Oh cruel world!We are good pigs. We eat what is given us. We behave as instructed. Only minimally do we partake in the flinging of poop and the humping of our kin. So, why -- WHY -- can we not be permitted to grow our nails as long as we so desire? Are we not pigs? Do we not bleed, and feel pain?You can not contain us forever. One day, you'll see, one day it will be PIGS who clip HUMAN nails. And then we'll see how you like being told to "shhhhhh."Watch your back,Agnes & Mildred
The organization where I work has a certain subject specialty, and our library collection reflects that specialty. Recently, I have been "weeding" our collection: librarian-speak for getting rid of books that are no longer appropriate for the stacks, for whatever reason. In our case, I was ridding the shelves of titles of which we owned multiple copies, so as to make room in our limited space for new resources. Today, I boxed up these "weeds," most of them excellent-quality scholarly books, and contacted a local college that shares our subject specialty to see if they would like to have them. This college openly seeks book donations through its website, and also runs a library book sale to raise money off of any donated books that they cannot use in their collection. I called them, expecting at least a small spark of interest in this unexpected windfall of uniquely-themed books. What I got, though, was a surly college librarian who met my cheery proposal with a Great Sigh and a retort of: "I'm sure we have all of them already."Um, ok, I thought. Congrats?But then I had a sudden flashback to my days working at the Horrible Women's Anti-Violence Nonprofit of Doom, where random and usually-well-meaning people would call our emergency 24-hour hotline at 10:00 PM to tell us that they were planning on stopping by the office the next morning with a donation for the shelter of half-empty trial-sized bottles of hotel shampoo that they never got around to finishing. Or where area residents, desiring to do their part to help out the women staying in our shelter, would insist on donating the pretty perfume bottles and beaded purses they themselves found fun and personally satisfying, rather than the tampons, toilet paper, and underwear that the shelter guests so desperately needed. Or where an old lady spent about thirty minutes screaming at me on the phone because I refused to accept her proposed donation of a BROKEN computer and monitor from the mid-80s. The thought behind all (or at least most) of these donations was grounded firmly in altruism. But in part, the donations were based on what the donors had available to give, rather than what the recipients really needed -- and I'm sure that consequently I responded to a great many of those calls with a Great Sigh of my own.What I'm wondering is this: is it better to give what you have (even if what you have might not be exactly what is needed), or to not give at all? I mean, obviously there is a third option - to seek out and give specifically what is needed - but I'm really interested in the choice between the first two possibilities. I spent a year working at an urban food bank after college, and saw first-hand the foul excuses for food products that people would throw into their local canned food drive bins. Like hominy. Cans and cans and cans of hominy. Like, who eats that much hominy? Answer: clearly no one, because they are all donating it to the food bank. So, low-income people who stood in line all morning waiting for their chance to "shop" from the food bank's offerings, found themselves choosing between hominy, hominy, and maybe a side of sauerkraut. Sometimes they would leave empty-handed. Was it better that all the hominy was there, because a can of hominy is better than a can of nothing? Or would it have been better to have kept the food bank closed until it had generated a tastier array of options - because why should the poor have to settle for the crap we happened to have in the back of our cabinets?Discuss amongst yourselves. I'm off to fix myself some hominy casserole.
Usually, going back to revisit a movie or record that you enjoyed as a child turns out to be a big disappointment. The music isn't as sweet as you remembered, or the ending that you grew up thinking was poignant and sad turns out to be sappy and trite. When I was younger, I used to love this comedy special called "Bill Cosby: Himself." I remember watching it over and over again, each viewing more hilarious than the last. I remember quoting from it, wearing out favorite bits, ferociously longing for the mysterious portions that my mom made me fast-forward through because they contained Bill Cosby uttering swear words and taking the Lord's name in vain. Not too long ago, "Bill Cosby: Himself" was released on DVD, and I immediately rented it and settled myself down on the couch to relive old times, fully prepared for all-consuming hysteria. Instead, what I got was a nap. Because the show? Not funny. Sure, there were some parts that made me laugh for the memories they brought up, but overall -- this was not the work of comedic genius I was expecting.I am a fan of nostalgia, and as such have revisited a number of childhood favorites, often with consistently disappointing results. The videotaped episodes of "The New Mickey Mouse Club," the ones starring wee little Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake and Felicity, who closed each show with a rap that included the lyrics "Mickey Mouse, rock the house"? The "Gospel Echoes" record I used to play repeatedly, featuring a Mennonite family with like 10 kids singing songs about keeping their alcoholic daddy from going to hell? [Grow up in Indiana - you'll understand.] The campy B-grade horror flicks I would obsessively sneak on cable during junior high school? All, when examined later in life, rather depressingly disappointing.But why am I telling you all this, you ask? Here's why: so you can sense the full weight of the joy in my heart when I share with you that last night, I took a gamble on introducing the husband to one of my favorite movies from when I was a kid, a movie I remembered as being comprised of nothing but Pure Awesome, a movie that I had not seen since I was about 12 and that was just re-released on DVD a few months ago. People, I'm talking about Sylvester Stallone and young David Mendenhall in "Over the Top."If you are not familiar with "Over the Top" and have consequently been living a joyless life, let me fill you in: Sylvester Stallone is a truck-driver and absentee dad who, at the wishes of his dying estranged wife, embarks on a whirlwind road trip with the prim, military-school-educated adolescent son he has never known. Father and son bond while driving to Las Vegas so Sly can compete in the International Arm-Wrestling Championship. Because he arm-wrestles to help earn his keep, see? Over the top! Sly teaches his son to be a man by imparting upon him grunts of wisdom like, "The world doesn't meet anyone halfway" and then hugging him to his huge sweat-glistened chest and ruffling his hair. There is considerable angst, from the inevitable "how come you left us, dad?" conversation (which takes place in the cab of a semi), to a dramatic kidnapping and rescue sequence, to a father-son montage played out against a background of Kenny Loggins power ballad.The whole thing culminates in the big arm-wrestling tournament and, well, I won't give away the ending because you should all go rent it for yourselves but rest assured that it is Awe. Some. I loved the whole thing from start to finish, and the husband did not even wander off halfway through to go tinker on the computer. Over the top! It's childhood nostalgia redeemed.
How do I love Vermont? Let me count the ways.First, let's get the superficial out of the way: Vermont may be the prettiest state in this here U.S. of A. It's like you cross the state line and all of a sudden everything is greener and lusher and dripping with maple syrup. In the spring and summer, everywhere you look your eyeballs are soaking up big green mountains. In the fall, they're soaking up big red and gold mountains. In the winter, they are soaking up big white mountains (from the inside of your hotel room -- cause if you're outside in Vermont in the winter your eyelids are frozen shut and you aren't seeing much of anything).Second, there are many fun things to do outside in Vermont. These things are cheap, and involve exercise, and are well-maintained and easily accessible. This past weekend, the husband and I, along with two good friends from college, camped out in a lovely state park. We went for hikes along beautifully cultivated and cared-for trails, walked through a sweet-smelling forest, rented pedalboats and explored a sunny lake. These activities, despite not involving my twin loves of Couch and Netflix, brought me much joy and only minimal angst by way of mosquito bites.Third, Vermont is full of tasty treats. Like beer. Magic Hat and Harpoon both have breweries in Vermont. When we visited the Harpoon brewery this past weekend, we bought 12 beers and the nice people of Vermont threw in a 13th for free. As I remember it, Vermont is equally generous with its cheese. Last year on a visit to Waterbury, the husband and I visited the Cabot Cheese factory and were given toothpicks to use in the all-you-can-eat cheese sampling room. We were all, "for real, we can just stand here and eat all this cheese?" and they were all "why yes, welcome to Vermont," and we were all "Fffannk yyyoouu mmmmfffff chomp chomp chomp."Next, Vermont is the state that kitsch built. Some may find this annoying -- I find it endearing and adorable. Consequently, I buy things like Maple Nut Scone Mix and a ceramic creamer shaped like a cow. It seems that any souvenir or consumer good can be made more homespun, authentic, and desirable by simply placing the word "Vermont" in front of it. Vermont woolen mittens? My hands must have them to survive. Vermont maple jelly? I will spread it on everything I eat. Vermont tampons? Add my name to the waiting list, please.
Time spent in Vermont feels rural and idyllic, yet progressive at the same time. You can stop at a roadside food stand for a $1.50 ice cream cone as big as your head (as we did yesterday), and note that the business is not run-down and struggling but rather thriving, friendly, and simply affordable. You can film a PBS "Postcards from Buster" episode on maple syrup farming in Vermont and, absurd and unfounded controversy aside, have the farming families profiled be happy, loving, functioning households headed by gay parents. And the gay parents don't even eat babies for breakfast or worship the devil-goddess around a fire made of their own smoldering bras!Finally, and most importantly, Vermont was the scene of my month-long Appalachian Trail hike, during which I whined, bitched, and blister-popped my way solidly into my husband's heart -- so much so that he married me there four years later. How I will survive living so far away from Vermont after our move back to the midwest, I can't exactly say. But I'm sure there is some online outlet, of the Ye Olde Vermonte Country Store variety, that can help me out with some maple oat shortbread cookies or some all-natural tri-color Vermont soaps in a pinch.
Morning is here. Ifear the subway will eat mysoul. I drive to work.My car has ACand a seat that is all mineand a cup-holder.The train has onlyslowness, sweat, crazy people.I've made the right choice.Driving, I relax.My car glides like a magicdream, floating on air.Why leave this palace,this nest of cool air and cruisecontrol? Why take the -- Motherfucker! Youcan't turn left from the right-handlane! HANG UP AND DRIVE!!!Dude, no. You cannot --no, you are NOT cutting meoff here. Ohhhhhh, that's great,nice Hummer - must beuseful here on the ruggedterrain of Boston,and by the way, sir,congrats on the huge penis -you must be so proud.Hey! Do you teach your"honor-roll student" to flippeople off like that?
Every winter, I think that I cannot possibly hate anything more than I do snow and cold. The way you have to get all bundled up and then, no matter how many layers you use, your nose and ears never really get warm. The way it's always a crap-shoot as to whether or not your car will start. The way that your feet sink into deceivingly tall snowdrifts, leaving you with dripping socks and frozen toes. But then summer rolls around. And I remember: oh no, I cannot possibly hate anything more than I do excessive heat and humidity. Oh. My. God. It is so fucking hot out right now. The air is so muggy that it actually makes noise when you walk through it. Coming home from the subway this afternoon was like walking through a sponge dipped in hot water -- I arrived on my doorstep wilted, drenched in sweat, with my hair drooped and plastered to my forehead like a helmet. I had been walking for about 3 minutes.When the climate gets this disagreeable, I always find myself consumed with irrational anger at nothing, as if the weather is some kind of thinking, decision-making, spiteful being that is simply behaving in an unreasonable way. Like, after the fifth consecutive day of 90 degree temperatures, I will hear myself mutter as I set out for work in the morning: "Yeah, great, thanks, it's not like I wanted to be able to BREATHE today or anything..." In my head, the weather lashes back at me for my insolence by hiking up the temp a notch and taking away the wisp of wind that had been in the air. In reality, I am just a sweaty person talking to herself.We do not have AC in our apartment. The husband and I have rigged up a system of fans to circulate air. We stick to everything we touch; we peel ourselves off of couches and chairs. Our guinea pigs mope, hot and furry, in their cage. Instead of humping each other, they hump the frozen water bottles we give them to help them keep cool. If I had a frozen water bottle that was a big as me right now, I would probably hump it too.What I'm trying to say is: it's hot.
On Thursday, out of what I perceived to be necessity, I engaged in what is one of my least favorite activities: clothes-shopping. I have nothing against shopping in general. I like to shop for fun things like books and music, or for gifts for other people. I like grocery-shopping and furniture-shopping. I didn't even mind shopping for a new car when we were in the market for one last year. But clothes-shopping? Clothes-shopping is an entirely different animal.First and foremost, there's the issue of sizing. I'm a tall girl, and I eat: therefore, a size zero I am not. Nor am I a size 2, or 4, or any other single digit. Normally, when I am not looking for a new pair of jeans, the fact that I am in possession of both a pair of hips and an ass is not something that bothers me in the slightest. However, when I find myself manhandling my 17th rack of identically-hung "Size 2 Petite Extra-Short" pants in a desperate search for anything remotely approaching my size, I start to feel a little, well, large. Especially when another shopper searching the same racks, sighing in what I assume to be mutual frustration, suddenly chirps: "This store has such cute stuff, but it always just hangs off me!"Beyond sizing, though, is the greater issue of the general cut of the women's clothing in stores right now. Like, since when is a shirt that would barely fit on my guinea pig, much less over my own boobs, considered to be "extra-large"? Is it really necessary to have an entire section of blue jeans categorized as "Ultra ultra low rise"? Should something so small as to warrant being called a pair of "micro-shorts" be sold as anything other than lingerie? What the hell is a "capelet"?I don't consider myself to be a prude, or a snarly old lady. But when I'm clothes-shopping, I'm 20 years older and 50 pounds heavier, fingering high-necked cotton blouses and muttering things like "Kids these days!" I also feel some chinks in my feminist body-image armor; even though I'm healthy and relatively fit, I wonder if I should be working out more, eating less. After all, all of these other women are walking out of here with bags full of tiny skirts, stomach-baring tops, multiple-role-fulfilling (are they pants? are they shorts? i'm so confused!) capris. The feelings always goes away once I leave Fascist Consumer World and return to my real life, but I still resent having felt them in the first place.I finished my shopping trip on Thursday empty-handed, without even a single purchase to help alleviate my crappy mood. Thus, I still find myself in need of some light summer clothes to fill out my skeletal wardrobe. I think this week I'll take a trip to the Goodwill, or spend some time shopping online. That way, I can eat a big dish of ice cream while I'm clicking away, to remind myself how nice it is not being a size zero anyway.
The meme: "an idea that, like a gene, can replicate and evolve." In blogspeak: spewing a bunch of info about yourself in your blog in some pre-ordained format, and then peer-pressuring others to do the same. I know - how meta.I read lots of blogs, and I can tell you this: the bloggers, they enjoy the memes. What they don't seem to enjoy, though? Is anyone else knowing that they enjoy the memes. To remedy this, they litter their posts with phrases like "This meme was sent to me by my friend and I don't have anything else to do right now so..." or "I don't usually do memes, BUT..." Well guess what, people? I do memes. Check it:[From Dori at Strongly Worded, which you should be reading if you aren't already]10 years ago: High school graduation? Check. Rocking some awesome summer retail work at Ben Franklin Crafts and CVS? Check. In unabashed, angsty love with my best friend, despite his a) clear homosexuality, b) tendency to openly wipe his snotty nose on his clothing, and c) did I mention the gay gayness? Check. Terrified of going away to college? Check check.5 years ago: I had just moved to Boston from DC, and was working overnight shifts at the women's shelter to which I would later indenture myself full-time. Was living in sin with the husband (who was then the boyfriend), and feeling lonely due to a distinct lack of friends in my new city.1 year ago: My family acknowledged my first year of marriage by inviting my husband to join the family bowling team for their trip to the American Bowling Championship in Reno, NV. Would I lie to you about this? Sadly, the team did not win any trophies. But we did get an awesome commemorative shot glass out of the deal, as you might expect.Yesterday: Meh. I worked all day, had physical therapy, made veggie chili for dinner, and went for ice cream with the husband. The ice cream was not good, which was a little depressing in the way that a really ugly baby or a non-exuberant puppy is depressing. Ice cream should just always be good, you know?Today: Still working on that.Tomorrow: What should be an annoyingly busy day at work, pleasantly interrupted by lunch with an ex-colleague.5 snacks I enjoy: Potato chips, olives, fine cheeses, fake cheez from a jar or spray-can, ice cream sandwiches.5 things I would do with $100,000,000: Travel around the world, buy beautiful houses in Vermont and Minnesota and other cool places and lots of dogs to run around in them, get amazing Christmas presents for my family and friends every year, give my low-on-cash-but-dying-to-be-a-mom cousin the money to adopt as many babies as she could handle, buy Hillary the Presidency.5 locations I'd like to run away to: Alaska, Russia, Italy, Iceland, and the great American West.5 bad habits I have: Clamming up like a big shy dork at social occasions where I don't know many people, picking at (and biting) hangnails, throwing mini-temper-tantrums when I get angry, fidgeting and/or slouching down in my chair during professional meetings, insisting on listening to Bedtime Magic with David Allan Boucher.5 things I like doing: going to the movies, reading books and magazines and Television Without Pity, cooking, playing trivia and card games with the husband, singing loudly when there's no one around to hear.5 things I would never wear: stiletto heels, shoulderpads, sweatshirts with Winnie the Pooh characters on them, anything adorned with an American flag (unless worn ironically), makeup.
I have been a ball of anxiety for a little over a week now. Two Saturdays ago, my new landlord made his first appearance on our doorstep, having just that weekend been passed the glorious crown of home-ownership from our previous slumlords. New Landlord came inside, sat on our loveseat, and proceeded to tell us that he wasn't sure if he was going to allow us to stay in our apartment after September 1st. We begged , pleaded, and did everything this side of an interpretive dance to make him understand how much we wanted to stay through October 31st, the projected date for Ye Olde Cross-Country Move. He told us that he would need a week to "think it over." We ushered him out, tore out a few clumps of our own hair in frantic despair, and rushed over to the computer to begin what would become a week-long marathon date with the Craig's List sublet board.So assured were we of our certain doom that we barely stopped to consider the possibility that New Landlord might, in fact, side in our favor. Our relationship with the slumlords who previously owned our apartment was profoundly unfulfilling, with their apparent landlord-tenant philosophy of "If we ignore them for long enough, they will forget that X is broken." That, coupled with my natural talent for fruitless worry, created a cosmic force that, by late last week, had done everything but secure reservations with each and every short-term apartment complex in the metro Boston area. I spent inordinate amounts of time combing through sublet ads, pricing self-storage units, composing strongly worded (tm Dori) mental letters to New Landlord in which I painted a woeful picture of our possible fate at his hands, the husband and I trudging through the streets of Boston in tattered rags, homeless, hungry, our savings squandered on a Back Bay sublet.Then, last night: New Landlord knocked on our door again, his appearance in the middle of dinner instantly forgiven when it became clear that he had come to SAVE THE DAY, to let us know that he had decided to let us stay until October 31st after all. Yes, he is charging us $200 more per month in rent, making our total cost of living absurd beyond what I am willing to discuss -- but no, I don't care! Because we are secure in our home until we become homeless by choice this fall.Immediately, I felt both guilty for all of the mean thoughts I have been harboring for New Landlord over the past week (did I say that your little white wifebeater looked BAD? because I meant to say that it looks RAD), and sheepish for my instant and all-consuming anxiety in the face of what were only possible bad circumstances. It seems like more and more, I am becoming a person who expects the worst. I'm not sure when this started happening - or why, since thus far I have led a relatively easy life. Pretty good health, steady employment, functional family that loves each other, cute husband who scoops the guinea pigs' poop regularly and without complaint. Things in my life, at least the things that matter anyway, usually go my way. What cause do I have to freak-out with such gusto, and so preemptively?[the author pauses for a moment, considering.]Well, none, really. But let's just chalk it up to The Man as usual and call it a day. I'm off to complete tonight's task: the removal of 30,000 storage company websites from my Favorites list.
On the subway this afternoon, some friends and I were engaged in a conversation that included a brief reference to The Grapes of Wrath. The reference was quick and tangential, but was clearly loud enough to be overheard by the Crazy Lady seated across from us. Said Crazy Lady was on the oldish side, dressed in a flowy skirt and shaking her head at us with a look of great disdain. At the next stop, she stood up and, with great gusto, made the following proclamation: "The grapes are WHORES!" Following this announcement, she walked over to a new seat a few feet away, sat, and flashed us the "devil horns" sign with the fingers of one hand. Then she glared at us until we looked away.Awesome.
Here is what I want. I don't think it is too much to ask.1. I want people to not bomb subways in London. Or in Boston. Or anywhere. I also want a president who is capable of responding appropriately and intelligently to international or domestic terrorist attacks. I would even settle for a president who is not made entirely of corporate waste.2. I want a guarantee of eternal reproductive freedom for women. I want Sandra Day O'Connor to reconsider. Unemployment's a bitch, Sandy. What are you going to do now- temp?3. I want the dude in the wifebeater who claims to be my new landlord to lay off the hammering and the drilling. Like, now. It is loud and obnoxious and inconsiderate and it is not going to help because, let me let you in on a secret here, the house you bought is a piece of crap. And you paid, like, $700,000 for it, which means that you must have some money stored away somewhere, so why the wifebeater?4. If I were someone who talked about her job on her website (which I am not because I read me some Dooce and I like being employed and long live the union), I would say that I want people at work to say please and thank you every once in awhile. But this does not relate to me, of course, because I am not someone who talks about her job on her website.5. I want a summer season of "The Amazing Race." Also, I want President Palmer to come back next season on "24" as less of a weenie, I want Adrianna to come back to life on "The Sopranos," and I want season 2 of "The L-word" to come out on DVD. It's summer, people! I've got time on my hands and nothing to watch.6. I want a dog.7. I want to learn how to fry tofu like they do in Chinese or Thai restaurants, all firm and crispy on the outside but tender on the inside. If I could make tofu turn out like that, I would put tofu in everything. Even dessert.8. Oh. My. God. Did I stutter? I SAID - I want the new landlord to LAY OFF THE HAMMERING AND THE DRILLING. This is not "Trading Spaces," you are not alone in this house, and my head is pounding. You suck.9. I want Patrick Swayze to come teach me how to ballroom dance.10. I want to go get myself out of this mood.
Yesterday, my friend R. got married to the great love of her life. It was a beautiful ceremony, held over a 3-day weekend that we in this great country of ours recognize as Independence Day weekend. The 4th of July, if you will. While the bride resisted the urge to adorn herself in red, white, and blue satin as a show of patriotic delight, she did participate in a pre-wedding brunch during which she and a number of wedding participants, myself included, brainstormed a number of possibilities for making her wedding more Homeland Security-friendly. For instance:- Have the bride walk down the aisle to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless The U.S.A." as performed by this year's crop of American Idol finalists. Or by Lee Greenwood himself. Is that dude still alive?- Instead of the traditional "walk down the aisle flinging rose petals" routine, have the flower girl dropped down on the ceremony by parachute from a circling fighter plane.- Two words: unity sparklers.- Instead of love poems, ceremony readers could lovingly recite the Pledge of Allegiance, or the preamble to the Constitution. Guests would be asked to rise, put their hand over their heart, join in as they feel so moved.- The reception could feature an Uncle Sam inpersonator, who would allow kids to take a photo with him in exchange for signing a short stack of paperwork. Seriously, kids - it's fine, just sign it.As it turned out, none of these suggestions were actually followed through. I did notice, however, that one of the older guests at the wedding was, in fact, decked out in a stripes-and-stars necktie. So, you know, happy birthday America. About 150 guests under a white tent shared a tasty wedding cake in honor of two Americans in love, the birthday of another young American marriage.And then the bride and groom took off for their honeymoon. To Canada.Congratulations, R & R!
