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Trip Crazy

2010-02-19T15:55:00.000-05:00

I recently came across a funny, interesting and creative traveling website called Nowhere Magazine where just a few people write about their travel experiences. Many of them seem very food-focused, so my interests couldn’t be more cleanly met. Food & Travel. If I didn’t have such a need to be creative (“too creative” some might say), that’s exactly what I would call any travel blog/magazine that I created. Too apt.

Anyway, perusing this site made me crave more travel (and food, but that’s a different entry) and highlighted how little traveling I’ve done over the past few years. I used to travel abroad and domestically every few months it seemed. Now, hardly at all. Granted, most of my time over the past six years has been wholly consumed with being a mom, wife, lawyer, good doobie, poor, etc. but that’s really no excuse. Well, except the being “poor” part. That tends to put a wrinkle in any well-laid travel plans. Nevertheless, I really want to do more traveling in the coming years. Good friends that MMoon and I adore are actually willing (well, at least until they get to know us better) to travel with us – hopefully to Italy where we will share a villa, food, wine, art and history. So, my plan for 2010 and beyond is to find a way to get around more (in a travel-sense of course, as I’ve already done my “getting around” in other senses. [badumpbump]).

Leave a comment and tell me your travel hopes, dreams, stories. I'd love to hear them.

A Whole Lot of Shouting and Murmuring

2010-02-17T14:39:00.000-05:00

If you don't read Shouts and Murmurs in The New Yorker, you should. The articles are simply brilliant.

Here are The Best of Shouts and Murmurs (via The Rumpus) from the past year. Enjoy!

Posted using ShareThis

Chock Full O' Fail

2010-02-16T10:45:00.001-05:00

In typical fashion, I dashed off a quick piece for entry into the Flash Fiction Chronicles String-of-10 Contest but then totally blew it.

The String-of-10 Contest is when the editors provide a string of ten words (the Prompts in this case were: SURVIVAL-SKIMMILK*-LOLLYGAG-CRYPTIC-ONLOOKER-LEAK-RAW-FORBIDDEN-RADIO-VERDIGRIS) and an aphorism (Quotation: A person usually has two reasons for doing something: a good reason and the real reason. –Thomas Carlyle) and the author is to provide seamless integration of any four of the prompt words and utilization of the aphorism as an additional source of inspiration (if desired) in no more than 250 words.

Well, I put a quick piece together, shopped it by my Dedicated Reader and then promptly failed to submit it timely. *Sigh* Alas, at least I put something on paper. So, my Dear Blog Reader, I give you my forgotten piece.

__________________

Yéle

Johanne, aware enough to know that in a different world, one that existed a week ago, she was doing the unforgivable. In that other world where food was at least available if not necessarily bountiful, just having these thoughts was forbidden. But now, all bets were off, as Renaud used to say. He’s gone now. Dead under the rubble of their collapsed home. The constant struggle against poverty and repression Johanne’s alone to fight. Her motivations weren’t cryptic or apologetic. She was in survival mode.

Peering into the rubble, water leaking through the corrugated verdigris-colored roof and collecting in pools at her feet, she saw a hand clutching a filthy bag containing two small cans of skim-milk. Not much but to Johanne – a veritable feast. She hadn't eaten for four days and that was a dirty half-sandwich taken from someone long dead.

Johanne, careful to keep a watchful eye out for onlookers, tugged the bag and felt a corresponding pull. Nerves frayed RAW, she screamed and fell back.

"THANKGODTHANKGODTHANKGOD," a tear-filled whisper filtered up through the dust and the dark. Without thinking, Johanne grabbed the bag and ran. In the pounding of her heart, her bare feet slapping a syncopated rhythm against the buckled street, she heard that merged prayer, Thank…God…Thank…God…. She slowed to a jog and then a walk.

With a choked breath, Johanne turned and ran back to the remains of the store. With a brief caress of that solitary hand, she began to dig.

Being There

2010-02-12T17:21:00.000-05:00

Valentine’s Day always makes me wonder what other people's most significant "Be There Moment” is. The moment I fell head over heels in love with my (eventual) husband was my most important one.

I imagine everyone's had a Be There Moment.

The Hail Mary is thrown, you run your ass off to get to the ball, close your eyes and reach out your hands with a simple prayer, “Be there.” And it is.

You get to the bank/store/airport and can’t find your check/wallet/tickets/passport. You wrack your brain wondering where in the hell it could be, run back to your car/locker/apartment and just pray, “Please be there,” and it is. They go on and on.

Mine was Super Bowl Sunday 1994, a little after midnight. A soft tap on my dorm room door. “Be there,” I prayed. And he was. Happy Valentines Day Moon. I’d do it all over again.

Wishing everyone a lovely V-Day Weekend with someone they love.

Choked with Wordlessness

2010-02-05T17:29:00.000-05:00

I realize that I need to blog everyday. That is going to be a very good thing for me. Flexing those perpetually atrophying writing muscles. It will, however, not be a good thing for you, Dear Reader. For instance, today's post is going to be crap. Crap because my new-found resolve for writing that came upon me like a midnight clear after the big yoga/writing retreat, has been stabbed in it's heart with a sharp shard of ennui.

I haven't found anything of late worth remarking upon. I have lost my that burning need I once had to write down all my thoughts for ... reasons I now can't even remember. Nevertheless, my need to write something - anything - must outweigh your need to be even remotely entertained.

So, with that, I say thank you for clicking in today and wading through the dregs of the rusty and dented hazardous waste drum of my mind.

Please come back again though as my hope is that there will be more here than this asshattery when you return.

formspring.me

2010-02-05T15:10:00.001-05:00

If happiness was currency, what kind of work would make you rich?

Creating. In all it's many glorious forms. Writing, building, planting, teaching (creating a love for something newly learned in children).

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2010-02-05T15:09:00.001-05:00

Would you rather lose all of your old memories, or never be able to make new ones?

As much as I would regret losing the memory of the birth of my son, my wedding, my husband, and all of the rotten things I've done in my life, if I truly followed the path of living completely in the now, then emptying the "vessel" to experience more life and live it to the fullest, those past memories shouldn't seem so important.

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2010-02-05T15:06:00.001-05:00

If we learn from our mistakes, why are we always so afraid to make a mistake?

I don't know that it's as much a fear of making the mistake as it is of having to pay for the mistake. in whatever form that takes (e.g., humiliation, aggravation, harm to yourself or others).

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2010-02-03T11:25:00.001-05:00

If, like on a computer, you could go back to a "restore point" to redo some things...would you? If so, where would you go?

I often think that if I had a "way back machine" I would absolutely go back in time to "fix" things that went wrong in my life. But then, I realize where do you stop? And would I know then what I know now? I always come to the same conclusion in the end: who I am has everything to do with what I've done and been through. Who's to say if I changed ONE thing that EVERYTHING thereafter wouldn't be changed? No, just too risky.

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2010-02-03T11:23:00.001-05:00

What mistake or error in judgment in your life do you think, when the dust settled, provided the best opportunity to learn and grow?

Ah, so many. The first very memorable mistake from which I've learned a great deal was when I was 13. I gave, in a very public forum, to an ex-friend who betrayed my trust and caused me no small amount of grief, a beautifully wrapped can of dog food. The look on her face both before (gratitude for what she thought was forgiveness) and after (horror and humiliation) she opened the package is something I'll never forget. I have searched for her lo these many years in the hopes of absolution. It showed me what I truly am capable of when pushed but also has kept me from holding any gruges and seeking vengeance knowing how destructive it is to both victim and vigilante.

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2010-02-01T17:51:00.001-05:00

Ask me anything http://formspring.me/Jeniene

How do you "choose" life without a "choice"?

2010-02-01T17:34:00.003-05:00

I don't know Tim Tebow or his mother Pam. I've only recently learned that Tim is a Heisman Trophy winner and, like other members of his family, a Christian Fundamentalist. And now I've learned that during a CBS Super Bowl commercial, Tim and his mom will sit side-by-side and discuss the ordeal she went through during her pregnancy with Tim and why she is "pro-life." The prescribed moral of the story: Choose life.

I am pro-choice.

I don't have an opinion one way or the other on Pam Tebow's religious choices to continue with a risky pregnancy after doctors told her the fetus was damaged. Apparently, as a missionary in the Phillippines having contracted amoebic dysentery, she was diagnosed with placental abruption, a premature separation of the placenta from the uterine wall. The doctors predicted a stillbirth and recommended abortion. But Pam was against abortion, she had faith in God and she refused. That sounds like a terrible ordeal and a very courageous decision. Although I am happy that because of her faith-based choice (and some medical science thrown in there), Pam gave birth to a healthy boy and all was well; I am happier that she had the choice to make.

What makes me unhappy about the story, and many similar stories shared by "pro-lifers," is the omission of the very salient fact that these women like Pam Tebow, HAD A CHOICE.

No one -- I repeat, no one -- is upset that Pam Tebow (or Sarah Palin or whoever else) chose to give birth to their respective children. Had Pam Tebow acted on her doctor's advice and had an abortion, she could have, because abortion is legal. Sarah Palin could have chosen not to give birth. The fact that they did give birth is fine. Good for them for doing what they felt was best for themselves. The point is, if abortion were illegal (and I'm pretty sure they would like it to be illegal), they would not have had a CHOICE in the matter. They would have had to give birth, by law. Pam Tebow's doctor could have said "this pregnancy is complicated and may result in your death," period. Because if abortion were illegal, that's all he or she could have said. The doctor couldn't recommend an abortion, regardless of the medical situation, if abortion were illegal.

The reason these women and others can pride themselves on "choosing life" is because THEY HAD A CHOICE. Without legal abortion, there would be no legal choice but to give birth.

This is not a case of anyone being "anti-life" or "anti-birth" or "anti-women" or "anti-babies" or anything even close to that. This is about people pointing out that those women HAD A CHOICE in the first place. This is about anti-choicers touting the CHOICE they made as the only one that should be allowed. If they had their way, no one would have a choice.

A Cautionary Tale

2010-01-20T17:28:00.001-05:00

I have really bad knees. Weak, damaged knees that aren't particularly adept at quick lateral zigzags. I hurt my left knee as an early teen surfing in So. Cal. and then proceeded to do continued damage to both knees over the years in various athletic (and some not so athletic) endeavors. So, 41 years in I walk more like an 81 year old. A friend told me about a joint gel called Jointritis (or something like that) to ease pain and swelling of … joints of course. Anyhoo, I go to CVS for this product only to find a plethora of joint-healing potions and elixirs, but nothing called Jointritis. However, what they did have was a balm called Zostrix® a high potency analgesic cream for arthritic pain. Perfect.

Once at home, I put the stuff on and all appears well. I go to work, come home feeling pretty good. Before bed and according to instruction, I apply the cream again taking extra pains to “spread a thin layer and rub it in well.” The instructions are very clear: DO NOT apply heat after application of ointment. DO NOT wrap affected area after application. Okay, no wrapping. No heating. No worries. All is good and I go to bed. At 2:00 a.m., I awake in a haze trying to decide whether to grab my shoes before getting my son and running out into the snow before my home is engulfed in flames. Why, in my hallucinatory state, did I think my house was on fire? Because my legs were AFLAME! Flaming legs equals flaming house, right?

After coming completely awake and discovering it was only ME on fire, I rushed into the bathroom and doused my legs with ice cold water. No success. Scrubbed my legs with Dove soap and ice water. Still not better. After over two hours of applying icy water to my knees and shins, I grabbed a couple of frozen bags of peas and lay on our cold leather couch trying to levitate my legs.

When my husband awoke and came downstairs I, chagrined, explained what had happened. He read the box and said, “Oh, well see it has capsaicin in it. You know, the stuff in habanera peppers that makes them so hot.” I agreed that I DID know that and followed the directions explicitly so as to avoid this very incident. He then mentioned that maybe lying beneath our ultra-soft mega-warm micro-plush sheets, 2 blankets and a heavy comforter just might have been equal to “wrapping” AND “applying heat” to my legs. Faced with such rational and damn annoying logic, I agreed that he might very well be right. That of course brought back the memory of my grandmother employing a poultice which she would use on strained muscles and arthritic joints. It consisted of grease rendered from goose fat combined with a jigger or two of Tabasco sauce. I remember telling her, “Gram, they have Ben Gay now. You don’t have to use that stuff, you know?” My grandmother? She is somewhere out there ... laughing. Riotously.

So, moral of the story. Don’t use Zostrix®. Yes, I could have said, think more logically about applying something with capsaicin, don’t weigh yourself down with 140lbs in bed linens, etc, but really what’s the point. Don’t use it. There are plenty of balms and poultices you could use to soothe your joints. Why bother risking waking up in a ring of fire?

However, if you choose to use it? Use gloves. And DO NOT attempt to put in or take out your contacts after such use. I’ll refrain from sharing that post-script with you other than to say, yes, I’m an idiot. But if you’ve read this far, you already know that.

Post-script I will share: Although the burning on the exterior of my legs was excruciating, I have to admit that the knee joints haven't felt this good in years! How's that for a nice visual ad? Woman's legs are shredded down to the bone and smoking but she's doing those little heel clicks in the air saying, "I can't wear shorts but my knees feel great!"

Don't Know Much About . . .

2010-01-15T17:00:00.003-05:00

When I truly started to think about becoming a Writer, note the capital letter, I was in high school. I had gained the insight that a Writer was actually paid to write things. Nevertheless, it still hadn't dawned on me then that I could be paid to write. Not like a REAL Writer. But still, I wanted to be part of the exalted ranks of those who wrote things that other people read. Willingly. To me, however, a real writer wrote prose. Not poetry. There was no reasonable basis for this conclusion; I had not read enough poetry to have a valid conclusion of any kind. But in my mind, prose and poetry were such different modes of creating a vision, of sharing a voice; one that I understood and one that I didn't. When I read poetry, any poetry, I often thought, this is some inaccessibly esoteric rambling that just doesn't speak to me. I couldn't have been more wrong. I just hadn't read enough poetry.

Below are two pieces of writing. One prose. One poetry.

Prose version:

A woman stands on a mountain top with the cold seeping into her body. She looks on the valley below as the wind whips around her. She cannot leave to go to the peaceful beauty below. In the valley, the sun shines from behind the clouds causing flowers to bloom. A breeze sends quivers through the leaves of trees. The water gurgles in a brook. All the woman can do is cry.

Poetry version

The Woman on the Peak

The woman stands upon the barren peak,

Gazing down on the world beneath.

The lonely chill seeps from the ground

Into her feet, spreading, upward bound.

The angry wind whistles ‘round her head,

Whipping her hair into streaming snakes,

While she watches, wishes, weakly wails.

Beyond the mountain, sunshine peeks,

Teasing flowers to survive and thrive.

The breeze whispers through the leaves,

Causing gentle quivers to sway the trees.

Laughter gurgles as the splashing brook

Playfully tumbles over rugged rocks,

While the woman above can only grieve

Would you like to write poetry like that? I certainly would. The poem definitely helps you to "see" the things the writer is saying. The composition also provides a swing, a rhythm that is missing in the prose piece. I can see that now. Writers learn to write through reading. I am learning that reading good poetry is one of those ways of learning how to be a good poet and hopefully a good writer. The ubiquitous "they" are known to say that if we put good thoughts in our minds, good thoughts will come out. So, I will continue to read really good poetry, starting with Roberto Bolaño's beautiful book of poems The Romantic Dogs and hope that those good thoughts do indeed come out.

I and Love and You

2010-01-12T17:06:00.000-05:00

The bane of blatant honesty with your very inquisitive young child is that you will then have to have these kinds of conversations for so much longer. Maybe I should have opted for the "You were found in a cabbage patch" responses until he was 10 or so.

"Mommy, how much love do I have to make for a baby brother?"

"Say again?"

"You said you have to make the love to have a baby. I’ve been making lots of love and don’t have one yet."

"And how have you been doing that?"

"I made a bunch of hearts and flowers and stars, and even one of me, you and Daddy holding hands. It’s not working. Is it not enough love?"

"Honey you have all the love you’ll ever need. But to have a baby brother, it’s mommy and daddy who have to make THE love."

"Oh. Well, I’ve got LOTS of crayons. Can YOU try?"

Meatless Monday

2010-01-04T18:00:00.000-05:00

Well, I've done it. I've decided my love of the red and white meat has been outweighed by my love of a gastric-pain free existence. Since I had my son I have suffered from debillitating heartburn unless I take a pill each morning. Wouldn't seem like a big deal but boy, when I forget that pill, even if I'm not suffering at all, it affects my entire day. I worry constantly, "is the acid about to burn through my chest now? How about . . . now?" It's awful. Many friends (not doctors) and several doctors (presumed to be doctors since they wear those shiny stetho-thingies) have said I might be able to manage my stomach ailments just through diet. Granted, this change is fairly drastic given my love of meat. I love meat. As in love. As in, sometimes I have daydreams about it. But I think this will be a good thing for me in the long run.

Most importantly though, I can't go off half-cocked about this. I need to make pains to ensure I've supplemented for all the valuable nutrients I will lose by not eating meat. Being a self-(but I think fairly accurately) diagnosed hypoglycemic, I know I can't just omit meat and then not plug something in as a significant substitute. So, I'm going to seek some help. Otherwise I'm likely to be back here next week talking about my gluttonous consumption of an entire standing rib roast. Mmmmm, delicious medium rare prime rib roast. Yeah, this is going to be more difficult than possibly anything I've ever done.

At least I'm not giving up cheese. That would kill me.

Resolve

2009-12-30T15:58:00.013-05:00

My friend Matthew and I were recently discussing our mutual aversion to resolutions. Not just generally but those made at the end of a year that may not have completely measured up to expectations. It's not about waiting for a particular time to make a change. Just make the change. Easier said than done, certainly. But if someone thinks that come January she's going to go to the gym on a regular basis just because it's the beginning of a new year, when she didn't go to gym on a regular basis in the prior year, that's a resolution that's destined to fail. Just go to the gym. And don't wait until January to do it. And it's not about saying, I want to be healthier. That's not going to work. Make a specific and definite short term goal that you can keep. Say, "I am going to go to the gym at least 3 times each week, getting there at 6:30 and staying at least an hour." That's a goal that's manageable.

I could go on and on about this, but lucky for you, there's a wonderful blog entry on this by Penelope Trunk here. She is a brilliant and gifted writer and I would say all those things if I too were that talented. Nice thing is, I don't have to be. Penelope is. And you can read her musings right there.

Back to me. I will, however, set goals for myself. Now, you might say, well, how's that different from a resolution? Maybe it isn't. But my goal doesn't have a timeline; it doesn't have to be completed in the upcoming year. And I don't necessarily have to wait for the new year to begin to put it in motion.

I have many short term goals that I want to accomplish (i.e., write more flash fiction, finish my bad novel, do more (read: any) meditation and yoga; finish some craftsy projects), but I'd say my primary goal is to actively make myself happier. Because that's a bit amorphous, I made myself define specifically one action that will make me happier: that action is to bridge the every-widening chasm between me and my surviving sibling.

This will not be an easy thing to do. I love this sibling. Absolutely. And I miss him (sort of). But, not to put too fine a point on it, my sibling is nuts. And not in the, "I'm really bugged by my brother, he gets on my nerves and I hate it when he takes my stuff/leaves my bike out in the rain, kind of 'he's driving me nuts'" nuts. Rather, my brother is clinically nuts. Bipolar. Diagnosed and untreated for decades. We all limped along together for 30 years or so with this crazy albatross around our necks (and by "we" I mean my mother, older brother, nutty brother and me - all of us enablers in our own way) but after the death of my mother and older brother, I decided to put this particular unhappy relationship to bed, so to speak. Although a wise decision that created a much needed shelter of sanity around my life, I know that I have lost something by skipping out. Something unquantifiable.

I revealed this small wounded part of my heart to a friend recently, someone who knows me fairly well, and she asked me, "What would your mother want you to do?" That got me. Wouldn't have thought it would actually, but it did. Although my mother would intellectually understand why I have left my relationship with my brother in tatters, emotionally she would want us to find a place of, if not harmony, at least peace. I don't honestly know if that's possible, but I I need to try. And I'm in the process of defining the steps that will bring this to pass. The first was "reconnection." Now we're "reconnected" via Facebook. Not great, but something. A first step.

I read that the best indicator that you will be happy in the future is if you are 47 and close with your siblings. Well, I've got 6 years to go.

Okay, maybe there is a timeline to this thing. But at least it's a well defined timeline.

Dawning of a New Age

2009-12-28T14:40:00.006-05:00

With the holidays coming and just as quickly going, I've been feeling an intangible sense of loss. I left the house early this morning, kissing my sleeping five-year old's warm cheek and whispering endearments. As I tiptoed downstairs, I was able to pinpoint what's been melancholically hounding me. I've been grieving my son's childhood. Silly really, given that he's only five going on six. But still, witnessing his almost dogmatic belief in all things "Santa," I recognize how fleeting it all is. Each inch he grows makes me shrink a little inside. The older he gets, the less of me he'll need. The less he currently needs. I witness him slyly wiping my kisses from his cheeks (at least he still comes for kisses). I can already feel the loss of his sweet confidences, those heartfelt hugs and even his unruly tears that I've known as a first-time mom.

I'm already grieving the loss of my son.

These feelings of loss have begun to make me think of motherhood as time-limited, a vocation that requires unlimited amounts of gear; mittens with strings and zippers, car seats, bags of Cheerios. As I slowly begin to put away childish things, I worry that I will have outlived my usefulness to him. Relegating myself to just a sweet-and-sour relic of our past.
I expressed these irrational and baseless fears to a friend with three older sons of her own and she was quick to assuage me (something a wise woman had done for her years past). Paying it forward.

She was able to help me synthesize something I knew intellectually but didn't wholly believe emotionally. It's a given that I'll miss my little boy, but the future relationship he and I will share will bring on an entirely new layer of love. As he grows older, he will continue to need me. Differently, but equally as urgently, as he once did. Against me he shall practice his beliefs, juxtaposed against those we've tried to instill in him. And he'll begin the cleave and cling of courtships based on what he's learned from his and my relationship. These things I know, but they tend to be obscured by the ever-present feeling of movement, of growth and of change.

Nevertheless, love that changes isn't love lost; just as mist and ice are only water in another form. And equally as lovely.

I will always be a mother and I will always matter. Yes, I will always be a mother and I will always matter.

Nice lessons to learn as the New Year dawns.

Well, fancy seeing you here!

2009-12-22T15:15:00.002-05:00

Okay. Yes, I know it's been three years since I posted anything. I know. I know! It is a hell of a long time to go without blogging. No, I don't know why I let all that time lapse. My muse got lost somewhere between work, mothering, wife-ing (not a word, I know) and just existing. But let's not dwell on the unpleasantries. I'm back! And I'm ready to vent my opinions and frustrations out at the unsuspecting (and more importantly, uninterested) internet public once again.

You've been forewarned.

An Ode to Strike Anywhere Matches

2006-11-14T10:49:00.001-05:00

I was exiting a very old hardware store in Davis Square this morning (I lost my office key (for a second time!) and needed to have a new one made sans Hahvaad's awareness) and noticed these small cross-hatched plates screwed into the wall, about five feet off the ground. Some history-minded clerk explained that they had been there since the 40s and were there for one to light a match on. That is, as you exited the store, you'd strike your match on the cross-hatched plate, light your cigarette, and step out into the New England sun. This was undoubtedly a much needed reminder that the 1940s was truly the coolest decade of them all.

You can light strike-anywhere matches, well . . . anywhere of course. Even off the bottom of your shoe, if you're wearing wingtips, which you should be, if you're cool and it's the 1940s. Strike-anywhere matches are superior to all other flame-providing technologies, for their versatility (strike anywhere!) to their inspiring pffffttt! noise, to that satisfying little smoking wooden stick left clenched between your fingertips. Try to compete with that, Zippo! Zippo lighters are the choice of James Dean wannabes and motorcycle gangs. Strike-anywhere matches are the quintessence of elegance and functionality.

Even if you don't smoke, you should keep a large box of strike-anywhere matches in the house for (a) lighting the corn-burning stove, or (b) lighting candles, or (c) masking that dook-dook smell in the bathroom, or (d) your kids to play with. Because they can do anything. They can strike anywhere.

They may be matches, but to me they are...wait for it...matchless.

Rage War

2005-10-12T10:50:00.001-04:00

Every now and then, I’ll recognize that I have a lot of anger stewing within and I don’t know where it comes from. There are those people who see a sea of traffic on the highway or long lines at the grocery story and they just shrug and go with it. I’m not one of those people. I have rage. I have all kinds of rage about all kinds of things, not just how no one cares about feminism anymore or a sense of community or what were at one time common courtesies, but a Whisky Tango Foxtrot kind of rage. This rage that's worse in the morning with a coffee fueled serotonin rush, where I can be driving to work and on the radio hear 2005 Factory Cash Back on Sienna and I get mad. For no reason. Okay, well, there's clearly a reason there - it should be 2005 Factory cash back on A Sienna or on THE Sienna but they just say ON SIENNA like we're all just supposed to intuitively know that car names don't need articles before them anymore.

Or sometimes just the word Toyotathon can enrage me.

Or that whatever lane I’m driving in on highway is the lane that ISN’T moving! Or that people no longer comprehend the need for “braking distance.” Oh yes, slow moving beater of a Mazda plastered in BUSH/CHENEY bumper stickers and support our troop ribbons, those three inches between my car and the car in front of me is exactly where you should be!

Or, and this is really the point of this entry, how NPR can glibly spout a story on Nationally Puzzling Radio (known by the masses as NPR) this story about the new “craze” for plastic surgery in Iraq where apparently “well-off Iraqis are seeing Western-style pop music videos featuring thin women with small noses and deciding to go under the knife."

This is apparently explained by the Iraqis' powerful "hope for the future," and as a "small sign of a larger trend." A "steady diet of pop culture" has made Iraqi men dissatisfied with the bodies and faces of their wives, and rendered women unhappy with their own appearances, and somehow this is "a sign of progress" for Iraqis who "don't know what the future will hold, but can at least control what they will look like," without a trace of irony or commentary on the cruelty.

Among the many other astounding assertions, the story seemed to suggest that lots of Iraqis are much wealthier than they were "under Saddam," so now they have disposable income to spend on luxury purchases like plastic surgery, and access to western television makes Iraqi women want to look more like western women.

Despite the Faux News Channel's constant stream of propogandic drivel, nothing has given me the impression that things are very good in Iraq at the moment. The delivery of water, electricity and other municipal services is still lagging behind what it was "under Saddam." Violence, and attempts to control the violence, are huge impediments to industry and commerce. Oil production still has many challenges. So how is it that Iraqis are, as the story said, wealthier now than they were "under Saddam"? Where is this alleged money coming from?

My real disgust comes from the media's (and now even NPR's party to this!) attempt to reassure us that, just like American women, Iraqi women are also easily brainwashed into self-hatred of their bodies, and deep down they want to be just like us, and surely will begin conforming to U.S. mores, and doing what we tell them, soon. Rest easy. The "audio" is available at the NPR website. I must listen to this again to see if it was as stupefying as I recall.

Oh, so much anger and nowhere to vent it.

But hey, if I didn't have my anger, I wouldn't be me.

Maybe a little plastic surgery will cheer me up. Jeeeezus!

Informative and yet funny. You really can't beat that.

2005-10-07T09:26:00.000-04:00

"Capitalize hurricane when it is part of the name that weather forecasters assign to a storm: Hurricane Hazel." But use it and its -- not she, her or hers or he, him or his -- in pronoun references."

"And do not use the presence of a woman's name as an excuse to attribute sexist images of women's behavior to a storm."

How can you not love The Associated Press Stylebook?

Ode to TiVo™

2005-10-06T14:25:00.000-04:00

Prior to our move we had the DirecTV version of TiVo™ (the “DVR”) and in no small measure, it changed my life! In the year we had it, I’d watched about 11 commercials. I LOVED it. I was no longer a slave to the network schedules. I had become relatively conversant in water cooler gossip about Trump’s latest hire, and I was able to satisfy my The Amazing Race jones on a weekly basis. Prior to that, since the birth of Baby Moon, I missed every new show that was released and hadn’t a clue who Veronica Mars was or why she was interesting. But now? We’re back to that ignorant and desolate existence. No DVR and no TiVo™. I find myself forgetting that I've been shoved through the WayBack Machine to preTiVoric times and I'll push the Pause button on my remote as I get up to go to the bathroom or I'll attempt to fast forward through some idiotic soft porn Victoria’s Secret commercial only to find that I am back to living in real time and not that gloriously innovative view-on-demand world in which I had fallen in love. Damn! Why must crappy television thwart me like the scorned lover it has become? Why have you forsaken me, TiVo™? Why????

Next Up, Anti-Choicers Recruit at a NOW Meeting

2005-09-28T17:43:00.000-04:00

Apparently, this flyer was handed out at the Central Market in Austin, Texas, which is slightly smarter than handing them out at the pride parade, but only by a teensy weensy, nearly-invisible margin. Admitted, I don't know very much about Texas, but one thing I do know (and only because a couple of awesome men I know, and yes, they are a "couple" too moved there) is that Austin is perhaps the only place in the Land of Texas that gay and lesbian people feel relatively comfortable. Granted, it's no Castro or P-Town, but it apparently provides a sense of accessibility to gays and lesbians.

What makes this even more absurd, is the fact that these flyers were passed out at teh Central Market, the equivalent of Andronico's in Berkeley or Bread n' Circus in Cambridge. I can't think of a better place to whine about how your "traditional" marriage is threatened by what the neighbors do than at an upscale hippie-ish grocery store. Central Market (again, I know this because of those lovely men) is where you go to buy your granola in bulk, your soap by the pound, and your organic wines with cute drawings on the front accompanied by stinky cheeses you swore not to spend money on next time. Not exactly a hotbed for the braindead Wonder Bread lovers who are actually unthinking enough to vote against the rights of their neighbors.

Although I've known the occasional organic food lover to be a wingnut, I always thought they were the oddity. Now, sadly, I'm learning that organic foods and bad politics have no necessary connection. Apparently, Whole Foods isn't owned by a liberal either.

What next? Will I find a "pro-clubbing baby harp seals" posters stuck to my windshield when I finish shopping at the cheese co-op?

Long and Winding Road . . .

2005-09-22T16:59:00.000-04:00

Four years ago my world was tilted on its axis -- September 11, 2001 had just occurred, George W. Bush was about to steal the presidency out from under good sense and common decency and I got married.

Granted, MT Moon and I had been together for 8 years at that time but it was still nice to look forward to a ‘wedding anniversary’ to celebrate rather than that “we’ve been together how long” milestone we'd been drinking to before then. We definitely set something of a new trend getting married later as it seemed so many of our friends were married with children by then.

But I think we've gotten the best of all worlds. We’ve been together since our mid-twenties, gotten married fairly late in life by modern urban standards, and are in it for the duration, which means even more time together. We've certainly had our ups and downs: four moves in as many years, a miscarriage, an old house, two "high-powered" careers and now we've got this wonderful, beautiful child in our family, who came along at the right time, without some rush to make an addition before the two of us got to know each other (we knew each other just fine when the rush came, thank you). We’ve been together for one-third of our lives and I can't imagine doing anything other than this, and don't especially care to.

In light of MT Moon’s despondency that he couldn’t make the wedding cake (he was certainly more than capable of making it and of doing a damn fine job of it too - I simply lacked the fortitude to withstand the psychosis that would surface were he to take on such a huge task in the midst of planning our wedding) we decided that he would pick out nice wedding bands instead of those crappy ones most guys get as a throw away to the engagement ring. He chose rings made by J. Binion a metalsmith in Oregon who implements a Japanese heat fusing technique called Mokume Gane where a combination of various alloys (in our case, white, yellow and red gold) are forged, carved and finished to produce a uniquely patterned ring. They’re then split in half to create a mirror image of the other. I honestly couldn’t imagine a more perfect symbol of our life together since MT Moon is in fact a mirrored version of me (I mean in spirit, of course, since I'm not 6’2” and male).

The day after our third anniversary -- September 22, 2004, in case you're wondering -- MT Moon and I were at a wedding. Someone with a video camera asked how long we'd been together, and when we told him, he asked what our secret was. I made some stupid wisecrack, which I've regretted ever since. What I should have said is that the secret to a long, happy relationship and marriage is to marry the ideal person. Do that and everything else falls into place.

Happy anniversary, MT Moon. I'd marry you again, especially if I also got to keep the last twelve years.