy centrally located place to meet up (and if you've obtained the permits, head on out), but because of which every single crackpot with an agenda is 'rallying' in that park on a daily basis. So much so, the protests held there have ceased to draw the attention of passersby (let alone the world), which ruins the main objective of a protest in the first place--disseminating information, raising awareness, and gaining future participation/support. A few thousand kids in Union Square chanting and holding signs is about as noteworthy as a wad of chewing gum on the subway platform, leaving only the choir to preach to. And the choir knows the songbook, people.
Think...Cindy Sheehan. On a dirt road. In the middle of nowhere. The entire world heard her message, and was free to agree or disagree as was their want. But she changed opinion, dramatically. She started a dialogue. Would the same have been true had she (initially) parked her butt in front of the White House for a few hours with the thousand other groups demanding attention?
I think, I hope, the people are ready to listen to reason. But only if we can be heard above the din.
Like Googling "failure" (sans quotes) and hitting the "I'm feeling lucky" button.
