Clinton rips Fox a new one...old news. Bolton nomination, NIE reports, check, let’s see, what else? Ah, um…hey! The baby!

While we were dealing with the terror of preterm labor and nearly giving birth to a 26 week old baby, and then part deux at 28 weeks, the neonatal specialists continued to encourage us to be hopeful. They assured us that once my contractions were under control there was no reason to believe the rest of our pregnancy wouldn’t be perfectly normal. In fact each of the doctors and nurses had a success story to share. You’ll be surprised to know, they told us, the vast majority of women who have brushes with preterm labor make it to full term and beyond.

We are part of that vast majority, it seems. We celebrated all the milestones that lessen the threat of preterm; 30 weeks, then 32, when chance of survival (and equally important, chance of good long term health) grew by leaps. Then 34 weeks, when his chances of surviving and thriving quadrupled as his organs became fully developed and formed. At 36 weeks the doctors took me off bed rest and now, at 37 weeks, full term, I may go about whatever business my energy level and physical ability will allow. Live my life as normal.

Today, at my dr’s appointment, she feels all around my belly, measures, pokes, prods, then exclaims, “Wow. That’s all baby. You don’t have an inch of spare room in there. There’s no way to know for sure, but he feels big for 37 weeks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were 8 pounds or more if you keep going to 40 weeks, more if you go longer.”

Now you’d think having spent torturous weeks and months worrying about giving birth to something too small and sickly to live that I’d be deeeeee-lighted to hear my baby is a strapping little fellow. And you’d be right. I am! Really!

But unlike Rumsfeld and crew, my little man has an exit strategy…

I’m just saying.

The milk of human kindess has expired.

I am no stranger to the dark side of human nature. I have been eye witness to unspeakable crimes perpetrated upon others, I have been victimized myself; numerous times. I won't say I've seen it all, but damn-near most of it. The gaps have been filled by people I love who, sadly, have had the few bad experiences I lack. Simply, I am the opposite of sheltered. I do not expect, but am always prepared for the worst. Very little surprises me. I am not easily ruffled. That said:

This guy stole my cab a few days ago and I'm still freaked out about it. Why so shaken by--c'mon sissy pants, there are real troubles in the world, right?--a stolen cab? It's hard to articulate. It's how the whole situation was so beyond the average level of shitty-human behavior you encounter on a daily basis in this town, or anywhere for that matter. The pointed, soulless nature of the act. The misogynistic psycho-sexual field day of it all.

The scene: Mom and I in front of the baby super store where we had been shopping for the million little things (salves and sinus sucker-outers and thermometers) I'm told I should have on hand before little G arrives, which could be any second now. So two package laden ladies--one mature woman, and one VERY PREGNANT, obviously fatigued (evidenced by the waddling and wincing on each footfall) woman--patiently standing on a corner of seventh avenue at the off-duty, shift-change time of day when it's nearly impossible to catch a cab.

Yet, lo! Our patience paid off. Finally a cab driver pulled over to where we stood. I reached for the door handle, a Weeble-shaped figure emerged from behind, pushed passed my mother, then wedged itself between my own sizable belly and the door. It wasn't one of those "it happened so fast" moments. I knew exactly what was going on, I was aware a man was stealing our cab. But a combination of sheer disbelief and exhaustion prevented me from doing anything about it. Instead of fighting I froze, so repulsed by him, by it all, so are you fucking kidding me?, wearing the expression of one being Punk'd, all of which gave him the opportunity to wedge his ass into the cab fully.

As he forced his way into the seat I said, rhetorically, "Wow. You're really doing this. You're actually stealing a pregnant woman's cab." No inflection of question in my voice. I was simply stating my understanding of the facts.

"Yep, I sure am." He answered proudly. He was proud of himself. He was grinning, for fuck's sake. Victorious! He'd successfully stolen a cab from an exhausted, overheated pregnant woman! He added his (excuse? reasoning?), "Hey, it's New York. Where anything can happen."

My big retort into his grinning fat face? "Wow." I then glanced over to my mom who had also played out the fruitless fight scenes and what-the-fucks in her head, too. She only had breathy wows left as well.

I'm younger than that now

Occasionally I need to secure my position as the reigning Queen of Bad Analogies That Completely Miss the Mark, even though there's a slim shot in hell of being deposed. But there is tradition to think about. And the part where I like to hear myself type.

Before the last move I sifted through all my photographs. I was blown away by how many totally useless photos I've been schlepping around my entire life. Like two rolls of strangers at party I attended in 1998, who I had never seen before or since, that kind. And piles of interchangeable inanimate holiday objects; there's the dinner table, again. There's the turkey, again. There's the tree, again. Hey look, a snowdrift outside the front window. Nothing to distinguish one year from the next, meaningless alone or en masse. Or those photos you take of something that was totally moving and breathtaking in person--an emerald green, dewy pasture at sunrise--but when you get the pictures back it's like, whoopee. Thirty six poorly composed long shots of a moist cow. Move over Ansel Adams.

Beyond quality, I had quantity issues as well. I wondered, do I NEED fifty seven pictures of my first 'real' boyfriend? Yes I want to remember him. Yes I would like to see his shining face when I'm old, and remember that I was once not old, the opposite in fact, and I had a wicked cute boyfriend who used to skateboard in the hall outside of my last period class while waiting for the bell to sound my release. But do I need fifty seven pictures to remember that? Because it's not like I have a picture of him skating in the hall, yet I remember it so well I can hear the whoosh of his Creagers on the waxed floor, I can smell his leather jacket and his favorite chewing gum on his breath (Bazooka) without a single picture for reference. Furthermore, do I need a hundred other pictures of estranged past acquaintances I haven't talked to in twenty years, who I will never see again, and with whom an encounter would be, politely and/or at best, a brief and profoundly awkward experience?

It occurred to me amateur photographers should act more like professional ones. Not every shot is a keeper. Quite the contrary. Professional photographers take rolls and rolls and rolls of film to get that one good shot in which the essence of the subject is distilled. They never print the rest.

So I went through them all, one by one, and kept the photos that were representative of something, or someone, or were just plain arty. I bought a few of those silly little paperback sized photo albums and designated one for pets past and present (one or two pictures of each), one for friends and boyfriends past and present (one or two pictures of each), and even kept a few choice pictures from the wedding day of my defunct first marriage. I have a larger one for family where I did the same style of purge; only keeping those photos which captured a unique moment, ditching the umpteenth picture of the poor dead turkey, no matter how brown and crispy the skin turned out that year.

While I was tossing the rest of the pictures into the trash I was terrified I would regret it. I mean, they're irreplaceable, you know? I can't go back to that moment. There are no do over's. Worse, I was terrified I was doing irreparable damage to the eternal souls of the subjects. One night I imagined the 20 year old face of this guy staring out into a yellowy purgatorial trash bag of torment, inside a larger bag, inside a crushed down block of refuse, buried a scant twelve feet underneath that Target on the Belt Parkway. I couldn't stop worrying I'd caused a world of f'd up damage to a living person. And I do not want for damage of man friends! All I wanted was a little damn feng in my shui, capiche?

But when I was done and my boxes of photos became three, tiny little albums, it felt like...I had MORE pictures somehow. There was peace to be found in the space I'd created. I even look at them occasionally, something I had only done about once a decade before. The ones that were left meant something. Purging my photos ended up being the best idea I'd had in a long time.

The same is not true for pregnancy-hormone induced purges, I've discovered.

I'm just going to leave it at that.

straightforward simple 9/11 plea

The first hours it was emergency workers and volunteers digging through the rubble, straight through from the collapse of the first tower, too many hours to fathom--past the point of exhaustion. I spoke to several of them then, at the relief stations set up on the West Side highway, where I and thousands of other able-bodied citizens had congregated to see if we could be put to use. One man I handed a bottled water to had been digging with a makeshift shovel for 22 straight hours. I begged him to rest, or sleep if possible, to regain some strength. “My big brother’s in there.” he said. And he headed off to begin hour twenty-three.

Next skilled laborers started showing up to volunteer with the work crews: steel workers, electricians, off-duty firefighters and police and military officers, contractors of all stripes. Some brought hauling equipment, or expertise, or just their bare hands. They too dug for days and days, some for weeks, some quit their jobs to help, some left families states away. They didn’t lose anyone in the attack, they weren’t getting paid, no one had hired them. They were average Americans with skills, equipment and brawn who came to help because their momma’s raised them right.

Now five years later, a huge number of these first responders are sick. A whole host of upper and lower respiratory ailments and diseases laypeople call WTC disease is affecting those volunteers, and people who were/are living near the site. These folks don’t have union representation, or an employer who they can petition for worker’s compensation or healthcare coverage.

There couldn’t possibly be anything LESS partisan and more obvious-in-its-necessity then helping sick volunteers. It has nothing to do with race or socio-economic status or voting record or sexual orientation. Yet our city officials and state legislators won’t do a goddamed thing to help anyone until they figure out who to blame. The odds-on favorite is Christine Todd Whitman. The lawyers are of course looking for a person or entity with a slightly larger pocketbook. She’s done well for herself and all, but…

Anyway, point being, if you have a few seconds today, drop a line to your favorite NYS representative. Tell her/him that we have all the time in the world to find a rich enough scapegoat for the second wave of 9/11 victims, or until we have a president who cannot bring him or herself to sit idly by while unforeseen catastrophes take untold lives. Lots of people need to go to the doctor right now. And they need temporary financial assistance until they can return to work, full time disability if they can't. Tell said representative that this is a new low even for us; way beyond punishing the victim…we will not stoop to punishing people who volunteer to help victims.

Then tell them how all that practice helping innocent victims will come in handy as they return the more million Gulf region Katrina victims to their homes and neighborhoods.

Disappearing feet (or, The View From Here)

Please, oh large free world, for the last time; never again confuse mandatory bed rest with “the luxury of lying around all day”. May I remind you, being restricted to a small space without human contact is called solitary confinement. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, solitary confinement is a punishment given to prisoners, people in jail. Because it’s the only thing worse than being in jail. You know that scene in the movies where they yank the prisoner out of ‘the hole’…now, do they have a good stretch and thank the jailer for granting them the luxury of laying around all day, or are they wasted and mumbling and swatting away imaginary vermin?

Also, if it’s not too much trouble, I’ve heard enough about the effortless pregnancies and births. The supra Earth Mother Goddesses who suffer not one bit from nausea, hemorrhoids, back pain, edema, acne, rashes, varicose veins, anemia, diabetes, high blood pressure, yeast infections, bladder infections, eczema, blurred vision and migraine; never mind any of the hundreds of thousands of things that can go wrong with the baby in utero. Women who work with pre-pregnancy vigor right up to the moment they begin their two-hour labor (described later as “not as bad as menstrual cramps”). A labor so short it leaves them barely enough time to grab their hospital bag, finish the rest of the baby shower thank-you’s, and give the house a quick go over with the vacuum.

Know what story I like? I like the one about the old codger who had an exclusive diet of pork fat, bottom-shelf rye, and unfiltered cigarettes, who engaged in an extremely physically/mentally demanding hobby (rock climbing, backyard rocket science…) right up until the day he died…at a hundred and two. Of all the mythical people and life circumstances I hear about, I like that one best.