She Never Shuts Up

Welcome to the Monkey House

2009-12-18T17:52:00.002-05:00

Like the proverbial train wreck, it was simultaneously horrifying and fascinating. I could not stop listening. No, not the latest Miley Cyrus album. Worse.

Twice now I've found myself tossing my work aside to stop and take notes in a public place, trying to describe an auditory experience so bizarre I knew I had to write about it, even though it is as uneventful and commonplace as a bird flying or dog barking. It's gotten under my skin. I doubt my meager powers of description are up to the task.

Only an outsider, detached, uninvolved, could accurately describe it. If you've ever lived in an apartment with paper-thin walls and accidentally overheard your neighbors having sex, you know what I mean. At first you're like, "What the hell is--OH. Oh. And--ew. I really didn't need to hear that." Funny how when you're not involved in the act yourself it sounds so--ick.

You know what I mean? If I had not known what I was hearing, I wouldn't have known what I was hearing. If I had not had the context of my surroundings and my eyes to reassure me, I would not have known where I was, or what, exactly, I was hearing. I might even have called the police.

I was on my lunch break, trying to get some freelance work done outside the office. It is hard to transcribe sounds but here it goes.

BEDLAM. Bedlam like the famous lunatic asylum. The sounds were not human. The high-pitched howl of a werewolf, ululating, ooooohing and woooo--wwoooo---wooooing, wailing in a singsong howl that could have come from a dog. Then a guttural shriek--it sounds like an oxymoron, to but that's what it was, simultaneously deep-voiced and screechy, like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. Another long low moaning, like an adult in the throes of passion. There was screaming, howling, and deep, gurgling, gulping sobs, all at once, simultaneously, like dogs howling at the moon in unison.

One sound is a multisyllabic, operatic, drawn out yowl, hitting high and low notes, almost a yodel, only not bright and cheery like a Ricola commercial, more like an extended cry of physical agony or spiritual crisis. It goes on and on and on. It's the kind of cry you might hear from a woman in childbirth, or a man dragged off a bloody battlefield, having his arm amputated without anesthesia, or a parent who has just lost a child.

One sound recalled old-fashioned dubbed-from-Japanese Godzilla movies, a kind of deep, throat-tearing roar that makes my throat sore just to think of it: "Raaaah! Raaaah! Raaaaaaagughhggh!" Try clearing your throat of phlegm at the same time you shout for help at the same time you are being beaten with a leather strap--if you can imagine that sound, it might be close to what I heard.

Underneath it all was a quiet, serious moaning. I envisioned the worst: a rape victim, or the survivor of a landslide or hurricane that has claimed her whole family. She sits alone, frightened, in pain, huddled in a ball, rocking herself back and forth, covering her head, moaning, whimpering, a sound of pure, pleading, desperate sorrow.

But not crying. In this atmosphere, crying is prosaic. Too ordinary. Too identifiable.

I'm not exaggerating. I'm being completely serious. I didn't even have PMS--there was no hormonally induced heightened sensitivity to smells, sounds, and random glances that would make me want to push someone off a curb into the path of an oncoming bus just for wearing too much cologne or having their Ipod volume turned up too high.

Occasionally, a sweet, giggly Muppet laugh broke through the lunatic choir. It is so charming it brings unexpected delight. And then the continuous low moaning overwhelms it, morphs into the uninhibited throaty groan of an old man on the toilet, "uhhhnnn," or perhaps a hysterical cackling, followed by psychotic, savage, guttural yawps of starving apes fighting over the last scrap of fruit.

One sound is close to the sound a dog makes if you try to touch it while it is chewing on an old bone, a savage, snapping snarl that lets you know it can and will bite if you don't back off.

Another reminds me of that sound a cat makes when it is hacking up a hairball and you feel the vomit rising in the back of your own throat in some kind of sympathetic reaction, and you try to swallow it, hold down the bile and turn away. Urp. Ulp. Ugh.

The cacophony is bone-chilling, fascinating, yet frightening. Because it doesn't sound human, but it is. It's the same hair-raising feeling as when when you walk alone in the dark and suddenly feel you're being watched, or hear a noise you wish was just a squirrel but know was a human footstep. Or a bear. Something large, in any case, and threatening. Something is not right here. The instinct to flee kicks in. But you know your best bet is to stay silent, and hope whatever is out there in the darkness, making that sinister sound, does not find you.

It's like passing a homeless person on the street who is clearly suffering a severe mental illness, moaning and squealing and uttering sounds no sane person would make unless in extreme pain, and for a moment, feeling survivor's guilt just for being mentally competent, you wonder if maybe they really are being literally tormented by demons, except demons don't exist.

You feel uneasy because they are human and yet making sounds that are clearly not: not logical, not communicative, not even musical, not even on the base level of an infant crying for food or attention. It's a noise made by a human, but it's not a human noise, in the sense that any other human could interpret or understand its purpose. I think of the young Helen Keller, blind and deaf and struggling to communicate, flailing, making sounds she can't even hear.

Twice now I have witnessed this and each time I found myself abandoning my work to take notes, trying to capture the experience of sitting off calmly and silently to one side while surrounded by this crazed, demented, animal, monstrous bedlam.

I'm speaking, of course, about the children's room at the library.

Lest you think I'm being overly dramatic, I want to say that I have three nieces, and I walk past playgrounds all the time. I live near a park, in a neighborhood with plenty of kids of all ages. I know about the ear-splitting, high-pitched shrieks, the squeals of joy, the random eruptions of enraged bellows. I am accustomed to the shouting, yelling, screaming, stomping, sobbing and laughing of little children, screeching as they run around maniacally. And the whining...oh yes, the whining.

Nothing prepared me for this. All of the tables in the downstairs adult reading room were filled with men reading magazines and women typing on laptops. So I went upstairs to the children's library, which has plenty of empty seats and tables. The stereotypical shushing librarians are nowhere to be seen--this is more of a public play room, with toys and building blocks and a Purell dispenser thoughtfully mounted by the door. The books and computers are one side of the the room, the play area for toddlers on the other.

It was quiet for a few minutes, and then they arrived. Like wild dogs, they travel in packs. I guess there is a preschool nearby that lets out around 2 or 3pm. The pack splits in two: moms on one side, hired caregivers on the other. The children are in the middle, sending up a sound the likes of which I have never heard before.

It feels wrong to keep comparing preschoolers to animals, but I can't help it: that is how they sounded: inhuman, freakish, eerie. I thought, if I had kids, I'd be one of those women, sitting there talking, acting like this is nothing unusual, instead of sitting there with ice water trickling down my spine as I tried to place these animalist yawps into some kind of context.

If you heard these sounds, and did not know you were sitting in a children's library, I swear, you would not know they were children.

If you had not seen the children, playing with toys, surrounded by watchful adults, you would have dialed 911. If I closed my eyes, I might have thought someone was being murdered. The little dark-haired girl making the Godzilla-like roaring and grunting--I would have thought a rutting bull moose had made its way upstairs and was knocking over bookshelves.

There is really no point to this blog post. I just had to share. Because these two- and three-year-olds FREAK ME OUT. It's like Lord of the Flies on a daily basis over there, except at least the kids in the book were older and could speak in a recognizable language. Listening to these kids--and from where I sit, I can't really see them, the room is divided by a large partitioned cubicle-type work area where the librarians sit--makes you wonder what the hell it is to be human, and how we get there, and if life begins at conception, well, when does humanity begin? When does civilization begin? We know when life begins, but when do we become people?

A visit to the children's library might very well be the cure for creationist thinking. You could not possibly doubt we evolved from monkeys after hearing these kids. Even the monkey house at the zoo makes more sense. Pass the Ritalin.

P.S. Your Cat is Strange

2009-12-06T22:10:00.005-05:00

Returning to the scene of my most recent crime against personal dignity, I was confronted by Nelly the cat, who refused to allow me to retrieve various personal effects (inexplicably scattered around her house--how did my hairbrush end up under someone's bed?!) until she had been petted and given water.

Clearly, Nelly is also too hungover to bother with things like cups or bowls.

If anyone needs me in the next 24 hours, my head will be in the sink, with the cold water running. I don't know where the rest of me is ending up, but my head will be in the sink. My parents told me not to take candy from strangers but no one ever said I couldn't take hangover tips from cats.

Out, You Demons of Stupidity

2009-11-28T02:17:00.007-05:00

It only took about 10 years, but I finally did it. Following a bout of unrelenting bad luck culminating with being abandoned penniless and desperate 2,000 miles from home without a place to sleep by an unreliable addict relative on a bender, forced to rely on the kindness of friends and strangers (and by the way, when did I become the kind of woman who gets her way by dissolving into tears in public? But I've tried it three times in the last two months, and let me tell you, IT WORKS!), only to be followed up with returning home to find my car broken into and the CD player stolen, I finally managed to convince even my most coldly logical, practical, and un-superstitious friends that, actually, there is such a thing as "luck," that it comes in varieties good and bad, and that I really do have bad, bad luck.

Now I know how missionaries feel when they convert a pagan to Christianity. Finally, even the doubters are forced to admit I attract negative energy like Jessica Simpson attracts lousy boyfriends and dog-stealing coyotes. If John Mayer shows up on my doorstep strumming a guitar, me and my little aura of doom will be sent off to Afghanistan to topple Al Qaeda.

But it's OK, I can be flippant about my drug-addicted relative who left me stranded (for FOUR DAYS!), violated automobile, and negative bank account. Because soon, my troubles will be over.

So what if, in the last two months alone, my cell phone died, my car failed inspection, my toilet seat broke, and an attempt to have some furniture delivered resulted in a) public tears, b) family rift, c) my very first ever attempted bribery, and d) $220 down the drain? So what if my kitchen sink AND bathroom sink both sprung leaks and flooded the floor, and I stepped on and broke my only pair of glasses (and I don't have a vision plan)? So what if I lost my subway map, my nice leather gloves, and my pretty new scarf that I'd only worn four times? So what if the zipper broke on my cheap handbag, right in the middle of an important meeting where I was attempting to look professional, only to have scraps of paper, three different types of lip balm and gloss, Santa Claus-themed hand cream (Stocking Stuffer '08; thanks, Mom!) and, of course, a tampon suddenly on display. That is all behind me now.

So what if I go to the doctor for a hepatitis booster and am told, unsolicited, that I probably can't have kids any more as my eggs are now too old and rotten ("I don't really want kids, so it's not an issue for me, thanks" -- "Oh, but lots of women your age have had healthy children, I'm not saying you can't, just that it will be harder now" -- "But I don't want kids" -- "Well, it's not too late, but it will certainly be harder for you" -- "I'm OK with not having kids! Can I have my booster shot now please?")

[Yes, the doctor lectured me on an issue that is not an issue for me, then actually left without giving me the my vaccination, and I had to ask the receptionist to go find her and bring her back to give me the shot, because in her zeal to tell me I'm too fucking old to have kids I don't even want, she left without actually giving me what I came there for. But I forgive her, because this was in Manhattan, land of the Menopausal Mom, where a childless woman in her 30s who sees her doctor has only one thing on her mind. Seriously, try finding an ob/gyn in Manhattan who ISN'T a fertility specialist.]

So what if my boss is actively trying to sabotage me? So what if my family arrived three hours late for Thanksgiving, bitching about traffic and in foul moods, while I spent pretty much the entire day alone in the kitchen, stirring shit? So what if the turkey was undercooked? History.

All of this is behind me now.

My sister is somewhat, shall we say, more susceptible to belief in the supernatural than I am. She believes in ghosts, spirits, demons, Heaven, Hell, and tarot cards. She's also more of an optimist: she believes that when your car breaks down and requires $600 of work at the same exact time you are given a $560 bonus at work, that this is the work of God, stepping in to help you by providing you with the money you need. I believe it's the work of Satan, who knew I had already charged a $600 plane ticket and needed that bonus money to pay it off.

Needless to say, she too is convinced of my "bad mojo." My endless stream of misfortunes has even become an affectionate family joke, as in, "We'd better not invite Catherine over for Christmas or the roof might cave in and we'll all get struck by lightning, ha ha. No really, you don't have to drive home this year. We'll mail your gifts!"

Enter my new best friend: the White Sage Smudge Stick.

This thick bundle of aromatic dried leaves resembles the world's fattest joint, and, according to the package, its "incredibly strong, aromatic resins" and "pungent scent" are often used in purification rituals. My sister promises that it will cleanse my home of negative energy.

Smudge Stick was a gift that my sister brought to me for Thanksgiving, but not before she made sure the holiday began in the proper spirit by calling my mother at 9am and saying, "Catherine called. She said Thanksgiving is cancelled. The roaches ate the turkey." (Which was not true-- the roaches were occupied with a half-eaten hamburger left on the floor specifically to distract them from the turkey.)

(Just kidding. I do not leave food on the floor, only mouse poison and unopened bottles of Diet Coke.)

Unfortunately, by the time she arrived with my salvation, the Smudge Stick, I'd already attempted to cook the turkey...which ended up an unfortunate victim of well-intentioned maternal sabotage and my own turkey-roasting insecurities.

"It says on the package to loosely stuff the turkey," I said, reading directly from the Butterball label.

"I always pack my stuffing in tightly," said my mother, who was roasted probably 45 more turkeys than I ever have or will. So I stuffed it in tightly, insuring, I realized later, that it would have no room to expand once it heated and filled with hot air, and came bursting out of the turkey's ass like the world's largest baseball-shaped hemorrhoid.

"It says to cook it at 325 degrees," I said, again reading from the label.

"I always put mine in at 350," said my mother.

"Maybe your oven ran colder than mine. My oven thermometer says it's at 325 exactly."

"Well, I don't know...you can risk it if you want...I always do 350...but you can do what you want, it's YOUR turkey." (Read "funeral" for "turkey".)

I hung up the phone and turned the oven up to 350.

Four hours and thirty minutes later, I checked on the turkey. According to the meat thermometer, it was ready--180 in the thigh, 165 in the stuffing, which meant it should be done, and 4.5 hours was the recommended roasting time on the Butterball label. Of course, a meddling guest was putting the meat thermometer in the freezer, then taking it out again, and repeatedly jabbing the turkey, so I have no idea if this reading was accurate.

Last year I roasted a turkey with great success, and it cooked in a mere 3.5 hours, despite weighing 4 pounds MORE than this turkey, which after 4.5 hours at 350 did not seem to be done. For some reason this year (DARK CLOUD OF EVIL HANGING OVER HEAD), luck was not on my side.

"I'd leave it in longer," says my mother. "I don't think it's done."

Given her considerable roasting experience, I'm about to take her advice and put the turkey back into the oven, when she delivers her final act of maternal sabotage: "But then, I like dry turkey."

Ah, yes, dry turkey! Everyone knows you don't want of those MOIST, JUICY turkeys! Tender turkey meat--ugh! I feel sick even thinking about slices of turkey so juicy they need no gravy or cranberry sauce. Dry turkey--that's what you're aiming for! The longer it sits in the oven dehydrating, the better! Tender turkey is for wimps--people like us need turkey as dry, tough, and hardened as our leathery and withered little souls. So I take it out of the oven.

Of course, I did not yet have a chance to fumigate with the smoke of the White Mountain Sage, so it did not have a chance to work its power. The turkey turned into a nightmare, white and mostly cooked on the outside, and oozing globs of red slime and bloody juices on the inside.

"That turkey looks like it was shot, not butchered," said one guest. "Normally you'd never see blood pool up in the bottom like that! They usually hang them and drain the blood before packing them. I've never seen that before!"

This year my traditional Thanksgiving beer, drunk once I'm done cooking and can celebrate leaving the sweltering kitchen and joining the family to eat, was supplemented with two or three more.

Everything else turned out fine. It was as if the stuffing, cranberry sauce, various potatoes and pies were extra tasty, to make up for the turkey refusing to cook. The turkey was de-stuffed, shoved back into the oven at 400 degrees, and left for another hour, after which it was cooked, although at that point no one was hungry.

My brother called from Alaska to congratulate me. Despite the fact that only two hours had passed, thanks to the miracle of cell phones and text messaging, and despite being in another time zone, he'd already been informed of my attempted salmonella assassination. "I heard you tried to take them all out in one fell swoop," he says. "Nice job."

Everyone went home, and I tried to relax. At least no one had a heart attack or food poisoning. That was something to be thankful for--we all had our health (that is, all of us except the unfortunate black sheep suffering from drug addiction and family censure, which becomes more depressing every time I think of it).

Then my mother called, after having gotten lost on the way home. She has a Garmin GPS but didn't bring it, "because we knew where we were going," except the whole point of the GPS is that she's now old and therefore should NEVER BE WITHOUT A GPS, proving you can lead a horse to water but if you give the horse a GPS it will still get lost on its way to the water trough because how can you force the horse to use the GPS unless you implant it in the horse's head and then activate it with a remote control device?

After that, I instituted a new tradition: the ritual post-Thanksgiving purification of negative energy.

I followed the instructions, lit the end of the White Sage Smudge Stick, then blew it out. Let the purification begin!

The stick begins to emit streams of smoke. And more smoke. Boy does it smoke. Thick, creamy pale smoke fills the apartment. I open the windows. Out, negative spirits! Soon I'm choking and coughing and my eyes are watering, but it's nothing a little Sam Adams can't cure. I wave the stick around the apartment. I feel like I should be chanting. I'd feel ridiculous, but again it's nothing the Sam Adams can't cure. I've done worse things under the influence than attempt to ritually cleanse my dwelling of evil spirits that spoil my turkey and steal my car radio.

How do I know, exactly, where the negative energy is coming from? The bedroom? The bathroom? The kitchen? I make sure to fill the entire apartment with smoke before dousing the tip of the stick in water, then collapsing into bed with my laptop and my beer. I thought it would smell like incense, but it smells more herbal...piney, and sort of like really strong potpourri. At the very least I hope it smokes out the roaches.

I might have to purify the car, too (which just started making this funny rattling noise whenever I press down on the accelerator, which does not bode well for my holiday travel plans). I'd bring it to my office, except I'm afraid the power of the White Sage Smudge might cause the building to collapse--intense negative energy is all that's holding that place together. The only way that place could be cleansed is with a virus ten times stronger than H1N1. I'm trying to decide: if I get laid off, is that a sign that the ritual expulsion of evil is working, or not?

So far, the weekend hasn't been too bad. I'm going to smoke out the negative mojo every day for a few days and see how it goes.

I have noticed one positive side effect of the sage-scented smoke: the scent of rancid turkey grease that usually hangs in the air and saturates my hair for at least 3 days following roasting seems to be gone. Hair that doesn't smell like rancid turkey grease--surely this is a sign.

Mucus, Potatoes, and Missing Rubber

2009-10-09T22:58:00.007-04:00

I find it hard to believe I ever thought flying was fun. The more I travel, the more reasons I find to become a homebody...although not in the domestic sense, more in the lunatic, hermit shut-in sense.

First there was my hellish flight to Alaska, a 13-hour flight that turned into a three-day ordeal. Then this week I flew to California on a business trip. We boarded the plane without incident, but fifteen minutes after we should have taken off, the captain made an announcement.

The captain is young and has a certain doofus charm, in that he tells a story like a six-year-old, leaving in every detail. There is a problem with the plane. But don't worry! Not a big problem! It's just a little--the mechanic noticed--I mean it's not a big problem--OK, see, what it is, is, a tiny piece of padding that cushions the wing is broken off--or missing--it's just a four-inch piece of rubber, actually, that's all. And it's missing. And technically we don't need it to fly. But, to fly without it, you need to file maintenance exception paperwork, which is time-consuming, so the mechanics will just order up a replacement part and have that fixed in a jiffy.

20 minutes later: The captain makes another announcement. The replacement part has arrived. But, well, it doesn't fit. The mechanics are just going to file it down, to make it fit, or cut it, or something, and then we'll be on our way, with our four-inch piece of rubber.

20 minutes later: OK, the four-inch piece of rubber doesn't fit, because, apparently what happened is, the old part broke off and half of it is now jammed into the hole and they can't fit the new piece in because the old piece is still in there, so they're just going to try to drill that old piece out, except that might take a while, so, um, they are going to look for that missing paperwork again, because really we don't even need this four-inch piece of rubber. And, in case they can't find the paperwork, the captain is going to request a replacement plane.

An eternity later: Well, folks, the mechanics can't find the right form number. But they're looking for it! And as soon as they find the right form to fill out and submit, we'll be approved to take off. Without our four-inch piece of rubber. But don't worry! It's not a safety issue! He has two little children at home with his wife and he is going to see them tonight! He absolutely would not fly this plane if he thought it wasn't safe!

Meanwhile I'm thinking, Screw safety...PAPERWORK? Seriously? I hope this was just an outdated figure of speech. They haven't yet heard of that marvellous invention, the computer? They can't submit this form electronically? I'm imagining the mechanics in a dusty back room, rummaging through filing cabinets full of triplicate forms with white, blue, and yellow tissue paper separated by layers of carbon paper. Come on, even the IRS accepts on-line filing!

Later: They've found the right paperwork!

Much later: BUT, well, folks, it's a lot harder to cancel a replacement plane than it is to file the paperwork, in fact it's almost impossible to cancel a requisitioned plane--I guess replacement planes are sensitive and don't take rejection well. So, after 2.5-3 hours on the runway, we will be deplaning and then re-boarding our new plane, which has all of its rubber in place. Even though, we now have both the paperwork and the new rubber part.

I finished reading the book I thought would last me through the entire flight before we even leave the airport. Fortunately, having flown Kafka's Airline to Hell and Back before, I am prepared, and have two more paperbacks in my carry-on. Every one of them deals with violent death.

5pm: I arrive at my destination, only 5 hours late.

I shouldn't complain about the delayed flight considering what awaited me at my destination: a convention for ear-nose-and-throat physicians. At one exhibitor's booth I watched them test implements to flush heavy mucus from nasal cavities--using peanut butter to simulate the mucus. I will never look at a jar of Jif the same way again.

I almost picked up a Larry the Larynx plush toy for $10, but I'm not sure my six-year-old niece would go for it. I mean, it didn't even have arms or legs. It was basically a stuffed tube with a smile.

There were some cute sticky notes shaped like tracheas and inner ears and body parts I couldn't even identify. I was tempted to get a few. If you receive a notepad shaped like a cochlea in your Christmas stocking this year, you'll know I'm your Secret Santa!

I kept passing this booth that seemed to have a number of brown, vaguely potato-shaped objects laid out on the counter. I was racking my brain, trying to guess what part of the ear-nose-throat anatomy could be considered potato-shaped. Adenoids? Sinuses? Blobs of ear wax? What is a brown and oval and has to do with otolaryngology?

Finally I asked the guys working at the booth, "What is that?"

The answer:

A POTATO.

This company's product is designed to stop bleeding, and is made of potato extract. Hence, the potato promotional toy. I haven't measured it, but it looks to me like a four-inch piece of rubber.

It was free, and I loved potatoes even before I knew they had valuable medical uses. I could already tell the rubber potato would be a big hit back in the office. Not as awesome as the Fleet EneMan plush superhero enema bottle, but much more ergonomic for throwing across the room in a fit of rage, and bouncing off a cubicle wall, and leaving on someone's chair or desk as a mysterious, wordless message, like instead of "Soon you'll sleep with the fishes," something like "Beware, the potato is watching" or "Soon you will be deep-fried."

The best part though came later that night. I stopped at Nordstrom's on my way back to my hotel, tried on some clothes and perfume, and ate a salad for dinner in the Nordstorm's cafe, then stopped by the ladies' room. Where the potato rolled out of my coat pocket and into the stall next to mine without my noticing.

I was washing my hands when a woman came out of the stall behind me, holding the rubber potato between two fingers. "Is this yours?"

Yes. Yes, that is my rubber blood-coagulating potato. Thank you very much.

I Really Disliked Glee; Also, Did I Go to School on Mars?

2009-09-20T20:59:00.003-04:00

I've been making an effort to narrow my horizons and watch more television lately, which led me to download the pilot episode of Glee, the high school glee club comedy that had received such good reviews. I can't say I really liked it--I've never seen a show with so many unpleasant, stupid, shallow female stereotypes, and yes, I have watched America's Next Top Model! Seriously, EVERY SINGLE WOMAN on this show is a shrill, manipulative, neurotic, bossy, backstabbing caricature, even the supposedly down-to-earth little brunette glee girl who, um, tries to steal another girl's boyfriend, which in my opinion makes her just as unsympathetic as the stuck-up cheerleader.

The married women bully their spineless schlub husbands--one asks permission to use the bathroom, and is denied. It's not even biting satire, just unfunny. Meanwhile, the only attractive adult male on the cast is married, yet not in the least bit convincingly heterosexual. Paging Hugh Jackman! Rumor has it you may be gay but at least you can sing AND dance AND play straight. This song-and-dance show needs some testosterone before the women explode in a giant pent-up estrogen bomb. Yes, I'm a sexist pig. What these women need is a man!

I also had trouble sympathizing with the poor little lonelyhearts guidance counselor after she counsels a student with bulimia by cracking a joke about the gag reflex, then flirts with the married man. WTF, can none of the women on this show find a man of their own? I mean, sure, in my own high school half the teachers really were screwing each other, but I thought this was supposed to be a comedy, not Melrose High 90210 XOXO Gossip Glee.

I made it ten minutes through the second episode before giving up. The second episode starts with Spineless Schlubby Husband #3 telling his son how he lacked confidence in life and a man needs balls if he's going to accomplish anything. Yeah, especially if he wants to write a TV show with realistic female characters that don't make me want to commit mass gynocide!

ANYWAY, it did make me start wondering about depictions of high school in movies, books, and on TV. Admittedly my references are dated (Heathers, 10 Things I Hate About You, Beverly Hills 90210, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Breakfast Club), but watching Glee made me realize that not much has changed in the high school genre over the years. I am starting to wonder: Did I attend school on Mars? Was my school part of some kind of government experiment? (I wonder this about a lot of things actually.)

I went to a medium-sized school in rural Pennsylvania, with 200 kids in my graduating class of '91. The school had a total of about 1000 students, not counting the junior high across the street.

Maybe it was because my school was so far out in the sticks, but the usual Formula as set forth by the Gospel of the Breakfast Club just didn't seem to strictly apply. I know you have seen The Breakfast Club, but to refresh your memory, five kids, each part of a different clique, are assigned to Saturday detention. They are forced to interact, work together, and learn to see each other as complex human beings, despite their labels: Jock, Nerd, Criminal, Princess, and Basketcase. The Basketcase girl today might be considered more of an artsy Goth, but the rest are close enough to current stereotypes.

I just don't think these labels applied at my school, which was almost entirely populated with ordinary, well-rounded, complicated people. Like, human beings. The labels applied; they just didn't stick. In general, kids swapped labels, wearing two or three at a time, or ignored the labels and did whatever they wanted. People grew and changed. A boy who was a Jock freshman year became a total Basketcase by senior year (druggie, Beat poets, long hair, tie-dye, always late to school and class because he stopped wearing a watch so as not to be bound by the false constraints of society.) Particularly, the crossover between the Nerds and the Princess or Popular kids was extremely high. Most of the popular kids were not ditsy, spoiled shopaholics, but honors students. What can I say--flunking algebra was just not considered cool. It was not unusual to see a group of football players studying with nerds or kids in the marching band during study hall. Who else would you turn to for help with trigonometry?

I can't believe that my little hick town high school was so unique. Is it because it was totally hick? Maybe in a larger school, in a big city, people need to form tighter cliques in order to have an identity apart from the crowd. My school was more like a small family-owned company where every employee has to play several roles, because there isn't enough staff to go around.

For example, one varsity football player in my class was part of the Jock/Princess crowd, but was also a skateboarder who wrote poetry and published his own zine and solicited literary contributions from the Nerd/Basketcase crowd. We had study hall together, so although we were not friends outside of school, we'd sit in the library and talk about books. He obviously was not pressured to pick on me or ignore me because I was not part of the popular crowd. If this were a high school on TV, he'd be throwing a Slushie in my face and making lewd comments and tripping me in the hall. Instead he shared copies of his poems. Alas, he did date a cheerleader, but he also took honors English and math--hardly a stereotypical dumb jock.

I saw TV shows where jocks beat up on druggies or nerds, but never thought it happened in real life. As I once put it to a friend, "The jocks can't beat up on the druggies--then who would they buy their drugs from?" Our football players were routinely stoned, which might be why we only won one game in two years. Come to think of it, this might also explain the unusual mellowness of my school's cliques. (Hmm...could a solution for bullying really be this obvious?)

Contrary to the usual image of the cheerleaders as popular, beautiful superbitches, our cheerleaders were not voted on by the student body but chosen by the coaches, who to their credit based their choices on merit. We had a fat cheerleader with a pimply complexion who also played flute in the marching band. So much for the Popular Cheerleaders vs. Hopeless Band Camp Nerd cliché.

We had a knobby-kneed, bony, kinky-haired cheerleader who wore glasses and was otherwise distinguished for being the only student to receive a Perfect Attendance award for all four years of high school. Being a cheerleader did not win her automatic entry into the popular crowd, but she wasn't a total outcast, either. She probably couldn't have dated the handsome, popular jock--the rules of mating would require more Clockwork Orange-style tampering with human nature to make that happen--but no one stopped her from shaking her pom-poms.

We had cheerleaders who were pretty and popular too, of course. But it wasn't like an exclusive club, more like just any other school activity, like yearbook or track. True, the football cheerleaders did seem to outrank mere basketball cheerleaders (there were two squads as I recall, not sure why) but so what--any girl who wanted to could cheer. They weren't into advanced gymnastics or choreography, so no backflips or splits were required, just enthusiasm. Probably if a girl in a wheelchair had wanted to cheer, she could have made the team.

On TV, the cheerleaders are rich, bitchy ice queens who rule the school with sarcasm and sex appeal, phony shopaholics who are 16 going on 26. Maybe I'm being cruel, but I don't recall there being enough genuinely beautiful girls in my class for anyone to pull off that attitude. Even our homecoming queen was a popular girl known for being both smart and nice to everyone. She was pretty enough in a plain way, skinny, with freckles, light brown hair and eyes. But she was far from stylish or flashy. She lived on a farm and often wore jeans and plaid button-down shirts and boots to school. She was part of the 4H Club and was the kind of girl who entered calves in competitions at the county fair. Hardly your typical Bridezilla-like prom queen, or Gossip Girl material.

My younger brother was a varsity football player who grew up to be a schoolteacher. I know I've heard this line more than once: the lunkhead footballer bullies the nerd, who spits back, "Laugh now, someday you're going to be working for me!" I think that must be the writer's wishful thinking rather than reality, where being athletic does not exclude the possibility of being smart enough to have a white-collar profession. President Obama is often shown playing basketball with his friends. Is he just a stupid jock?

Maybe my school felt more relaxed because although some kids definitely had more money than others, we were all at roughly the same socioeconomic level, and we were so isolated that it wasn't like anyone could buy clothes from anywhere other than the same two malls within an hour drive. Unless you drove two hours to New York or Philadelphia you were stuck with the local mall.

Also, the status symbols in the 80s and early 90s were not nearly as intense as today--we didn't have cell phones or I-Pods or $250 Coach and Louis Vuitton handbags, or Tiffany's sterling silver bracelets. But you did have to have, say (straining memory), Bongo or Guess jeans and Reebok or Nike sneakers. We obsessed about brand names, but the brand names weren't SO far out of reach--even a poorer kid could usually work a part-time job after school and afford at least one pair of $60 jeans (which was at the time considered expensive--no-name jeans would be $25-40).

Stuff like I-Phones and $150 Lucky jeans hadn't yet hit the scene. My sister tells me that now my 15-year-old niece is not content with drugstore cosmetics like Revlon and L'Oreal; she is angry that she can't shop at Sephora and buy $40 MAC powder like her friends. Maybe it's just that today's princesses have it a lot harder than we did in the 80s.

I'm wondering if my high-school experience was truly that unique, or if it's just easier, for the sake of drama and simple, one-dimensional characters, for writers to keep falling back on The Formula. Even in The Breakfast Club they eventually realized that there was more to themselves than the labels slapped on them by adults. So why do kids put up with these tired cliches? Isn't it kind of boring? I just don't even find it entertaining anymore.

I'd much rather watch a TV show that reflected my stranger-than-fiction reality, where chubby girls became cheerleaders, a super-hot girl won a scholarship to an elite private school purely based on academic merit, the popular 16-year-old blonde got knocked up by her 25-year-old boyfriend, the rich kid worked at Kmart because his father wanted him to grow up "with values," and the jock coached younger kids in an after-school sports program.

I think this sounds like a job for the cable and premium TV networks! HBO, Showtime, A&E, where are you when I need you? You've made a show about a mobster who sees a therapist, a suburban stay-at-home mom who sells marijuana, a high-school chemistry teacher who manufactures crystal meth to pay for his cancer treatments, a serial killer who is one of the good guys. Surely you can come up with a show set in high school that isn't totally stupid?

Invisible Books, Disappearing Readers

2009-08-30T12:18:00.002-04:00

Stephen King recently wrote a book commissioned by Amazon, specifically by and about the Kindle. It’s a novella called UR. I don’t have a problem with authors writing works on commission as long as they’re clearly stated to be such--I figure it’s no different from being paid to write TV commercials or ad copy. It is only $2.99.

What bothers me is that it is only available on Kindle, and that I only found out about it when a friend who just bought a Kindle told me about it. (Update: it is now also released as an audio book.)

I know it’s not illegal, but it strikes me as a little sleazy. By commissioning their own works, Amazon creates an elite class of books available ONLY to those able to afford a $300 device. What a kick in the teeth to King’s long-time fans who cannot afford the Kindle.

And how cruel, really. Books always seemed truly democratic, available to anyone with a public library card. (Or without, if you have the patience to read while sitting in the library.) You could be 12 years old. You could be poor. Maybe you’d have to wait for the paperback, or wait for the library to stock it, or wait for a friend to loan it to you, or find it used or on the Barnes & Noble clearance rack for $4.99. But generally, I never noticed my choices of reading material were limited by cost.

Thank to interlibrary loan programs, I'm not even limited by location--a godsend when I was growing up in a rural town with a tiny two-room library. Audiobooks, Braille and large print books made reading material even more widely available. Books were not one-of-a-kind Picassos hanging in a rich man's private library. Books were mass-produced, and anyone with a half-decent education could walk into a library and read.

Enter the e-readers.

I've only read a few reviews of various e-readers and they all seem to focus on the same things: the complaints of the privileged. The color of the screen, not having physical pages to quaintly rustle and turn, rhapsodizing nostalgically about the smell of ink on paper, the lack of illustrations, not liking the choice of font. It's just like election season, when everyone talks about whether or not a candidate ever smoked pot or how much they paid for their clothes rather than the real issues. Who cares about the cosmetic quirks? They'll get worked out. I'm more concerned about readers, the people, than readers, the product.

Nicholson Baker wrote an essay in the New Yorker that made me want to do something I would not do with the expensive and breakable Kindle: throw the magazine across my living room and hear it hit the floor, which is a very satisfying expression of frustration. I zoned out when he compared jokes, reading a passage from a print book: funny! He reread it on the Kindle: not so funny! Um...what? Was he joking? Maybe I didn't get his snark because I was reading it on paper. I guess I should read the New Yorker's online edition to see if that was e-funnier.

Will the King book eventually be published on paper? Even if it comes out in a year or two, that seems more fair—let those who can invest in a Kindle read it first, as long as eventually it makes it way to the rest of us unwashed, low-income, late adopters.

By making it Kindle-only they create two classes of readers, the haves and have-nots. Those who can afford to read certain authors, and those who can’t. It seems almost hateful. Maybe spiteful is a better word. This turns the world of reading into a gated community, a country club with a pool where only members can swim.

A company like Amazon could afford to create a stable of authors under contract to write only Kindle books. I'm sure many authors would jump at the chance to trade wider readership for guaranteed income. Are there going to be entire groups of authors that those without electronic access just never discover? How do authors feel about this? Would the average, non-bestselling, struggling author care that her book was not on library shelves where poor folks might find it? Will e-readers make certain books invisible?

I didn't even hear about the new Stephen King book--actually, it's a novella (182KB, not sure how many print pages that translates to). This also disturbs me. Normally you can't help but hear about a new Stephen King book, whether you read him or not. There are people carrying it on the train, people leaving it in the lunch room at the office. You see it in the window at Barnes & Noble. You don't need to be plugged into the world of book reviews to know about it; it's just out there via cultural osmosis, the same way I know that Project Runway, a show I have never ever watched, switched cable networks. And I don't even have cable.

E-readers make books invisible. I suppose if you want to read smut on the train without your fellow passengers knowing, this is a good thing. But I like seeing what people are reading. I like seeing books and authors I never heard of. I like looking at the person on the subway, trying to guess what they are reading. The elderly lady in the church hat and sturdy shoes? Must be a Bible. Nope--Twilight. Well, you can't judge a book by its cover, or a reader by her age and outfit. E-readers don't just make books invisible, they make people invisible, impenetrable.

I'm just feeling disgruntled: it figures that new technology now forces me to overhear inane cell phone conversations, something I hate, yet will soon prevent me from checking out what people are reading, something I adore.

Can you share e-books? I had to read a book for my reading group* recently that I did not want to purchase as a $25 hardcover. My disposable income is limited, and I just wasn't willing to part with it for this particular book. I was #69 on the library waiting list. There was no way I'd get it in time for our next meeting. (*Yeah, I'm trying to kid myself, hence "reading group" not "book club." I'll let you know how that works out.)

So, a friend loaned it to me. I trade books with friends and sister ALL THE TIME. I guess people of a certain income don't do this, because I haven't seen it mentioned when discussing e-reader drawbacks. Sharing books promotes wider readership, not to mention friendship and actual face-to-face conversations. Anyway, I liked the book, then recommended it to a friend. Considering I was not going to buy this book, no way no how, I feel like the author got a fair deal: at least he gained a happy reader who spreads good reviews. I get a free read, and he gets more fame. I now know the name of Jonah Lehrer. Maybe I'll read his next book. Maybe I'll even pay for it. (Probably not--I'm library-centric these days--but you never know.)

But you can't share e-books unless you hand your Kindle over to someone, and who would share such an expensive device that also contains your whole library? Not the same as passing along a Sookie Stackhouse paperback, and don't worry if you spill coffee on it or take it to the beach and get sand in it, it was $5.99 at Target. E-readers make books less social, if more portable (and after lugging 9 books with me to Alaska, I definitely see the advantages of e-books). It just makes books more selfish, somehow. You can't read an e-book and then pass it on to a friend or donate it to your local library or school (or prison, as the charity Books Behind Bars does), or trade it for credit at your local used bookstore.

People say they buy more books with the Kindle, since they're so cheap, and since, as I just learned from reading How We Decide by Jonah Lehrer, people are more likely to overspend and make rash purchasing decisions when paying with plastic. Yet I can't help but think that e-books cut down on readership--sales may increase, but actual readers decrease, since that book lives only in your personal e-reader library and is never shared.

Library books and trading books with friends is essential to my reading habit. I read a lot and I read fast. If I'm really engaged in a story, I can tear through two or three in a week. $9.99 per book seems cheap unless you realize that for someone like me, that's $120/month, plus tax. Young kids are even worse--I see parents stagger out of the library with bags of picture books, 10 or 20 at a time. It makes me sad to think that the lower classes of readers, like me, who read a lot but don't spend a lot, will disappear when books go exclusively digital.

Friends recommend books all the time, but I find I often will read it only if a friend literally puts it in my hands and says, "You HAVE to read this!" Because I am a crank, I often need to be forced to open my mind to other people's influences. I like what I like and I know what I like. If they just tell me about it, well, sure, I'll add it to my list and get to it someday...but if they hand it to me, and it's sitting on my nightstand, piled up, visibly, and I have to get it back to her sometime--then I'll actually read it.

Being pessimistic and prone to reading a lot about dystopian and apocalyptic futures, I'm just worried that entire classes of books will, effectively, disappear behind the gated community of expensive technology. At first it seemed that new technology was getting cheaper and cheaper, and everyone had a cell phone and MP3 player. Lately it seems like the class gap between those who have access to technology and those who don't is widening. Everyone assumes that if they have something, everyone else does, too.

As someone without cable TV--I decided internet access was more important--and currently without a cell phone, I assure you this is not true. When television switched to digital, the government was apparently shocked to find so many people still did not subscribe to cable.

(Thanks for that, by the way--instead of getting all basic channels, I'm now limited to ABC and PBS. At least I can watch "LOST" next year. And WTF is with PBS in New York; do they ever air anything besides cooking shows and Gwyneth Paltrow driving around Spain?)

On the plus side, I watch a lot less television. On the negative side, I can't watch television even when I want to. I worry that someday books will go the same way as my NBC and CBS.

Yes, I'm paranoid. But if they did it with television, why couldn't they do it with books? It could be a new ecological initiative to save the planet and decrease our carbon footprint. Mandate e-books only, and let the poors scramble to afford e-readers for the kids and affordable book-subscription programs.

I pessimistically see a future where instead of PETA throwing blood on fur coats, we'll have angry eco-ragers throwing the soil of Mother Earth in our eyes as we try to read a book printed on a murdered tree. Stephen King should write a book about that. I'd read it, if I could.

Swag

2009-07-24T22:56:00.005-04:00

At dinner with friends, I mention that I attended Book Expo at the Javitz Center and picked up a lot of free books. Someone comments that "there is no good swag in publishing."

I beg to differ:

Everyone pretends they don't recognize my little friend. I wonder why? This plush, fuzzy little darlin' is but one of the many, many perks of working in medical publishing.

You know you recognize him! Maybe the rear view will jog your memory:

It's about time the humble enema had a worthy mascot. Wearing a cape, no less!

Keep him by your pillow--you never know when disaster may strike. At any moment he may be called upon to fly off into the night on a mission of mercy.

Medical publishing: where the salaries are low, and the swag is even lower.

Spoilers

2009-06-28T00:15:00.005-04:00

AJ on Syndicate Product Covert HQ was talking about actors who receive a Lifetime Pass from viewers because of one good piece of work, or one period of time, that absolves them of any future artistic offenses. For example, Nicolas Cage is forgiven for The Wicker Man remake, because he was so quirky and funny in Wild at Heart and Raising Arizona and so on. He may never make another good movie, but it's OK: he has a Lifetime Pass.

This weekend, listening to the Michael Jackson tributes on the radio and speaking to someone who shed genuine tears over his passing, I realized that a Lifetime Pass is no laughing matter. People cherish their icons and can forgive almost any trespass. I mean, the man was accused of CHILD MOLESTATION--but when I heard "Billie Jean" and "Thriller" playing on the radio, it didn't bother me at all. I guess he has a Lifetime Pass.

Being a glass-half-empty kind of person, I normally experience the opposite of the Lifetime Pass, aka the Cruise-Gibson Effect. I'm usually good at separating artists from their work, but sometimes my distaste for a person completely destroys any possible chance of enjoyment of their work. They don't get a pass of any sort--not even a Talent Pass--no matter how good they are.

Currently, Sean Penn is close to having his Talent Pass revoked, for being a pompous, humorless, self-important ass. Russell Crowe crossed the line a while ago, then I re-watched The Sum of Us, where he played a sweet young gay guy who cares for his sick dad, and then I felt OK about him again. Maybe if I watched Milk I'd feel better about Sean Penn, too.

Now that I think of it, maybe Gwyneth Paltrow needs to play an embattled minority, because she's also on my nerves lately. I want to give her a Lifetime Pass because of Royal Tenenbaums, but I just can't. Maybe later.

I have a coworker who practically experiences a visceral reaction to the mere mention of Kirsten Dunst's name, shuddering and recoiling with disgust. Another friend would probably turn down a million-dollar-winning lottery ticket if it was handed to her by Scarlett Johannssen or Nicolas Cage--Moonstruck be damned.

Is there anyone you hate so much you could not watch them even in a movie by your favorite writer and favorite director and surrounded by your favorite actors? Whose presence is so toxic, they would spoil an otherwise excellent film for you? Is it a kind of gut-reaction distaste, or based on a specific event or action--is there anything they could do to redeem themselves?

For example, I never much cared for Jennifer Aniston. I was never a fan of Friends. I don't really like any of her movies. But, well, she did play a small part in Office Space, which earns her a pass. And then there is the sheer amount of stupid gossip she puts up with for the crimes of being 40, single, and childless, and the humiliation of losing her husband to a younger, more talented woman. I feel like she's earned the right not to be despised.

Now if only Tom Cruise would discover that Suri is not actually his biological child...or Mel Gibson would lose all his money and be forced to do reality television or pro wrestling...maybe I wouldn't cringe every time I see them.

Half the Fun

2009-06-23T18:19:00.003-04:00

If it's the journey and not the destination...if getting there is half the fun... imagine what the rest of my vacation was like.

Escape From New York

I am in a cab on my way to the airport when my cell phone rings. My cell phone never rings, mainly because I never answer it, so everyone knows not to call it, because I really only use it when I’m traveling, and therefore it’s always uncharged.

It is a recorded message from US Air, calling to tell me, as the car pulls into the Departures lot, that my flight is delayed over 316 minutes. It takes me a while to do the math. Then I debate whether or not I should even bother getting out of the cab, and the driver circles the airport while I call the US Air hotline.

So I am missing my connecting flight. I am arriving in Phoenix at 10pm instead of 6pm, and the next flight to Anchorage is not until the following day at 7:30pm.

I ask if I can reschedule to land in Fairbanks instead of Anchorage, leave from LaGuardia instead of JFK, anything, but they had nothing. They asked if I could fly out of Newark in an hour. I said yes, if you'd called me an hour ago, BEFORE I WAS ALREADY AT JFK, I could have gotten there no problem! Instead they waited until less than 2 hours before my flight to tell me it was delayed. I think if a flight is delayed by FIVE HOURS they might have known about this problem sooner. I have the driver take me home, thus paying over $100 for a round-trip taxi to nowhere.

Why doesn't this ever happen when I'm traveling on business? I fly to Atlanta, Chicago, Fort Lauderdale, London, for work, with no problem. I fly in February when they need to de-ice the plane wings prior to takeoff, no problem. I fly in June on vacation: major problems.

Or why doesn't it happen on my way back, after I've already enjoyed my vacation? I wouldn't mind missing a day or two of work. Instead I'm getting my time with my brother in Alaska cut short by a day or two.

I know it's not the worst thing that can happen, I mean it's not like I found out I have cancer, but still. I was totally in happy vacation mode; now I'm miserable. My Muslim driver kept saying, "Send up a prayer to God. Everything happens for a good reason."

“What reason? I get 10 crummy vacation days a year and now I have to blow 3 of them sitting around the airport?”

He shrugs. I know he is thinking “Heathen! How dare you question the wisdom of God’s actions? If God delayed your plane He surely did so for a good reason! Perhaps to teach entitled princess a lesson! Where is your faith?”

Or perhaps he is thinking, “Ten vacation days a year! Hah, corporate drone! I drive a cab and I get more time off than that! Sucker! No wonder you have the stress and break down over a silly delay!” So I try to think of a good reason.

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe the connecting plane I was supposed to be on will crash and everyone will die, but I won’t be on it! That would be worth it, I guess.” I cheer up ever-so-slightly. He doesn’t say anything.

I go home, eat dinner, and email everyone I know who puts up with my whining. Then I head back to the airport.

For some reason the self check-in kiosk will not cooperate. I get on line. A huge fan is blowing at the check-in counter. It whips my hair into my face so I can hardly see what I’m doing. After I check in, I wait for the woman to give me my driver’s license back. She insists she gave it back already.

Feeling senile and foolish, I frantically search my purse, carry-on bag, and wallet for 5 minutes while people on line behind me wait impatiently. Finally, the clerk finds it lying on the floor behind her, where the incredibly powerful fan blew it. She laughs and says I’m lucky it didn’t blow onto the conveyor belt taking the checked luggage away! They’d never have found it then!

Ha. Recalling my trip to the Brooklyn DMV and the ordeal I suffered to obtain my New York City driver's license, I think, Yes, that would indeed be funny.

So I go through security, then start waiting.

Only to discover the flight has been delayed by another hour.

Then another hour.

This time no one has bothered calling my cell phone. I guess once they have your luggage they figure you're already trapped.

Then they push it back to 9:40. I have now been sitting around the airport and/or in cars on my way to and from the airport for over 8 hours.

Finally they just announce that the flight has been cancelled. The plane, which they optimistically and ridiculously called “delayed,” is still in Charlotte. It never even made it to New York. Meanwhile, other planes are taking off and landing like crazy. Only my plane has performance issues.

Other people got hotel vouchers, but anyone with NYC listed as their place of origin just had to go home, and no one is reimbursing me for the $50 cab ride. My flight is rescheduled for 6:30am the next morning, meaning I need to leave home at 3:30am to get to airport by 4:30 or 5am. I claim my luggage at the baggage carousel and go stand for 20 minutes on the taxi line.

I was actually in tears, but tried not to make a spectacle of myself at the airport. But it helped! Because the first time I called, they would not allow me to reschedule my return flight to extend it by an extra day, saying it was the weather and nothing they could do. This time, after I sobbed, "I haven't seen my brother in 3 years and have been looking forward to this trip for months and now I won't get to spend any time with him!" the kind lady on the phone changed my return flight to Sunday instead of Saturday, without extra fees.

What really aggravates me is the lack of communication and information. For example, I just don't understand the science. I mean, planes fly at NIGHT, when it's dark. They fly through clouds. I’ve flown through snow. I thought they had radar and stuff. If they can fly in the dark, what's up with fog? Does fog mess with radar? Is it worse than snow? I have flown in planes with ice on the wings. This sounds fishy.

I wish there was some way I could find out what the real problem was. One US Air customer service rep told me there was a problem with the plane itself. The other denied it and blamed the weather. But of course they’d always blame the weather—if it’s the weather, it’s a natural act beyond their control, and they don’t have to compensate you. If it’s a mechanical problem, that’s their fault, and you just might be able to force them to reimburse you in some way. So why would they EVER confess it to being a mechanical problem? Don’t they have to log these errors somewhere? Other planes were landing and taking off, even other US Air planes. I just don’t think the fog was the real culprit here.

The next day, I arrive at the airport at 4:30am after about two hours of sleep.

JFK Airport at 4:30am

The airport is LOCKED.

A crowd waits outside in the cold drizzle. I didn’t know airports ever closed. I thought they were open 24/7. It is just as foggy today as yesterday, so my hopes are not high.

At the US Air counter, the self check-in kiosks are out of order—again.

Naturally, there is no one at the ticket booth. A group of confused travelers, most of whom I recognize from last night, waylay someone who looks like they’re on the janitorial staff, where we learn that the counter staff does not come on duty for another 15 minutes.

Later, at the security line, we learn that the security people also don’t come on duty for another half-hour.

Why do they tell me I have to get here 2 hours before my flight again?

During my nine-hour layover in Phoenix, they make me claim my baggage from the baggage check again, then recheck it. Because of terrorists and/or incompetence, you can not check luggage more than 4 hours before a flight. So even though it is their fault I now have a nine-hour layover (formerly 45 minutes), I have to claim my baggage, wait 5 hours, lug it around town with me, then recheck it.

Naturally, the US Air guy tries to hassle me and make me pay the $15 fee again. At this point I balk. I mean, I paid it once already. Do I have the receipt? No—why would I save a baggage claim receipt for a flight that was CANCELLED? My luggage never even made it out of the airport! I ask why he has no record of my original flight and its cancellation in the computer system. He treats me with a contemptuous, snotty air that only union and government employees can get away with—after all, normal people can be fired for being rude to a customer. Maybe I should go work for an airline.

Otherwise, I have a pleasant 10-hour layover in Phoenix during which I meet up with a friend and have lunch, go to the library, admire the desert, watch YouTube videos and drink soda in my friend’s apartment, and shop for snacks and camera batteries at Target. Why not—after all, I have NINE HOURS.

Back at the Phoenix airport

As I’m boarding my on-time plane to Anchorage, I hear a mechanic talking to the pilot. I have plenty of time to listen in, because it takes people fricking FOREVER to SIT THE FUCK DOWN ALREADY. But that’s a whole other rant, but what the hell? If my vacation can be hijacked, why can’t my blog post?

[Digression: So what is WITH the way able-bodied persons become senile invalids when boarding a plane? I’ve watched people freeze in the middle of the aisle, with 40 people lined up behind them, slowly remove their jacket…fold the jacket…drape it over their seat…then struggle to remove their blanket, sweater, books, snacks, water bottle, sleep mask, DVD player, massaging neck pillow, etc., from their carry-on, carefully arrange them on the seat and seat pocket, then struggle to lift their ten-ton bag into the overhead compartment. Then it takes another 20 minutes of futzing around with the bag overhead, fitting it in, making sure it’s snugly in place, whatever. I don’t know, I always bring a soft bag that can be crammed under the seat in front of me. Anyway, I don’t know what is wrong with people, that they can’t just STFDA! Sit. Down. If dogs can be trained to do it, SO CAN YOU.]

So the mechanic is saying, “There’s a hole in the wing of the plane. It must have just happened, because you can see the pieces lying on the ground. Something must have just hit it.”

Duct tape, I think. I’ve seen mechanics taping up plane wings before, mere moments before takeoff. Surely this is something that can be fixed with duct tape. It alarmed me the first time I saw it, but this time I don’t care. Fix it with chewed Bubble Yum, just get this plane in the air already.

Right. Who am I kidding? I think about sending up a prayer to God, but it didn’t work last time. God answers all prayers, but sometimes the answer is NO! Or so says the bumper sticker. I think, “There is no way this plane is taking off on time.”

I’m sitting down and opening up my book when the announcement is made that due to mechanical problems (they won’t say “hole in the wing” but I swear that’s what I heard) we will be getting off the plane, and re-boarding on a new plane, which will be ready soon. As soon as the other people get off that plane. My flight is now delayed over an hour.

So I get off the plane and call everyone I know who likes to listen to me whine. At this point it’s down to one person.

Waiting on line to board the new plane, I commiserate with a total stranger who is also pissed because a flight attendant has just forcibly removed her carry-on bag, a tiny wheeled suitcase much smaller than many other carry-on bags I’ve seen. The attendant claims it is too large and needs to be checked.

“I’ve flown with this bag a dozen times,” the woman says, incredulous. “And on this airline! What is the problem? I’m going to remember your name, INDIRA!”

Indira walks off, dragging the woman’s suitcase. I’m sure it’s because they just don’t have room left in the overhead compartments. Because of the $15 fee to check a bag on US Air, everyone now tries to carry on as much as they can. I really don’t see what the big deal is if you’ve paid hundreds of dollars for an airline ticket, and close to $20 for a crummy airport lunch, what’s another $15? If you’re on vacation, splurge a little—you’re on vacation. If you’re on business, WTF? Write it off on your expense report. But people get snippy about it.

I zip up my carry-on bag and smash it as small as I can make it and cram it under my armpit in an attempt to use my arm flab to hide my large (but soft and crushable) bag, which they will need to pry from my cold dead hands.

I tell the angry woman about my travails so far. “I just can’t believe this is happening,” I say. “It’s now been two, going on three days. I’m never getting to Anchorage. I wonder what will happen next. Probably someone will have a heart attack on the plane and we’ll have to make an emergency medical landing.”

A man in front of me turns around. “Thanks a lot,” he snaps. “This is my first time flying. Now I’m really nervous.”

He and his friend are both wearing soldier’s fatigues. I think, “Men who have probably been in IRAQ are more worried about flying US Air than about IRAQ. This is a sign!”

At first I feel bad, then notice his friend is laughing. The guys are just messing with me.

At last

I know it’s customary to clap when a flight lands successfully, especially if it's been a bumpy ride, but in this case, when my plane finally takes off, I need to hold myself back from bursting into spontaneous applause.

By the time the plans lands, I feel like I've already been through an ordeal. I've now spent close to $200 on taxis and airport food and fees. And my vacation hasn't even started.

I am not optimistic.

She would have wanted it that way.

2009-05-29T22:51:00.006-04:00

I just read a book where a girl's father dies, but all characters bravely soldier on without him. They cannot pause to shed a tear as they are in a life-or-death battle, and all efforts must focus on survival. Fair enough.

But then, later, anytime the man's wife or daughter pause to consider weeping, or wondering if their brave soldier faces are somehow disrespectful to his memory--I mean, shouldn't they be grieving?--someone swoops in, and assures them that it's OK! "It's what he would have wanted! He would have wanted you to carry on!"

Just for the record, it's not what I would have wanted.

If I die tomorrow, I do not want you to carry on.

I mean, I don't want anyone throwing themselves off a cliff or anything, but is a little grief too much to expect? Could you just wear black for a few days and have a few drinks in my memory? I think it's just a sign of our culture's inability to deal with death that we're so quick to sweep it under the carpet with, "Tut tut! The sooner you get back to normal the sooner you forget! Time to make the donuts! The show must go on!"

I also like this notion that I can dictate behavior from the grave. Like anyone cares about what I want in the here and now? Is anyone currently planning an all-expenses-paid, year-long trip around the world for me, which, I tell you, is what I would have wanted? I think not. Yet when I die, oh, then suddenly "what she would have wanted" matters? And what I would have wanted just happens to coincide with what you feel like doing anyway? How convenient!

I am going to Alaska soon and my usual vacation paranoia is kicking in. (I'm always convinced I'm going to die on vacation, even though I'm more likely to die tripping over the shoes on my bedroom floor and hitting my head on the door.) I'm afraid of people putting words in my mouth after it's too late for me to argue and complain, so feel I need to get this down now, while I'm still alive.

If you have a vacation planned, and I die and my family inconveniently schedules my funeral right smack in the middle of your vacation, guess what? You're not to carry on! Because it's not what I would have wanted. What I want is your inconsolable ass standing next to my cremated corpse, sobbing your eyes out, or at least looking terribly disgruntled, which should be easy since you just cancelled your vacation.

Whatever you are doing, just stop. I'm dead. I have no time left. You, on the other hand, have plenty of time, and it would be nice if you spent it not carrying on but shaking your fist at the sky, screaming, "Why, God, why? She was truly an angel too good for this world! I cannot carry on!" And then, feel free to carry on.

I know it would be generous and kind to relieve my friends and family of their duty to stop their lives and grieve for five minutes. Well, guess what? I may be dead, but that doesn't make me a martyr!

Fun Fur, Part II: It's Nature's Padding

2009-05-25T20:30:00.010-04:00

When I first saw the C*chini, I did not think that humanity was doomed. This is a pad you stuff down your panties even when it is not that time of the month. Why would you want to wear such a pad? To avoid the dreaded Camel Toe, of course!

Normally this is a job for pubic hair, but since that's gone Brazilian, women now fake the effect of nature's own padding by stuffing their panties with a soft foam pad.

I remember the photos of Britney and Lindsey, staggering out of a limo, underwear-free, crotch on display for the paparazzi. Well, at least they didn't have camel toe! Better bare and out there than with a full-frontal wedgie!

No, it was after I read about a New York salon that offers discounts on waxing girls of age 8, that I realized humanity was doomed. I didn't even know 8-year-old had body hair, much less a critical audience to make them self-conscious about it. The salons claim that if you wax "virgin hair" as soon as it grows, sometimes it never grows back, thus sparing future pain and expense.

Now I'm feeling resentful and bullied. I don't even like pulling off a Band-Aid. I don't feel I should have to pay for this, much less be outmatched by 8-year-old girls! But it's just the way things are. Many young men today have never known women NOT to shave it all off. They think of hair the way I think of a corset--completely creepy and gross.

At my book club meeting we somehow veered onto the topic of pubic hair--don't you hate when that happens?--and out of 8 women, only 2 did not wax or laser. A young coworker who is still living at home and really should be saving money for law school, driving lessons, and her own apartment, recently confessed that instead she had spent thousands of dollars on laser hair removal, that the mortification of going to the beach with razor burn or a possible outline of hair was worth it. This woman does not live in Hawaii or Florida. She lives in New York. We're talking maybe 2 or 3 weeks at the beach per year at most.

I feel like I may be the only woman left in the city who just does not give a damn. There's a scene in Annie Hall that I've never really appreciated until now. Woody and his macho friend are attending a party in L.A. His friend is checking out women and says, "I could really go for that girl over there...the one with the VPL." Woody aka Alvy aka Max: "VPL?" "Visible Panty Line. Max, she's gorgeous!"

OK, so I was only a baby when this movie came out, but those were the days! Not only did you not have to wax every intimate inch of your body, but apparently thongs hadn't yet been invented, either! And men didn't care! Alas, yesterday's symbol of hotness is today's badge of shame.

What happened? Is Hollywood to blame? Spandex? Are men turning into sissies from overdosing on porn? I think women are so neurotic about their looks that they greatly underestimate the male sex drive. From what I can tell, men will put up with just about anything from a woman they want to sleep with. In fact they expect it. The more you abuse them and test them, the more worthy they find you.

I don't think I'd want a man who can't handle a reasonable amount of body hair. It's a mark of skill, and a sign of a strong stomach. I think that a guy who can't handle a little hair probably isn't going to be able to tough out a nasty episode of childbirth, or be able to gut a deer once the apocalypse hits and we are forced to hunt our own food.

I'm just too lazy. There's only so far I'll go to please a man, at which point he becomes not worth pleasing. And I can't help that I don't mind hair, male or female. Maybe I'm being unfair, but I tend to think of guys who can't handle a little fun fur as wimps, who probably can only eat meat if it's a flabby, plastic-wrapped boneless skinless white breast of chicken, cut into bitty bite-size pieces by his mommywife. No dark meat! No bone! No fat! No skin! Actually, could you just pick up some Chicken McNuggets? Mama's Boy would probably faint if he saw where meat came from. And a woman with a grown woman's body? It just might turn him gay!

Should I blame my heritage? My unhealthy obsession with Wolverine? I remember when I first heard of men waxing their backs and chests, and was just like, "Huh? Why?" I could not think of a single instance in which a man having back hair might pose a problem. Is it growing so long it's hanging out the bottom of your shirt? Is it so coarse it gives people bloody red scratches when they hug you? Are bears and gorillas confused and trying to mate with you? When you leave Ikea, do the security guards tackle you to the floor and accuse you of trying to smuggle a rug out of the store without paying? How much of a problem is this for you in your daily life?

Obviously everyone else is disgusted by something I'm not seeing. Then again, you should see my Italian-American father with his shirt off. Clearly upbringing has played a part. I'm just used to hair.

One of the side effects of getting older is that things that pissed you off at the time, you now recall with nostalgic affection, such as the variations of this conversation from my 20s. WARNING! SEVERE TMI ALERT!

The scene: Horny Boyfriend trying to convince me to have sexy times.

Me: No, I'm gross, I can't. I haven't even showered today!

Horny BF: I don't care!

Me: I haven't shaved my legs in three days! I swear that stubble is so sharp it'll draw blood! I have to take a shower.

Horny Boyfriend: I don't care!

Me: For God's sake, get off me! I smell, I haven't showered, I just got out of step aerobics class, I reek of sweat, I haven't shaved in three days, my hair is greasy. I drank coffee and have bad coffee breath and need to brush my teeth. I'm foul, disgusting, dirty, greasy, smelly and grotesque! Get away, you sick freak!

Horny Boyfriend: You look great! I don't care! You're beautiful!

(Why didn't I marry this guy? Well, he had other flaws, but honestly, right now, I can't think of them.)

Me: PLUS, I have my period and you don't even want to know what's going on down there! The sheets will look like that scene from The Godfather with the horse's head for God's sake!

Horny Boyfriend: Voila! (Flourishes a towel.) I'll put a towel on the bed! God a woman who can quote The Godfather is sexy! If only you liked football, you'd be perfect!

Me: GET AWAY FROM ME! DON'T TOUCH ME, YOU'RE MAKING ME SICK! Plus that's one of my "good" towels.

Horny Boyfriend: I like it when you get mad! Come here!

Me: GET OFF ME! YOU ARE DISGUSTING! DOES NOTHING TURN YOU OFF? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I'M GROSS! MY GOD YOU'D HAVE SEX WITH A WOMAN OOZING MUCUS LIKE THE GODDAMN ALIEN? YOU'D SCREW ANYTHING YOU SICK DEMENTED FREAK!

Horny Boyfriend: Well, yeah. You do know I'm a guy, right?

Sigh....where have all these guys gone? Now, this scene is more likely to play out this way:

Me: I have shaved and exfoliated nearly down to the bone, flossed, brushed, AND used mouthwash, showered, loofahed, gotten a pedicure, had my pores extracted, eyebrows plucked, mustache bleached, chin plucked. Every inch of me is as clean, polished, poreless, hairless, and flawless and smooth as I can make it. I am more child than woman. I am more dolphin than human. A marble statue exudes more natural animal essence than my perfumed, shaved, moisturized, and deodorized suit of flesh. Behold my flawlessness. Am I good enough for you yet? Please, what else would you have me do, O Sensitive One?

Sissy Girly Man: Ewww, your toenail polish is chipped! That's so gross! Oh God, can you fix that? I'm sorry, I can't deal with that! OH MY GOD IS THAT A HAIR?" (Faints backward onto floor, must be revived with cold compress and chilled herbal tea. Manages to sit up, with assistance, long enough to text his best friend for emotional support, update his Twitter feed letting everyone know he had to turn down sex tonight as the girl was utterly befouled, then flees, trembling, into the night and the comfort of Internet porn, where all the women resemble RealDolls.)

OK, that second scenario didn't really happen, YET.

Hmm. What would Wolverine do? Is there any body part that has not gone uncriticized? I mean, what's left? Is foot-binding going to make a comeback? I keep expecting some other body part I have not yet even noticed to suddenly become paramount with a woman's beauty, but what could it be? Now that labia are front and center, is there any part that hasn't yet had its moment in the sun? Nipples and bellybuttons have been pierced. Ankles and lower backs and necks have been tattooed. What next? Am I going to need to start sandblasting my kidneys or dying my blood yellow to glow from within?

I'm sure a new product will come along any day now. Probably a special device that spreads your ass cheeks to make them look perkier, or thinner, or something--which will have the unfortunate side effect of revealing your anus to the world every time you go to the beach. Since people will now be able to peer directly into your asshole, a whole barrage of asshole-enhancing products will soon be on the way, including lotions, perfumes, dyes, tattoos, and jewelry. If you're not dangling a gold chain decked with beads and charms from your waxed, dyed-pink, tattooed-with-Chinese symbols and sparkly-gelled asshole, you just won't be well-groomed.

How far have we come, when eliminating one problem merely creates another that's even worse (in my opinion--I think the camel toe is grotesque, but have a male friend who thinks otherwise, naturally)? I just cannot imagine anything that would make me want to wear a stupid pad even when it's NOT that time of the month. Is Judy Blume going to write a sequel to Are You There, God, It's Me, Margaret, adding a chapter where Margaret's mom takes her for her "virgin wax" and tells her she's now a real woman?

Older women assure me the problem is only temporary, anyway. "When you get to be my age, it starts falling out! No one tells you about that, do they!"

But by the time that happens, I'm sure fashions will have changed again, and I'll have to start wearing a merkin.

...which apparently dates back to the 17th century. So maybe times really don't change all that much--people were always self-conscious, miserable, nuts, and way too concerned with their crotch!

only the lonely

2009-04-29T12:38:00.014-04:00

I checked out Lonely Planet Alaska from the library, planning a trip in June to visit my brother, and stumbled across--that is, "discovered"--this irritating paragraph:

McCarthy is "an erstwhile ghost town so funky and cool you'll want to haunt the place yourself....The tiny community is a car-free idyll...Alas, in the past few years the place has been 'discovered,' but the summer population still hits only about 200..."

Discovered? Really? By who? Lonely Planet writers and readers, by any chance?

I love how they talk up the town in glowing terms that can only be described as guaranteed backpacker bait, then complain about it being "discovered" and overrun by tourists!

I suppose it's a danger of the job. If you’re a travel writer who discovers cool places and doesn't write about them, you're not doing your job, and you're selfish for keeping the information to yourself. But if you write about it, you're ruining the place you love. I guess they suffer from the fear that if they don't write about it, someone else will, and then they'll seem unhip and out of touch.

When I first started travelling alone I followed guidebooks almost religiously. It was mostly out of fear; I was afraid of missing out on a must-see experience, but also when travelling alone I didn't want to take risks.

But the older I get, the more I dislike travel guides. I use them for some history and background, and information on the attractions I'd hate to miss, like what hours the Louvre is open. I could find all this information free on-line, but it is convenient to have it all in one place.

What I hate is everything else that pads out the books. Where to shop! Where to eat! Where to drink! They tell you exactly where to stand to get the must-have keepsake photo, exactly what to buy to have a unique souvenir. Except how can it be unique, since everyone else who has read the book has one exactly like it? (Except for Spurtle who I am sure is one-of-a-kind and was crafted specially for me out of pure love.)

The one thing they leave out is the one thing I really, really need: where to use the bathroom for free. Seriously, a list of public restrooms would be way more appreciated.

Also, most places that are touristed at all have many things concentrated in one area, where you will easily stumble across them. I mean, restaurants, bars, and shops tend to be centered, obviously, in places where people go. If you visit New York, you're not going to starve for lack of places to eat, drink or spend money.

(Of course, as a budget traveler, I'm usually fine grabbing a slice of pizza or whatever the local hole-in-the-wall is selling, I don't need to seek out the best fine dining options. Also I have not yet travelled to a place so remote that there were only three restaurants in a hundred-mile radius and without a guidebook alerting me to their presence, I’d starve. Unless you count Wyoming.)

But say you are a sophisticated traveler who doesn't want to eat at the tourist traps set up for your convenience. No, you want the off-the-beaten-path experience, the little restaurant no one knows about, tucked away on a quiet side street...you know, where the locals go! Because you're not a tacky tourist, you're an enlightened traveler! A citizen of the world!

Yeah, I've done that. First of all don't kid yourself; just because you don't wear a bulging fanny pack doesn't mean you're not a tourist. Second, I've tried this, and found the off-the-beaten-path place entirely populated by other “travelers not tourists” trying unsuccessfully to hide their travel guide in their pocket while they attempt to blend in with the locals.

So you kind of can't rely on a travel guide or website to tell you about things no one knows about. You'd have to be the first person to buy the first copy of the first edition of the book, hot off the press, and then travel there the next day. The Internet makes finding quiet places even more impossible.

After that it's too late. The tiny restaurant or quaint boutique is not equipped to handle hordes of people and becomes overwhelmed. Soon locals stop going there--they can't, because unlike vacationers, they live there, they have jobs and families and thus cannot afford to spend three hours waiting on the sidewalk for the perfect meal, they have to go home and get ready for work tomorrow. Voila, your quaint local bistro is now a bona fide tourist trap!

This happened to DiFara's pizza, a tiny place with maybe 3 tables that was featured on the Food Network and now has two-hour waits for a slice. While it is good, it’s not worth a two-hour wait. I mean, almost nothing is THAT good. Even if you've never had a slice of pizza, or are about to die and eat your last slice of pizza, I don't think it's worth two hours.

But then again I'm the kind of person who tends to value things less the harder I work for them. I know this is counterintuitive but I can’t help it. Every time I've busted my ass to achieve something, at the end, I look at the finished product, accept the accolades, and think, "Eh. It wasn't worth the hassle. I could have been watching reruns of 'Buffy.'"

Thus, if I'd just walked in off the street to grab a slice, I'd have taken one bite of DiFara's and thought I was in heaven. After waiting on the sidewalk for two hours, well, this pizza now has some serious expectations to live up to. I've sacrificed for this pizza. I've acquired a sunburn for this pizza. It better not just be, you know, really good pizza, it had better be magical, ecstatic pizza, capable of replenishing my 401K, improving my complexion, rewriting my love life, and making me a better person.

I guess I feel a bad case of Fooled Me Twice Shame on Me. I have more than once dutifully followed travel writers' advice and wasted hours wandering around lost, hungry but refusing to eat at the many perfectly adequate places I passed, convinced my foreign experience simply would not be complete unless I tried this exquisite local delicacy which only ONE restaurant could prepare properly. Again and again I fall into the "you MUST eat Joe's BBQ, and only Joe's BBQ!" trap, the "Do NOT leave town without trying Sam's fried chicken!" imperative, only to find myself stuck in a crowded dump with a bunch of other sweaty tourists, eating mediocre gunk I could probably find at home. Toto, I think we're back in Kansas!

I think if people truly want an "authentic" experience they need to stop reading travel guides and either ask a local, or find it themselves! Since I am cursed with a complete lack of sense of direction, I find stuff that's off the beaten path all the time. I wouldn't exactly say I go looking for it, though. The trick is to get so lost that you wander until you're on the verge of collapse. Then, no matter where you end up eating, it will taste like the most wonderful food in the world, because when you're tired and your feet hurt, everything tastes good!

So, tomorrow I'm off to Fort Lauderdale on a business trip. I've been to Florida several times, every single time against my will. I hate hot weather and I hate the beach. When you sunburn in less than 20 minutes, the beach is hardly relaxing; it's more of a constant battle. I cannot let my guard down for even half an hour, or for the next three months I'll be peeling my skin off in sheets. I have been so convinced I'll be miserable I haven't even bothered cracking open a travel guide. I figured I'll be working most of the time and spending my free time avoiding sunburn.

Then tonight I broke down and peeked inside my old USA road trip guide. From what I can tell, the only thing to do in Fort Lauderdale is watch cruise ships depart. When I asked a colleague who has been there before, he told me there is great outlet shopping.

I guess guides are useful, after all. I think this is the first time I've read a travel guide and felt reassured that I am missing absolutely nothing!

at least they're reading, part ii

2009-04-28T19:49:00.006-04:00

In the young-adult section of the library there is a cardboard box covered in red paper where teens can cast ballots voting for their favorite book.

I was amused to see that some teen, armed with a black magic marker, had covered the ballot box with comments. Normally I'm not in favor of graffiti or defacing library property but a) it's a cardboard box, and b) it's funny.

Judging from the comments, this reader did not like Twilight, the love story between Edward, the immortal vampire who sparkles in sunlight and is eternally trapped in the body of a 17-year-old boy of angelic good looks, and his soul mate, ordinary mortal teenager Bella:

Twilight = Hamster Juice

Twilight makes you wanna touch little kids.

Twilight: Don't read it! I'm billing Stephanie Meyer for Twilight-induced depression therapy.

Say NO to Sparkles. Edward is a Pedo! Stalker! He stalks little girls! True Story!

Now I'm playing with pedophiles and that's just wrong.

Twilight-induced homicidal mania!

...and then Buffy killed Edward. The End.

Twilight: Why did I read it?

And my personal favorite:

Twilight got me hooked on drugs 'cause I want 2 C the vampire sparkles.

Of course there are the dissenters:

Edward Cullen: bringing sexy back since 1901!

I (heart) Twilight! Yall just hatin

Finally there is a random pencilled-in note: Art is for risk takers.

Blind Item Roundup

2009-04-28T18:45:00.004-04:00

After reading some gossip blogs at work today, I was inspired to round up some office gossip myself. There seems to be a spike in rampant assholism in my office lately--I almost need to make a list to keep track of all the people I need to avoid speaking to or even in front of. It's easier at this point simply to cocoon and only speak to the two people I know I can trust. At least until they stab me in the back.

1. WHICH sales colleague removed a motivational poster featuring the word "Progress" from the hall outside his office, because "progress" is “a Democrat buzzword,” and therefore offensive to him, as a Republican? The office manager, who spent quite a lot of time arranging and hanging the posters, is outraged.

2. WHICH high-ranking manager accused a colleague of Mexican descent of visiting his mother lately, implying that this was related to the colleague's recent sick day and that he was on the verge of infecting the office with…yes…THE SWINE FLU?! That’s right. Yo mama kisses pigs and so do you! Oh, he tried to make it sound like he was joking, "but I could tell that's what he was getting at," claims the colleague of Mexican descent.

3. WHICH former colleague was accused of having an affair with a coworker AND of alcoholism, leading to his nervous breakdown and subsequent resignation…when in fact his nervous breakdown was caused by the incessant harassment of the accuser?

4. WHO is pregnant but hiding it? Her plan is to pretend she's not pregnant until people come right out and ask, "Are you pregnant?" Since she is married and has other children, I'm not sure what the big secret is. I'd never ask a woman who has gained weight if she's pregnant, even if she obviously is, but I'm tempted to start a betting pool as to which office troll is the first to start hassling her about her "bump." (BTW I hate that expression.)

5. WHICH manager is worried that her new assistant is an alcoholic, because he called out sick for one-and-a-half days? Never mind that there is a rampant, non-swine-related flu currently making the rounds and EVERYONE has been out sick at least once in the last three weeks, including this very manager. Rather than confront her assistant, she confided this to her boss, who naturally related her fears to another manager's assistant, who then confided it to me, who works closely with the alleged alcoholic. Of course I told my boss, so now we all know that upper management thinks our coworker is an alcoholic liar. And probably thinks the same of us.

What is with the obsession with alcoholism? I've only been at this job about a year and a half, and in this time a particular executive has confided to at least five people his fears that "so-and-so is an alcoholic." He accuses a different person every time, and confides in a different person every time, and always has a different reason--A always calls out sick on Fridays, B never answers his phone, C ordered a glass of wine during a business lunch, D said she had a headache during a meeting, E is getting a divorce: therefore they are alcoholics. Could it be HE has a drinking problem? Is this like those zealous pastors who rail against homosexuals and drug addicts, and then are caught sleeping with male prostitutes and doing crystal meth? Hmm.

I think as the weather gets warmer, the assholism will only increase. The crazies tend to emerge from hibernation in the summer. I can't wait. I'm going to hang a big PROGRESS poster in my cubicle, sit back and watch the show.

Future Assassins of America?

2009-04-26T23:06:00.005-04:00

The other day I was looking at paperback books in Target and two little girls, Asian, around 8-9 years old, walked behind me, followed by their dad. They were looking at the book selection and complaining, "I wish they had a book like Resident Evil! You know, where you shoot people a lot."

Well, at least they're reading! That seems to be the default response to any question about the subject matter of reading material. It's like exercise--anything is considered better than nothing!

On one hand, how awesome is it that a video game is making kids want to read? On the other hand, what is up with 9-year-old girls longing to read about shooting things?!

Not that I'm worried--I don't subscribe to the school of thought that kids will automatically copy behavior they read about or see on TV. I watched tons of Smurf cartoons as a child and have never yet battled a wizard named Gargomel. I watched X-Files and didn't start believing in aliens. I watched Twin Peaks and didn't become a drug-addicted prostitute prom queen. I think most kids figure out pretty fast what behaviors are and aren't acceptable in the real, non-TV world. I watch TV and read books to escape from reality and never took it seriously. In fact I was often shocked when I found out things I'd only known to happen in TV Land actually happened in the real world. I mean, murders and shootings only happened on TV, right?

Still, I don't think I have it in me to actively encourage kids to read violent or sexy books. When I found out a book I'd given my niece who was 12 or 13 at the time had a make-out scene in which the phrase, "he unzipped my jeans" appeared, I felt pretty skeezy. I mean, if she reads that stuff on her own, fine, but I don't want to be the one who hands it to her gift-wrapped in Santa Claus paper!

I think a lot of people were upset about the last Twilight book for that reason--supposedly this sweet, defanged sparkly vampire-in-love story becomes brutal, bloody, and morbid, with a vampire baby biting its way out of its mother's womb in a childbirth scene I am definitely avoiding.

But I know if my mom had told me as a kid, "You can't read this, it's too mature for you," I would then stop at nothing until I'd gotten my hands on it--and most likely proven her right. There are books I wish I hadn't read when I read them, but you don't know that until it's too late and your young mind is already warped.

One of the benefits of being childless is not having to deal with this particular conundrum. I would hate to think I've turned into the kind of annoying censor I encountered as a young reader, but I fear I might be. It's more like I'm censoring my own thoughts than the kids, though--even though it's totally normal, the thought of a 12-year-old reading about sex or torture gives me the creeps. They can handle it--but I can't!

The Bubble People

2009-04-25T22:08:00.002-04:00

The Bubble People are back!

It's like spotting the first robin of spring...

I don't know how many bubble makers they actually sell, but they must sell enough to make it worthwhile because when the weather is warm they're always out there. This photo was taken on West Broadway.

Some people find the Bubble People annoying, but after this winter, I'll take the Bubble People any day. Grand Army Plaza in the slush--I mean, in the snow:

Portrait of Spurtle on Yoga Mat

2009-04-25T20:48:00.005-04:00

My sister went to Scotland, and all I got was this crummy spurtle:

I thought for sure it was a Dr. Seuss character, Myrtle the Spurtle or something like that. But I Googled it and now am quite happy with my spurtle. Apparently it is a Scottish utensil that dates back to the 15th century and is used specially just for stirring porridge. The tapered shape keeps it from sticking to the pot.

I once tried to boil oatmeal from scratch. I also once tried to make black bean soup from scratch. The results were the same. I soaked dried beans for an hour then cooked them for about four hours, after which they formed a kind of dense paste that managed to be both gummy and al dente. The same thing happened with the oatmeal, except it only took two hours. If only I'd had the spurtle!

Now I only eat oatmeal that comes in small microwaveable packets, so I will have to find another use for my spurtle. It feels good in your hand, like a small bat or club, and I fantasize about keeping it at my desk at work and hitting people with it. The tapered end looks ideally suited for poking out someone's eye. I'd like to keep it in my bedroom for self-defense, next to my big red can of grizzly bear mace, but I'm afraid people might get the wrong idea.

I don't know if people really use spurtles anymore or if they're mainly sold as souvenirs, but it does remind me of another utensil-related question I've always had, which is why people still use chopsticks. I can't claim to be an authority on utensils around the world, but every time I've tried to learn to use chopsticks, I give up and think, "Behold that most glorious invention, THE FORK!" Maybe I'm just particularly unsentimental about my own culture that I can't imagine tossing out a tradition if something more efficient comes along. We all seemed to give up bows and arrows and adopt guns fast enough, why not forks?

I guess if you grow up using chopsticks, it's second nature. With chopsticks, I've been told,"It's OK to hunch over your bowl and shovel it in, it's traditional! It's OK to slurp, it's traditional! Don't worry about looking foolish, it takes children years to learn how to use chopsticks!" Yet I've seen people who can use chopsticks elegantly and without the allegedly-OK hunching and slurping. Still, why take years to acquire that sophisticated skill when you can just violently stab and subdue your food with a sharp pointy object? I guess I'll just never appreciate the subtle beauty of the chopsticks.

Now I feel like I need to make porridge so I can put the spurtle to use and test it against my silicon spatula. Poor Spurtle probably thought it was headed for a cushy life as a quaint decorative knick-knack, but that's not how I operate. Spurtle's going to have to earn its keep around here.

I think Spurtle is ready to make a spectacular debut. Like fellow Scot Susan Boyle, everyone underestimates plain, humble Spurtle. Although I wonder how I'd explain it if subjected to one of the NYPD's random subway bag searches, I am tempted to take it to work so the next time a particular imbecile stands by the copy machine and announces, "The copy machine is out of paper!" then WALKS AWAY WITHOUT REFILLING THE EMPTY PAPER TRAY, Spurtle will fly across the room and take out his eye.

And I'll sit there looking innocent and saying, "What's a spurtle? I've never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. Seriously, if I wanted to poke out someone's eye I'd just use a fork!"

Please No Blow for Pops

2009-03-17T20:06:00.006-04:00

At what age do you cross the line from being a witty person with a daring sense of humor to being a pathetic middle-aged creep? At one point do your mildly raunchy jokes start making younger people cringe in equal parts pity, disgust, and horror?

I’m sure young people in their teens and twenties think I’m the pathetic over-the-hill old creep, because I’m in my 30s. Meanwhile I’m thinking men in their 50s and 60s who hit on me are creepy. People in their 60s no doubt think 80-year-olds are creepy. Basically, no one wants to hear anyone old enough to be their mother or father talking about sex in their presence, much less hitting on them.

Does it ever end? I think not. Once you’re on the slippery slope of aging it just gets worse and worse.

There is a sliding scale of creepiness regarding sexuality that occurs as you age. It’s not just miniskirts and Speedos that no one wants to see on your aging body, no matter what shape you’re in. I don’t know if it’s from the misguided notion that older people should have dignity, or what. It just seems like the older you get, the less you can get away with, at least until you’re 80 and senile and running through the streets with your pants unzipped and making suggestive comments to the nurses in the retirement home.

Maybe I'm over-reacting. This train of thought sprang into being after an older male coworker leered at a bowl of lollipops that a much younger female coworker innocently keeps on her desk. “I’m a bad boy, I don’t deserve a blow...pop!”

To compound the revulsion, they were Tootsie Pops, not Blow Pops. I feel that is an important distinction. It’s even worse when Creepy Grandpa tries to be witty and can’t even get it right! Now he's not just creepy, but senile. Pathetic.

But once I was done vomiting, I realized that had the speaker been 16 or 22, I wouldn’t have thought it was all that creepy, just goofy and juvenile. No, it’s because the naughty boy was in his late 40s that the Ick Factor was multiplied by 12.

It's sort of the sex version of those people who try in vain to use new slang or name-drop celebrities and pop culture references they think will prove they're still hip when they're around young people. Even if you do know the latest band and all the lyrics to their songs, it doesn't matter. They still think you're creepy. Meanwhile, I see 14-year-olds sucking face on the subway and want to hurl. It's like kiddie porn. I can't stand to watch.

I'm starting to think that while some people discriminate against children or the elderly, I’d prefer it if ALL people were merely seen and not heard. At least in the office. And when they're eating candy.

wonderland

2009-03-15T13:24:00.003-04:00

The other day on the subway I was looking out the window as we went over the Manhattan Bridge. As soon as the train climbed out of the tunnel, the guy next to me whipped out his cell phone and began squinting at it. It's the same every morning, like a synchronized swimming event, as people deprived of their connection to the outside world for up to 45 whole minutes frantically try to reconnect during the two or three minutes they are above ground.

Usually they have time to shout, “I’m on the bridge! I’ll see you in ten minutes!” Then the train goes back down into the tunnel.

Thank God, I think, thank god. I imagine the person on the receiving end wiping sweat from their brow in relief. It’s 8:30 in the morning, after all--you know they were biting their nails, sitting on the edge of their seat, checking the clock every four seconds, desperately wondering where, where, WHERE IS TRINA? And then, thank God, the phone rings, and now they know. Trina is on the bridge. She’ll be there in ten minutes. They relax. They were paralyzed with fear, uncertainty, with NOT KNOWING. Now they can get on with their day.

I thought I'd be used to cell phones by now, but I'm not. I'll be 100 years old and still it will bug me that people need to call each other every four seconds to share absolutely nothing important. One of the reasons I enjoy being on trains and planes is precisely because people can't contact you there. It's nice to sit back and know that the entire world outside could be exploding, but for a few minutes at least, you are protected from the burden of having to know or care. I know this is not normal, but I've come to accept my freakishness.

This guy wasn't talking, just holding his phone up and squinting. I looked past him and out the window over the river. Once the excitement of crossing the bridge was over, I went back to sleeping. But before I could close my eyes, my Freak Magnetism kicked in.

“Are you laughing at me? Are you laughing at me because of what I’m doing with my phone?!”

I really hate it when the freaks arrive so early in the day. I’m just not prepared. Also, I wasn’t laughing. And--oh God, what WAS he doing with his phone? Was I sitting next to a porn junkie? The woman across from us just stared at me.

He said, “I was checking my Facebook! You were laughing at me, right? You think it’s stupid I’m on Facebook!”

Busted. Actually, I was thinking he was stupid for trying to phone someone during a two-minute bridge crossing, but now that I know he was obsessively checking Facebook at 8:15am as opposed to, say, texting the babysitter to remember the cough syrup or phoning in a prescription, I did want to laugh at him.

I lied, “No, I was just looking out the window. I was half-asleep.”

Him: “Oh. I thought you were making fun of me because I was checking my Facebook!"

Me: "No..."

Facebook Fiend: "OK. Just go back to wonderland then.”

Me: “Yes. That is where I like to be.”

Professional Advancement

2009-03-07T11:01:00.002-05:00

What I've been doing instead of blogging, part III

I've been alternating bouts of extreme escapism with bouts of ambitious career advancement activities.

ESCAPISM, PART I

First of all, as I'm sure you're aware, a new Hugh Jackman movie was released, in which he ruggedly rides horses and gets into fistfights and other unshaven manly type things, AND he hosted the Oscars. Did anyone really expect to hear from me for two months?

Everyone knows I'm obsessed with Wolverine aka Hugh Jackman. I tried to get a coworker to make me a "What Would Wolverine Do?" Tshirt, but he was too busy updating his resume. Also "Body of Lies" starring Russell Crowe was released on DVD. So I've been busy.

PROFESSIONAL ADVANCEMENT, PART I

I've actually applied for a few jobs, most of which I hope I don't get. Job-hunting is so exhausting and draining and demoralizing and fraught with anxiety--I mean, what if the grass is only greener on the other side of the fence because they are using even more toxic chemical fertilizers and pesticides over there than over here? What if I go out of the frying pan and into the Cubicle of Death?

And then, all together now: "YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL JUST TO HAVE A JOB IN THIS ECONOMY!" And I am grateful. I tell myself that every night as I lie in bed unable to sleep because the sooner I go to sleep the sooner I have to wake up and go to work tomorrow and so if I postpone sleep then I'm postponing work, that makes sense, right? Right?

ESCAPISM, PART II

Watching Lost on ABC Wednesday nights at 9pm. I can't help it; I'm obsessed. When I was unemployed, a friend lent me seasons 1-3 on DVD and since I had nothing else to do I watched three seasons in about 3 weeks. I must have watched 6-8 hours of TV per day. I'm just not one of those people who can do things in moderation (unless it's exercise).

Now I'm an addict. I not only must watch it, I must then discuss it at length and email everyone I know who watches it with theories and complaints. I cannot blog because I am writing three-page emails to people I hardly know swearing that if Kate gets back together with Sawyer I will projectile vomit on the TV as I'm sick of that flat-chested toxic bundle of neediness destroying the life of every man she comes into contact with.

PROFESSIONAL ADVANCEMENT, PART II

This also falls under the category of Charitable Acts. Somehow I was coerced into updating the resumes and cover letters of, to date, three coworkers. I helped one girl and then word spread like wildfire that of my own free will I would take sentences like "I has good skillz," and transform them into "I have the skills and experience needed to excel in the position of Monkey Handler at the Lunatic Zoo."

Sometimes I even did this during work hours. While I know you can be fired for working on your own resume, I think I could get away with updating someone else's resume by pleading excessive empathy. I'm just trying to help--is being a good person really such a crime? OK, so I'm trying to secretly undermine the company by helping its best employees find employment elsewhere...is there a rule against that?

ESCAPISM, PART III: THE SOCIAL CLUB

I joined a book club. Yes, a fucking book club. I hate joining things; I even dropped out of Brownies when I was in grade school. I joined one once before, and it was a disaster; none of the women seemed to actually enjoy reading and just wanted to sit around and bitch about their husbands and kids and houses, of which I have none and therefore was shut out of every conversation. Also, when you were an English major in college being in a book club is kind of like amateur hour.

Also, remember when I complained that reading was ruining my life and I wanted to do less of it? What happened to that resolution? I don't know. I was depressed, I was vulnerable. Not surprisingly, margaritas were involved. I'm not kidding. I was in a bar on Election Night watching the results and started talking to a girl who turned out to be a neighbor, and when she asked me to join a book club her coworker was starting, I thought, well, I was going to start smoking crack and hitchiking, but I guess I can do this instead. I do want to meet new people and make friends outside of my job, after all.

And then I thought, this is what happens when you're in your 30s. You go to bars and instead of waking up next to a stranger you wind up enrolled in a book club! My God, this is so not how I thought my life would be.

So now it's like college all over again, and I'm frantically reading 500-page novels in all-night cram sessions.

PROFESSIONAL ADVANCEMENT, PART III

Ever since I inadvertently insulted my boss's unborn child by telling him that his daughter would grow up ugly if he allowed his wife to name her "Agatha," I was nervous about my annual review. (But seriously, has there ever been a hot girl named Agatha, Gertrude, or Bertha? I'm sure there's at least one person who has a lovely-in-her-youth great-grandmother named Agatha, but recently? As soon as I stop typing I'm going to Google author Agatha Christie to see if she was pretty.) I could hardly think of anything else. Then my boss gave me a good review. I think it's because the ultrasound showed it was a boy. Phew. Also because he was comparing me to the other employee with my same title.

My review went kind of like this:

Me: "I don't feel I did that great this year. I only signed five contracts, and my goal was six."

Boss: "But you blew the competition out of the water! Look who you're up against! Your competition signed ZERO contracts! So you fell short by one--you can make it up next year."

Me: "But...being better than someone who does NOTHING doesn't actually mean I'm any good! Should the company really be satisfied with me just because I'm not a complete idiot? I mean, yes, my colleague deserves to be fired, but that doesn't make me good by default!" (If it sounds like I'm begging to be fired, congratulations Dr. Freud, you nailed it.)

Boss: "Well, take what you can get."

There's more, of course. There is the family drama, in which people related to me are enduring: divorces, babies, unemployment, old age, and addiction to the abuse of various illegal substances, all of which entails many, many rounds of exhausting and draining emails and phone calls. There is personal drama: jobs to apply for, vacations to Alaska to plan, 1am phone calls from ex-boyfriends to answer, mysterious hair loss to worry about, weight to lose and bills to pay.

I thought life was supposed to get easier as you got older? Lately I feel like I deserve a medal just for showing up.

Downward-Facing Duh

2009-03-07T02:53:00.002-05:00

What I have been doing instead of blogging part II: yoga.

I asked for a yoga DVD for Christmas, and my sister gave me one which I found ridiculously easy. I was so proud. I thought I was really fat and out of shape, but that workout was so easy! Clearly I must be in better shape than I thought! Then I read the package insert which said, "For larger bodies and those with physical limitations."

Should I be insulted? I mean I know I was out of shape but I don't think I needed a DVD intended for morbidly obese elderly people in wheelchairs! I was so proud that I could do a few bends and twists that after a few weeks, I attempted a more advanced workout and injured myself.

I borrowed a yoga DVD from the library that promised a different kind of yoga workout, one that was liberating and untraditional and would really help you loosen up and relax. So it involved a crazy white woman surrounded by mystical Indian people in ethnic clothing playing traditional Indian music while she writhed sensuously on the ground, undulating with her eyes closed and shouting very poor instructions, like "Let the energy flow through you! Feel it in your shoulders! Let your body move naturally!"

Meanwhile when it comes to exercise I need the kind of very clear instruction that goes, "Put your left foot forward and bend the knee at a 90-degree angle. I said 90 degrees, idiot. Now lift your arms." Needless to say in attempting to move naturally, I writhed improperly and was suddenly seized with muscle spasms from my neck all the way down the left side of my body to my toes.

I literally could not move for the pain and lay on the floor half-paralyzed and panting until the pain subsided, thinking what if I can never get up and that if I had a cat or dog they'd be eating my kidneys right now and it would be a week at least before anyone found my body. Then I gently moved to the sofa, where I watched the rest of the yoga DVD, which featured extremely fit people in hippie clothes dancing ecstatically over sand dunes. And I laughed my ass off, even though it hurt to laugh.

So, it was actually was very liberating and relaxing. I'm thinking of sending a copy to my sister.

Today I Kicked a Toilet

2009-03-06T22:55:00.002-05:00

So I made a New Year's resolution not to blog for two whole months, a resolution I've kept, and then some! I am so proud.

OK, not really. Actually, it was the opposite. I resolved to blog at least once or twice a week, then promptly developed an aversion to my laptop and could not stand even the thought of turning it on.

I think it is similar to the day I found my boss just staring at his computer. "I think I'm allergic to Word," he said. "Some days, I just can't bring myself to click on the icon. I hate it. I can't stand opening it. I'm afraid to even look at it." I really didn't know what to say to this.

Now I think I understand. I sit in front of a computer all day, and sometimes the thought of coming home to another computer makes me break out in hives.

Also, I'm a firm believer in shutting up if you have nothing to say. Not that everything I blog about is profound, but lately, I think my thoughts have been even more vapid than usual. Do people really want to hear about how today at work I kicked a toilet? Does that really need to be shared with the world, and don't I have anything better to do than share it?

Actually, today I don't, so here you go: I was in the inadequate women's restroom at work, and, as usual, the toilet wouldn't flush. This happens whenever someone attempts to use the toilet, meaning it happens about 500 times a day. So I waited for the tank to refill. I jiggled the handle. I tried to flush again. Then I jiggled the handle. Then I waited. The toilet was unresponsive. Indeed I believe it was deliberately refusing to cooperate just to get on my nerves. Yes, I'm starting to take it personally. I believe this is what is called a symptom of imminent nervous collapse.

Then I said something to the effect of, "Fuck it," kicked the toilet, washed my hands, and left the bathroom. I felt silly, but also very pleased that I had not broken my foot on the toilet which would be awkward to explain to the emergency room doctor. THE END.

So, besides kicking toilets, what have I been doing instead of blogging? Stay tuned! More exciting blog posts to follow, in which I buy yogurt at the supermarket, shovel snow, read InStyle magazine, and talk on the phone.

Enough with the Fucking "War on Christmas"

2008-12-30T11:51:00.002-05:00

I don’t really believe in the War on Christmas. Do you?

In New York and Philly I worked with a good number of Jewish people, a few Hindus and Buddhists, and very few Muslims. But I still say Merry Christmas, because it’s the holiday I’m celebrating, even if I am not particularly religious. If they say, “Thank you, but I’m Jewish,” then I say, “Well happy holiday/happy new year/have a nice day.” It’s about sharing a warm sentiment, not forcing my beliefs on people who have no interest in converting.

I have yet to have anyone snarl at me, “Look, keep your Christianity to yourself, asshole! Long live Mohammed!”

The only people who seem offended this time of year are Christians. I recently received an e-card which stated Merry Christmas, along with the following note. Is it me, or is this a little hostile and dictatorial for tidings of great joy?

I will be making a conscious effort to wish everyone
a Merry Christmas this year ...
My way of saying that I am celebrating
the birth Of Jesus Christ.
So I am asking my email buddies,
if you agree with me,
to please do the same.
And if you'll pass this on to
your email buddies, and so on...
maybe we can prevent one more
American tradition from being lost in the sea of
"Political Correctness".

The real issue, it seems to me, is why certain Christians seem to have a need to feel like an embattled minority. A brave, lonely few—rather than the largest and most prominent religion in the country—desperately fighting the good fight against the forces of evil. Why?

I know, I know…it’s very seductive to feel like the underdog. Believe me, I adore wallowing in self-pity as much as the next War-on-Christmas whiner. I love thinking the whole world is going out of its way to trip me up and destroy me. When, three days before Christmas, I found out my car needed over $600 of repairs, I was convinced the Universe itself was out to spite me (and made sure all of my long-suffering friends knew exactly how put-upon I felt). But then I realize that I’m just an insignificant speck of dust and no one gives a damn about me or my problems, much less is going out of their way to cause them, and all is right with the world.

Also, was it really “political correctness” that started this alleged war? When conservatives whine about the War on Christmas, I can’t help but recall that the phrase “Happy Holidays” wasn’t even on my personal radar until I went to work for a big corporation. The small, privately owned company I originally worked had no problem talking about the “company Christmas party” or the “Christmas bonus.” Conversely, the large multinational companies where I’ve worked, terrified of alienating a potential source of profit or savings, whether they be a Hindu vendor in India, a Muslim colleague, or a Jewish customer, issues generic greeting cards that say “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings.” After all, you wouldn’t want to lose out on those Hannukah or Kwanzaa dollars!

Big business is the true take-the-Christ-out-of-Christmas sellout. They’re so eager to make a buck and turn this religious holiday into a festival of secular spending that they use any means necessary to lure shoppers to the mall. So listening to pro-business conservatives whine about businesses pushing “Happy Holidays” in their advertisements is a wee bit hypocritical—it sounds to me like the conservative version of liberal parents blaming “society” for their kids’ problems.

Also, it’s the big businesses that have the most to gain from swapping out “holidays” for “Christmas.” I recall a Jewish coworker telling me with a shrug that Hannukah is not even the biggest holiday in the Jewish calendar. (I forget which one is: Passover? One of them is more important, but is not timed to coincide with Christmas, and so goes ignored by Macy’s and Walmart.)

She seemed to imply that, if anything, there was a “War on Judaism”—that Hannukah was being misconstrued simply because of its place in the calendar, taken over by corporate America and the media and remade into a big, gift-giving, gluttonous, Festival of Mass Consumption, the better to compete with Christmas, rather than the smallish holiday it actually was.

She said when they were growing up, they didn’t really receive tons of big gifts. It wasn’t “eight crazy nights,” it was a few small things—chocolate coins, coloring books, scarves and mittens, a cassette tape, and of course, the dreidel toy. Not a Wii, an I-Phone, a new Ralph Lauren cashmere coat, jewelry. She was like, “Yeah, we’d light a candle, say a prayer, open up some candy. Hannukah was never a big deal.”

Could it be that big department stores are the ones who really have the most to gain from convincing non-Christians that Hannukah and Kwanzaa are BIG, BIG GIFT-GIVING HOLIDAYS? I don’t know a single Christian who, frankly, gives a damn what Jews or Muslims do to celebrate, as long as it doesn’t involve freaky music blaring at all hours of the night. I don’t know any weak-minded fool whose faith is so flimsy that they are going to stop going to church or not put up a Christmas tree simply because someone wished them “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” But retailers certainly care, and are willing to alter their decorations and advertising language to suit their myriad customers.

According to Wikipedia:

In the United States, "Happy Holidays" (along with the similarly generalized "Season's Greetings") has become the common greeting in the public sphere within the past decade, such as department stores, public schools and greeting cards.

Exactly! Among my friends, family, and acquaintances, people I know well enough to know their religious affiliation, we say Merry Christmas to each other. In the PUBLIC SPHERE, i.e, at work, school, and in stores where I’m simply exchanging pleasantries with a sales clerk, I may say Happy Holidays or whatever.

Frankly, given my misanthropic bent, the fact that I’m wishing them well AT ALL is cause to rejoice, since my true sentiments are more likely to be, “And could you move any slower, dipshit? Oh, now you’re going to WRITE A CHECK IN THE EXPRESS LINE—are you aware it’s the 21st century? I know leggings are back in style but what made you think YOU could pull that off? Oh, an Annoying Yappy Elmo doll. Thanks a lot. I look forward to sitting next to your child on a plane! Like his constant seat-kicking and screaming isn’t bad enough!”

Instead I smile and say Happy Holidays.

Some advocates of the phrase view it as an inclusive and inoffensive phrase that does not give precedence to one religion or occasion. Critics view it as an insipid alternative to "Merry Christmas", and view it as diminishing the role of Christianity in Christmas, or part of an alleged secular "War on Christmas".[4]

Again, I agree. Inclusive. Inoffensive. I’m not trying to alter your faith. I’m saying I have no fucking idea what your faith is because you are a total stranger but, you know, supposedly Christ was all about the brotherhood and love, and ‘tis the season to be jolly, so have a nice day, OK?

Finally, if there were truly a secular War on Christmas, wouldn’t we, the secular, be warring on EVERY expression based in religious belief? Even my most stone-cold atheist friends say “Bless you,” when someone sneezes, not “Gesundheit” or “May the temporary glitch to your system not herald the onset of serious illness!”

We also say things like, “God forbid I don’t get my end-of-year bonus!”

Newsflash: I’m not actually praying to God. I’m praying to the C.E.O. But it’s just a common expression, as devoid of meaning as “Happy Holidays.” It’s not making me more religious to say it.

I feel like it doesn’t really matter what anyone says—there are always going to be the loudmouth Hannity/Coulter/O’Reilly types who just need an excuse to be outraged, because it gets them ratings and book sales and gives shape to their otherwise unproductive lives. It’s so much easier to rail and rebel AGAINST an imagined enemy, than to work to positively construct something solid and real. Why work up a sweat by, say, building and operating a Christian orphanage, when you can just go on TV and complain about Everyone Else?

They should thank their secular “opponents”—without them, what would any of these people actually DO for a living? At least priests lead congregations. What is sadder than a pundit without an audience? Oh, right—lots of things, like children left homeless and dying of dysentery and malaria following a natural disaster. But let’s not waste time trying to do anything about that! Not when there’s the War on Christmas to fight!

The truth is that secular folk really aren’t thinking about Christians at all. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Have a Nice Day—whatever. Seriously. We really are that self-absorbed. The ones who aren’t, are busy volunteering at Planned Parenthood and donating money to animal shelters and the Sierra Club. That’s kind of the point. If we don’t care enough to go to church, what makes you think we care enough to war against you? There are way more interesting wars to fight.

As for me, I send out my Christmas cards based on how cute ‘n cheap they are, not what the pre-printed message says. If the most affordable box of cards with the prettiest picture says Happy Holidays, oh well.

Try to keep up, Christmas! Maybe you just need cooler artists!

(Also, it seems tacky to talk about a "war" on Christmas when there is a real war going on, fought by real soldiers, not retailers and advertising reps.)

Gifts from Boys to Girls

2008-12-21T09:23:00.004-05:00

It's so hard to shop for a gift for anyone, much less a significant other. I know, because I am hard to shop for (or so I've been told), and also I find it impossible to shop for anyone I'm dating. It's one thing when your mom gives you a Winnie the Pooh nightgown. Moms are old, and nostalgic; they may forget you aren't four years old anymore. It happens.

But how could a boyfriend think of you in that way? Is he seeing someone else? Why else would he give you a Winnie the Pooh nightgown? Why would he give you a cordless electric screwdriver, if not to say, "I don't love you anymore. Do your own home repairs, I'm outta here?"

Is it me? Do I read too much into these things?

Bad Gift #1: The Cordless Screwdriver, Part One

Rationale: "But you needed it!"

Moral: Girls may NEED power tools. We may WANT power tools. However, with this gift, timing is crucial. The time to give a woman power tools is on a Saturday when she has some work to do around the house, just to show you care. The time NOT to give a woman power tools is Christmas, her birthday, or Valentine's Day. On these days, am I wrong to expect perfume and theater tickets, not chainsaws and staple guns?

Bad Gift #2: Cubic Zirconia Earrings

Rationale: "I had some leftover travelers checks and was at Macy's. I didn't know what else to get for twenty bucks."

Moral: Fake diamonds? Do I give you fake blow jobs?

It's not like I'm a snob. I wear fake jewelry. I like fake jewelry. Fake jewelry is what I buy for myself. My mom forces fake jewelry on me all the time, under the assumption that a woman who is not bedazzled is not truly a woman and I'd probably be married by now if I just dressed up a bit more.

However, handing a woman a small velvet box with something shiny inside has become too much of a Major Event. You have to make sure what's in the box is worth the build-up.

If you only have $20 to spend, buy chocolate or even a cute Tshirt, buy food and cook her a nice dinner. Just don't buy the shame of having female family members gush over the sparkly thing on her finger and then, when they find out it's fake, stare at her with deep pity. Pity is never a thoughtful gift.

Also, it will backfire as your girlfriend's female relatives will then begin to relentlessly hound you at every gathering with "So when are you going to exchange that for the Real Thing, huh?" Nudge nudge! You don't want to do that to yourself.

Bad Gift #3: The Cordless Screwdriver, Part Two

Moral: There is no moral, only angst. Why do people keep buying me cordless screwdrivers?!

Even great gifts can backfire, through no fault of the giver. I received a cashmere scarf from a man who wasn't my boyfriend, but wanted to be, so it came with a huge helping of guilt and angsty "should I really accept this expensive scarf when I know I'm never going to sleep with him?" I also received a Coach handbag from a boyfriend, which was nice, but then I was bored with it within a year yet felt obligated to continue carrying it seeing as how he'd spent over $250 on it. (Could it be I broke up with him just so I had an excuse to stop carrying the old bag? No, of course not.)

I received two poems in college, which was nice, except one was from a good friend who then became an awkward not-friend, and one was from a pseudo-hippie who self-published an embarrassing pamphlet of poetry and quotes cribbed from French novels, and used to frequent the diner where I worked, which then made it awkward when he came in for coffee. Still, I liked receiving the poems, since I hardly consider myself the kind of woman men wrote poetry for (and considering I didn't date either of them, I'm probably not).

Another time my then-boyfriend bought me a Crock Pot. I can't recall how this came about, but since it wasn't given on a birthday or Valentine's Day, I didn't mind. I still have that Crock Pot. I've finally gotten to the point where I can make chili without thinking of who gave it to me.

Maybe expectations are too high when romance is involved. Maybe I've read too many articles about celebrity couples who exchange sports teams, castles in Europe and bracelets that cost more than my life insurance policy.

I feel like I don't care what I get, as long as it doesn't cause me to think, "A gift certificate to a seafood restaurant? My God, you don't know me at all." (Everyone knows I hate seafood. Everyone. I'm sure even Barack Obama knows at this point.) It just seems to make sense that the person you spend the most time with, should know you the best. But oddly, this often isn't the case, and gift-giving time is when the truth comes out.

For example, once I lost my favorite pair of sunglasses. They were plastic and cost maybe $20. When I received a replacement pair as a gift, I was extremely happy. He was paying attention! That's really all I want, I think: proof that he's actually, you know, listening.

I want a gift that says: I think you are beautiful, feminine, smart, and perfect in every way.

I do not want a gift that says: Cook for me, clean up after me, you are so practical and down-to-earth (read: dull) and easy to talk to, which is great, because then I don't have to try so hard with you as I do with other women who need to be impressed with fancy jewelry and perfume, and because you are such a hearty, hefty peasant women, I know this plough will come in handy in the garden, and because you are such a big pushover I know you won't complain no matter what, because you have to be grateful to get anything, because you are hideous and I don't really love you enough to make an effort. Enjoy your cordless screwdriver!

OK, I answered my own question. I do think too much about these things.

I don't think I'm great at buying gifts for men, but I blame them. I don't know if guys are less materialistic than women, but basically, guys seem to need less stuff. And the stuff they do want tends to be extremely specific and/or expensive and/or dull. He may need shirts and ties and boxer shorts, but that's dull. He may want a flat-screen TV, but that's too freaking expensive. Perhaps he likes golfing or computers or building robots in the basement, but how the hell would I even begin to know what kind of special, specific piece of equipment would be useful to his hobby? And chances are, if he's really that into the hobby, he already has everything he needs, because when someone loves something that much they don't hesitate to buy it for themselves.

And guys just don't like...stuff. You can't get off easy with an adorable set of miniature candles or lotions or soaps or lip glosses in six flavors including Gingerbread, Vanilla Cupcake, and Candy Cane. You can't give them cute little ornaments or knick-knacks, even if it is in the colors of their favorite sports team. And a guy who owns one nice leather manicure set owns one nice leather manicure set too many, because he's only ever going to steal the toenail clippers out of his girlfriend's manicure set anyway.

So I've given a lot of crummy, boring gifts to guys. Sweaters, books, new electric razors, wool socks, I don't know. I don't even know what to get my brothers. I know they like video games, but they buy the ones they want for themselves the minute they're released, leaving nothing to chance. One of them hunts, but I'm not giving someone a box of ammo for Christmas.

But unlike me, guys don't seem to read anything into it. At least if they have, I've never noticed. They just don't seem to care. "A sweater? That's nice." It gets chucked in the corner where it sits, tags still attached, until I pick it up and take it to the Salvation Army. There's no ill will.

As far as I can tell, the only thing men like about the holidays is the food. As long as there is lots of meat and potatoes and pasta, followed by cookies and coffee, they are happy and consider the day a success. I've now met at least four men who say that Thanksgiving is their favorite holiday, and why wouldn't it be? They get to eat and watch football. No high-pressure gift exchange, and the women do the cooking.

Last summer I had drinks with a guy who told me he'd recently had a physical and his doctor had given him the all-clear. He was totally healthy, which was great considering he'd really been wild in his 20s and was glad to settle down now knowing he had low cholesterol and no STDs. This was within one hour of meeting him for the first time. I suppose when it comes to romance, I should just be grateful never to have received the infamous gift that keeps on giving.

Fortunately I'm not dating anyone right now, so I'm off the hook this year, for both shopping and STDs. But rinsing out the Crock Pot and putting it back on the shelf makes me think of these things.

What is the best gift to buy for a significant other? Have you ever received a truly terrible gift from someone who should know better, considering they've been sleeping next to you for months or years? Have you ever given a gift that made someone cry--and not with tears of joy?

The Gift That Keeps On...

2008-12-19T19:13:00.006-05:00

What IS "the gift that keeps on giving?" Where did this expression come from, and what does it mean?

Wikipedia has not been helpful. Google turned up an article on sperm, in which a man is suing for emotional distress after his ex-lover used his stored sperm to have a child after they'd broken up. It also turned up references for subscriptions to The Economist, Sarah Palin, the House ethics committee, Christian values, a new French holiday film, and anything else that, like the Energizer bunny, goes on and on and on.

And here I always thought it was a sarcastic expression referring to herpes! Then I heard it in an unironic context, like in a TV commercial for a mattress warehouse. Whenever the holidays come around, I see it applied to everything.

Jelly of the Month Club? It's the gift that keeps on giving, because you get a new jar of jelly every month!

A new television set? Netflix subscription? It's the gift that keeps on giving, because you can use it all year, not just one day. But shouldn't that be true of most gifts? If that's the criterion, than shouldn't a sweater or pair of slipper socks also be a gift that keeps on giving?

How about constructive criticism? If someone tells you you really need to lose weight, and the comment stays with you, forever and ever, and even after you've lost 20 pounds you still keep thinking about it and thinking you're a terrible person every time you eat a cube of cheese, could that not be considered a gift that kept on giving--reminding you to improve yourself while trashing your self-esteem year after year?

Or a bad habit? If you're 14 and a friend hands you a cigarette and says, "Come on, do you always have to be Little Miss Pure and Perfect?" and you develop a lifelong habit that you can't kick, is that a gift that kept on giving?

And then there are the gifts that come back to bite you in the ass, again and again:

Actually, this one wasn't really a gift--more like an act of charitable malice on my part. Charitable, because the talking Rosie O'Donnell doll, a what-the-fuck-was-he-thinking gift to a friend from an uncle, was headed for the scrap heap. She was on her way out to the Dumpster when I stepped in, maliciously recognizing her power to serve as an irritant of almost unfathomable potency.

She chuckles with evil glee: Heh heh heh!

She baby-talks: "What a cutie patootie!"

She encourages: "Dreams come true--with Rosie!" (And without Rosie? Dream on, kid!)

She sexually harasses: "Give us a kiss! Mwwwaahh!"

I brought Rosie to the office, where she provided at least a full day's torment before I abandoned her. When I left the job, I left Rosie to the care of an apathetic colleague.

Shortly after starting my new job, I received a FedEx package. Out flopped Rosie, squealing "What a cutie patootie!" in the silent, grim white morgue that is my new office. I kicked her under the desk, where she lived for several weeks while I strived to find her a new home.

When that didn't happen, I decided she'd had a good, long reprieve from the Dumpster, a few years at least, and It Was Time. But as I tried to put her in the trash can, a coworker happened to gaze upon her. It was love at first "Give us a kiss!" Rosie moved to a spare chair, and has lived there ever since. One woman has developed a disturbing fondness for the doll, and will often come over and cuddle it.

Last week a coworker received a gift bag from our boss. (He was the only one in the department to receive a personal gift from the boss.) It contained several items, among them a toy windup train and a pair of felt reindeer antlers.

Or are they horns? There is a difference between antlers and horns which my sister-in-law, a wilderness recreation management major, once took pains to point out to me. In what had to be an immense faux pas in Montana, I incorrectly referred to an elk as having one or the other, and she was horrified. And now I can't remember, but probably in New York no one will know or care.

Anyway, knowing they were destined for regifting or recycling, I claimed the antlers for Rosie right away. Doesn't she look festive? In an office lacking in holiday cheer, Rosie does her best to keep our spirits uplifted.

Maybe the Talking Rosie Doll is the gift that keeps on giving. Never have so many been so irritated for so long, over something so little. Oh well. Beats herpes. I guess.

The Real Patriot Day

2008-11-04T08:56:00.007-05:00

To bed at 12:30am, up at 5:30am, throw on clothes and brush teeth, walk a few blocks down the street, get to the polls at 6:15 (since they open at 6 and I like to vote before work)...figure I'll be done by 7:30 at the latest, then can go home, shower, make it into work by 9...

Wow.

At least it wasn't raining.

These pictures don't do it justice--I would have needed a wide-angle lens or something my more talented photographer friends would know about. The line formed a U shape, running down Parkside Avenue from the school, around the corner and down Bedford Ave, and then 3/4 of the way down the next street. Hundreds of people--at the very least. Elderly people, people in wheelchairs, parents with kids, a dog on a leash, and me, wishing I'd brought coffee and donuts.

Today was one of the rare few days--OK, probably "brief moments"--when I actually don't hate all of humanity. Or resent standing on line and waiting. I was so proud of my fellow citizens!

I waited on line over 3 hours, from 6:15 to 8:30. Of course, bitching must enter into my blog post somewhere, so: Why does the U.S. not make Election Day a national holiday with paid time off, like other civilized countries? Why is it so difficult to vote? I'm lucky I am single, child-free, and work for a company that wouldn't notice if I didn't show up at my desk for at least a month. Other people have to call out sick, make up time, take vacation days, drag the kids out of bed at 5am so they can vote before work...can we put this on the ballot for the next election?

Voting should not be a hardship. Shouldn't Election Day be the real Patriot Day?

Welcome to the Morgue

2008-10-14T09:04:00.006-04:00

I feel so guilty about writing page after page of catty comments about my Dear Leader in my last post.

How could I display such blatant favoritism? I should know better than to discriminate on the basis of rank or salary. Focusing on THE PRESIDENT OF THE COMPANY when so many other colleagues are equally deserving of scorn was both unfair and unkind. I must rectify that mistake immediately.

It's been said that you learn more from your failures than from success. It is certainly true that I've learned more about office politics and management from toxic workplaces and bad bosses than from any of the pitifully few positive work experiences I've had. Working at this company under the guidance of our Dear Leader has shown me how important the character of the person in charge is. You may never see them, speak to them, or know what the hell they do all day, but if you're happy at your job, chances are he or she is not a complete ass. Or, as I used to say in defense of a previous boss, "Sure, he may be a dick, but he's a dick who's on my side, so it's good."

So here is a quick roundup of the shining stars of my current workplace...the employees I like to think of as the Spawn of Dear Leader.

Ditsy Assistant

The Excellence in Hiring Award this year goes to...our Dear Leader!

Ditsy Assistant got her job by watching YouTube videos at work. You see, she used to be someone else's ditsy assistant before she was transferred/promoted to become Dear Leader's special executive ditsy assistant. Walking by her desk one day, the President of the Company noticed she was watching YouTube videos. He stopped and asked what she thought she was doing.

"Oh my God, have you ever seen this one! It's so funny! Here, watch!" chirped Ditsy.

This is one of the occasions on which I'm sure Dear Leader regrets fostering a "just a regular guy" attitude among his staff.

Here is a little quiz. Knowing Dear Leader by description (and perhaps having seen the movie Office Space), what did he do next?

A) Fired Ditsy on the spot
B) Talked to Ditsy's manager; suggested she pay more attention to her staff
C) Issued a memo reminding the staff about the corporate internet usage policy
D) Giggled; told Ditsy he'd already seen it, but it was worth watching twice!
E) Gave Ditsy a job as his own special executive assistant

If you answered E), congratulations.

I've been watching YouTube diligently for several weeks now* and no one has offered me a promotion! Whatever am I doing wrong?

*not really--except once when manager Loona emailed department the video preview of the Ricky Gervais ghost movie and insisted we all watch it.

Golden Boy

I don't know what went on at this office before my arrival, except to say that there is one employee who for some reason is utterly, utterly beloved of both Loona, his immediate supervisor, and Dear Leader. I don't hate him. He's never done anything to me. I just want the magic amulet he wears that allows him to hypnotize everyone into worshipping him. Seriously it is like something out of Harry Potter. Either that or he has serious dirt on both Loona and Dear Leader.

If I come in 20 minutes late, my supervisor is upset. Brett strolls in around 10, sometimes 10:30 or 11. No one says a thing. If I leave at 5, Dear Leader lets it be known that he wishes the employees would show a little more ambition and dedication, by staying late. Brett usually leaves around 4:30, sometimes 3. Brett has probably taken twice as many sick and vacation days as he is capable of accruing. What else? Oh yes. How could I forget?

Example 1:

The conference call was scheduled to last an hour. Twenty minutes into the call, one manager sees Brett, a key party to the call, walk past his office in the direction of the elevators, wearing his jacket and carrying a large duffel bag. The call, between senior manager Loona, a mid-level manager, assistant Brett, and a dozen freelancers, continues.

Manager: "I think Brett can answer that question. Brett, what do you think?"

(Silence. Proverbial chirping of crickets, etc.)

Manager: "Um, well, so. On to the next issue. I think that's a great idea, Sarah. Brett, can you make a note of that and remind me next week to call Sarah about the software?"

(Silence. More crickets.)

Manager: "Etc. And if you have any questions, make sure to call Brett! OK, Brett? Can you send everyone your email address so they can contact you?"

(Silence. Crickets now dead.)

This goes on for another forty minutes, with the senior executive continuing to refer to Brett and ask him questions, not realizing he has not only left the conference call but the building. Repercussions: none. This is Brett we're talking about, people.

Example 2:

Setting: conference room with entire department, including three assistants, in attendance

Manager: "Well, at least there won't be team-building exercises at the company picnic this year."

Brett: "Oh, God. I'd quit."

Manager: "Oh no, YOU can't quit! You're my most handsome and talented assistant!"

Other two assistants sit in stoic silence. They know that no matter how hard they work, they will never be as beloved as the handsome and talented Brett.

Example 3:

One day, several managers were standing around gabbing on company time, as managers will. One has an especially loud voice. Brett finds this irritating. He emails Dear Leader, who is traveling in Europe on business, saying he cannot work under these conditions. Dear Leader forwards the email to his managers, along with a note telling them to stop talking, as they are disturbing Brett.

The Suck-up

In my last post I discussed Suck-up, who is beloved of Dear Leader for her ability to laugh and find wit and charm in absolutely everything he says. Suck-up once forgot to go on a business trip to Europe. Her excuse was that the trip was planned so far in advance that of course she forgot, I mean, it was six months ago. Why didn't her boss remind her?

Actually that's a valid queston. Boss? Um. The boss forgot, too. Dear Leader could hardly fire or punish a lowly mid-level employee for having forgotten to do what her boss, a high-level executive, had forgotten to remind her to do. It's a case of two negatives adding up to a positive!

Meanwhile, I was gently chastised for having spent $150 on cab rides during a business trip. How spendthrift of me! Don't I know that Suck-up needs that money to buy $700 plane tickets for trips she doesn't even take?

Hipster Hell

My coworkers do not speak to me.

At all.

Ever.

At gunpoint, maybe. (The company picnic counts as gunpoint.)

After three weeks of the silent treatment, I broke down and mentioned it to my boss. "Is it me? I mean, I don’t want you to think I took this job just to socialize, but--I'll be honest, this is starting to FREAK ME OUT. Was it something I said? Is it because I'm older than they are? [I'm 34, they're 26, 27.] Are they just shy? 'Cause I can't take this anymore. It's worse than a library. It's like working in a morgue!"

They don't even say hello or good morning. If I pass them in the hallway they look away and avoid eye contact. If I'm in the elevator with them they pretend not to see me. If I force them to make eye contact, they half-nod and look away quickly, as if I'm actually causing them physical pain by forcing them to acknowledge my existence. They only speak to each other, and then they whisper. In meetings they only sit beside each other, and make private jokes, and giggle and whisper as if it's junior high study hall.

"Is this some kind of ritual hazing?" I asked my boss.

"No," he said. "They treat everyone that way. And I don't think it's your age. I've seen them ignore the assistants who are only 24."

I am baffled. I feel like the middle-aged mom of teenagers who scowl and stay locked in their rooms all day and don't kiss Mommy good night anymore. I wonder, Why do they inexplicably hate me? The truth is they don't even notice me. They don't hate me; they don’t even think about me. It's just that in their world, I don't exist.

Of course this attitude is infinitely more contemptuous and dehumanizing than open mockery. It's the ultimate in condescension: you are beneath my notice.

Is it because I'm old? I'm 34, they're around 26 or 27. That's a significant age difference, but not so significant that you can't say, "Hi, how was your weekend?" I have friends in their 20s and friends in their 50s. Some are single, some are married, some have kids, some have cats. Of the last two guys I dated, one was 24 and one was 37. I am kind of proud of this. I like being the kind of person who can find common ground and interests with a variety of people.

It's not as if I don't discriminate based on age at all, but if an older coworker starts a conversation with me, I don't ignore them. We're all stuck in this stupid place together after all.

Fortunately, I have run into this type of person before. This is what happens when you hire hipsters. So pained and humiliated at having to work at a demeaning day job, they resolve to pay as little notice to it, and its associated persons, as possible. They close their eyes and think of England, and how totally cool it would be to live in a country where you can be on the dole and get paid to spend all day texting--I mean, working on their art.

In true self-absorbed fashion, they seem to be unaware that everyone feels that way, from the mom who'd rather be home with her kids, to the guy whose fantasy is to make a living building model planes or taste-testing barbeque sauce, and the nice older lady who wishes she could support herself making crafts such as crocheted Halloween decorations. The less hip folks just hide their craving for a more fulfilling career, and make the best of a boring day job. They know that often your friends at work are often just that--people you only talk to because you work with them. You don't have to like them or want to be like them. But didn't your mommy teach you any manners? Would it kill you to be civil?

But making the best of a bad situation might mean acclimating yourself to it. It might mean you grow to accept it...see it as not so bad after all...kind of even grow to like it just a little, well, certain parts of it, like lunch hour and free use of the color copier. You'll grow cozy there. Next thing you know, you'll grow old there. Next thing you know, you're in the lunch room, crocheting Halloween doilies for your grandkids.

So they hold themselves apart. Because this might be what they do 40 hours per week, but it isn't who they are. (OK, in Brett's case, maybe 15 hours per week.)

The sad thing, this ploy works. Dear Leader and Loona stand in awe of the hipsters, their brave, brazen refusal to do any work and haughty disdain for their coworkers. Attitude is everything, and if you think you're better than everyone else, there will always be people who believe you. Having long ago given up on their own youthful dreams of a creative life and settled into comfy corner offices and high salaries, they seem to enjoy reliving their youth through their employees.

Hmm...do you think it's significant that neither Dear Leader nor Loona has children of their own onto whom they can project their unfulfilled hopes and dreams?

The toxic presence of Dear Leader is rivalled only by the toxic presence of his Chosen Ones, his favored employees who can do no wrong (they really can't do wrong, because they do nothing). It's a pretty small department. In a department of 40 people, you can probably have a disdainful clique of 3-5 people with no noticeable effect. In a small, supposedly close-knit group of 5-10 employees, having even one or two poisonous members can trash morale.

I'm watching the slow poisoning of the department. When Brett walks in two hours late and leaves an hour early--and then anothe assistant is given extra work, because Brett is "too busy" to handle anything extra--the less-favored assistants start wondering why they bother. The few truly competent, hard-working members of the group have begun mimicking the behavior of the chosen ones, having finally figured out that no matter how hard they work, they will never compete with the Chosen Ones.

Recently, an assistant was reprimanded when her supervisor caught her working on her resume at her desk. Later it was discovered that the same assistant, paid on an hourly basis, had learned how to log on to the timeclock system from home. She was logging on at 8am from home, then showing up at the office at 10am. No one would have noticed, except she had the gall to complain about a discrepancy in her paycheck, forcing her supervisor to review her timesheets.

This girl used to be the most reliable and hard-working person in the office, and in a few months I've watched her grow more and more cynical, disgusted and openly hostile. Why should she bother working, when clearly sucking up is the key to success?

I won't pretend it doesn't affect me. My work ethic is only so strong. How can I resist temptation? I'm only human...when Suck-up pretends she didn't have time to finish her project because she spent all day on YouTube, I procrastinate and put my project off for another day. Because seriously? The standards here are now so low that doing ANY WORK AT ALL wins you accolades. Manager Loony often praises me and says I'm doing excellent work. Meanwhile I feel some shame, knowing I'm not doing excellent work--I'm just showing up and doing the bare minimum. But in this place, where a manager considers herself blessed if her staff shows up at all, much less displays the stamina and fortitude to make it through an entire grueling hour-long conference call, that truly is excellent.

Nag me to start looking for another job. Please. You'll be doing me a favor. The zombies are eating my brain and turning me into one of them.

The Emperor with No Clothes is Still the Emperor

2008-10-12T20:21:00.007-04:00

Disclaimer: Sorry for the super-long post!

When I started this blog I decided not to write in too much detail about my personal life, mainly so that employers and ex-boyfriends could not track me down. I like having a space where I can vent without having to worry about hurt feelings and company confidentiality policies. Pointing out that the emperor has no clothes is all very well and good, but the emperor is still the emperor, even if he is a naked fool, and I don't need to lose my job because of a few catty remarks.

I won't lie. It's tough. How I long to bitch and complain about my job! The immense self-will it takes to hold back is sometimes more than I can bear, but I've held strong. Until now.

I've never devoted an entire post before to my contempt for one person, but the person in charge of the company I work for--I'll call him President--brings out the worst in me.

What a petty little man. I am embarrassed to work for this creature. How do people like this end up in charge? How do people like this always end up in charge? (OK, maybe only 99% of the time.)

Why do I even have contact with this man? Right away, the fact that I have to be in touch with someone three or four rungs above me on the corporate ladder is a sign that something is wrong. Micromanagement, anyone? Normally, your immediate supervisor shields you from having to deal with higher-ups. At this company, I have three bosses, all of whom contradict each other daily.

Imagine a balding middle-aged bespectacled man under the delusion that he is a character from Will & Grace or possibly, in his wildest dreams, one of the sidekicks from Sex & the City. A high-school science teacher, a nerd all grown up, but playing the wrong role--Bill Gates cast as a male prostitute.

His attempts at dry wit leave everyone in the office cringing, except the solitary suck-up who laughs at everything and who is, not surprisingly, one of his special favorites. He tries to turn everything into a sexual innuendo, apparently thinking that this is only creepy if you're heterosexual.

He is possibly the worst manager I've ever worked for. Even the previous holder of that title had some basic social skills and was a nice person, lack of management skills aside. This one can get away with murder and will never have to pay a price 'cause hey, his boss is in Europe. No one knows what he does here in the U.S. office. It's good to be a dictator.

Cringe #1: Paging Oscar Wilde!

The Setting: a large meeting in a conference room

Sales Manager: "We really have to think about whether we want to take this route. Do we want to trade increased sales for the loss of autonomy, and the possible perception that we may be selling our brand too cheaply?"

President: "Well you know me. I'm a total whore!"

He then giggles, sits back and lets middle-aged women in the room titter at his oh-so-risque language. He said "whore!" In a business meeting! Envelope, consider yourself pushed! What next? Will NASA launch a satellite to Uranus?

And give me a break, the man's a middle-aged fussbudget who was married to a woman before discovering his inner gayness late in life. I can't vouch for his whorishness but I'm willing to bet the average sorority girl could outscore him in So You Think You're a Whore (patent pending) and Are You Sluttier Than a Seventh Grader? (patent pending) any day.

Cringe #2: Jon Stewart Wishes He Could Be This Funny

President: "Who was that on the phone?"

Ditsy Little Assistant: "Oh, just a solicitor. I told them we weren't interested."

President (Loudly, making sure entire office can hear): "Well I should think not! No solicitors here! No solicitation in the office!"

Me: (What has he got against British attorneys?)

Then, for all of us who refused to get the joke and were obstinately allowing the office to fester in awkward silence, he said it again, only louder, and spelled it out: "No solicitation in the office! No streetwalking here!"

Office Workers: cringe, emit tired, obligatory titter: "Haha."

Suck-up: "Then I need a raise!"

President: "Get a part-time job."

Suck-up: "I thought this already was."

Suck-up strolls in at 10, then leaves at 3:30 or 4:30. During the day she updates her blog, watches YouTube videos, is on Gmail constantly and Instant-Messaging incessantly. (NO, Suck-up is not ME. Nice try.) And then has the audacity to joke about treating her job like a part-time job, all of which she can get away with because she is the Suck-up. An emperor with no clothes still needs a jester.

Cringe #3: Come Here Often? Would You Like To?

He flirts with all the young men of the office, hovering around their desks, trying to act all casual as if chatting them up isn't the only reason he's there. If they call out sick, he makes sure to follow up. This is the President of the company, a man in his early 50s who has no reason at all to be talking to young assistants who do not report to him.

My immediate supervisor may inquire about my health after a sick day, but not my boss's boss, nor my boss's boss's boss. When I was 23 I doubt I could have told you the name of the company president or vice-president, much less had him stopping by my desk to coo over our mutual hobbies or love of a particular TV show. And if he had, I would have thought he was creepy.

President: "How is your migraine, Martin? I'm so sorry to hear you were sick yesterday. Did you take your medicine and drink lots of water and stay in bed?"

It's not so much his words as his tone here. His words are, "Did you take your medicine, Martin?" His tone oozes, "Ooh, ickle Mar-Mar! Did you wamembuhs your medicine, ickle baby?"

Nubile Young Goodman Martin: "Uh, yeah, thanks. Took some Tylenol. Worked out great."

(I think the young men of the office, normally articulate, actually grow more stereotypically masculine and monosyllabic in his presence. Is this a straight-guy defense against being picked up by a gay guy? Would replying in complete sentences be seen as welcoming his flirtation? Is putting on a caveman air the appropriate manly way to defer unwanted advances?)

President: "Well I'm so glad to hear it! Can't have you out sick now can we? Why the entire office would simply cease functioning! Hee hee!"

Office: silently gag

Needless to say, anyone in the office who is a) female or b) over 30, need not worry about the President lowering himself to inquire after their health. Which leads me to...

Cringe #4: It's OK 'Cause I'm Gay

He thinks that being gay means it is OK to be chauvinistic and sexist in the workplace. For me the key phrase here is "in the workplace." Outside of work, by all means, whore it up and hate on women as much as you want. It's a free country. In the office, thought, I appreciate the bland mask of professionalism, more than I ever would have thought.

For example, he once opened a book on female sexual anatomy and began mocking it, while a straight, married male employee listened awkwardly, saying, "Uh. Huh. Um. Yeah?" as he went on about how icky-poo the lady parts are and how glad he is to be out, so he no longer has to pretend to like women's bodies.

Could a straight guy get away with this? Could this be considered hate speech? Sadly, I was not present at that display--remember, he speaks one-on-one only to the young MEN of the office, and he's dumb but not that dumb. Guys may be just as offended, but will almost never complain.

I'm normally not so uptight. I recently had to attend a meeting at which a crusty bastard old enough to be my grandpa started going on about "you young ladies today, if you really wanted to be professional you'd wear skirts not pants!" and also about "vaginal waxings, now why would girls want to do that?"

My immediate supervisor was concerned that I had been offended, but I brushed him off. It was nothing, just your garden-variety grandpa who still can't get over girls in pants. Old dog with trouble learning new tricks, annoying but far from threatening. I think talking about "vaginal waxing" (um, Grandpa, the term is bikini wax) to a woman half your age could possibly get a male colleague in trouble, but I wasn't about to cost some old coot his job over some idle chatter. Probably getting to utter the phrase "vaginal waxing" was the biggest thrill the old man has had all year.

To be offended, the man would need to be someone with authority over me, someone I'd be afraid to give the cold shoulder--like the President of the company.

Cringe #5: I'm Too Important to Wipe My Own Ass!

He thinks it is still 1950. I've never before seen this level of high-handed helplessness. He will actually say to an assistant, "I noticed a lot of mail in my inbox. Can you bring it over for me?" If he actually had time to walk by the mailroom and notice he had mail, do you think he could have picked up the stack of envelopes himself? He once ran around the office in a panic trying to find someone to dial an 800-number for him for car service, because he "didn't know how."

This reminds me of how my little brother used to manipulate me into cooking for him after school by pretending he "didn't know how" to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Some guys never grow up.

Poor President. He really wants to be a Prada-wearing Devil, but can't quite work up the requisite amount of sheer ball-busting arrogance. He is but a petty demon:

President (Loudly so entire office can hear): "Gosh, I would love some Starbucks!"

Office: Silence.

President: "You'd think that someone in the office would volunteer to go get my coffee! I don't have time to stand on that line! I mean, I am the PRESIDENT of the company!"

Office: Silence

President: "Of course I could just order someone to go get me Starbucks! I really could. But I won't! No! I won't do that."

Suck-up: "Do you want me to go get you coffee? 'Cause I don't mind!"

President: "No, no. It wouldn't be right! I cannot abuse my authority as the PRESIDENT OF THE COMPANY!"

I honestly do not think a day goes by that he doesn’t name-drop HIMSELF in conversation! Talk about insecure. The constant bragging about his exalted position--who is he trying to convince? Apparently he thought being the President came with an automatic increase in respect...but how can employees respect a man who constantly makes a fool of himself flirting with his 23-year-old assistants and trying to seem hip to current pop culture and technology, despite not knowing how to use the fax machine?

Hypocritically, I have no problem picking up coffee or lunch for my immediate supervisor. This is because I like and respect him. It's not a feminist issue, it's coworker solidarity--recognizing someone is busy and may not have time to get their own lunch, and offering to lend a hand, especially if I'm going out already. If he asked me to run to Starbucks for him, I'd do it gladly.

But not for Mr. President! Fuck that. I wonder how many harassment lawsuits are brought simply because the harasser is actually just an asshole. If only he'd asked nicely....

Cringe #6: Bow Before Nod!

President: "Do you know what she asked ME, the PRESIDENT OF THE COMPANY, to do? She asked if I could carry this contract with me to the meeting."

Ditsy Little Assistant: Silence, then giggles nervously.

He is waiting for a response, but which response is the correct one? This, in fact, is the standard response to President, even from grown men. No one can tell if he's joking or not, or which response might be the one to set him off in a rage--or a fit of jokes and giggles. Everyone walks on eggshells around Mr. Mood Swing, half-laughing with him, half-terrified he's turning against them.

Assistant: "Um...I guess, she could have sent it interoffice mail?"

President: "Exactly!"

Assistant: Sigh of relief

President: "Can you imagine, the gall, asking me, the President of the company, to carry this contract [Note: 4 pieces of standard white office paper, stapled] in my briefcase, with me, on the plane, all the way to Denver, and hand it to them at the meeting?"

Assistant: "If you want I'll be glad to mail it for you--"

President: Flouncing, fluttering hands, never-you-minding: "Oh, no. No. It's fine. I'll take it. But I am going to speak to her boss about this! She should know not to ask ME to do these things!"

What kind of manager announces to an entire office his plans to discipline an employee and complain to that employee's boss? Isn't it some kind of human-resources law that these things are usually private?

He never picks on anyone his own size. One of his favorite sayings is, "Don't make me get presidential on you!" He likes to mock his own authority, as if saying, "Come on guys, we all know I may be President but I'm still just a cool, down-to-earth guy!" But then, when people treat him like a down-to-earth guy, he flips out at the perceived slight to his authority.

"I'm the President! Don't make me get presidential on you!"

After a while I found myself saying to my immediate supervisor, "Can we put it on a Tshirt already and give it to him for Christmas?" The thing is, he'd probably like it.

By repeatedly insisting on his authority he is confessing his fear that he has none. Keep talking; you're only convincing yourself.

Cringe #7: Bite the Hand that Feeds You

His other favorite slur is "corporate." Yes, a pudgy middle-aged white guy with glasses, who wears a tie, who has a corner office, likes to criticize people by saying, "Oh, that's so CORPORATE." Other people, you see, are uptight and inflexible, not as cool or laid-back as he is.

What is it with old rich white guys trying to pass themselves off as mavericks lately? You can't occupy a corner office and also claim to be some kind of anti-authoritarian rebel. Don't make me laugh.

Cringe #8: Playing Favorites and Hip by Association

He allows anyone to get away with anything, as long as they are young and hip. Suck-up, for example, once forgot to attend a business meeting. In Europe. How do you just forget to go to Europe? The plane ticket was paid for months ago...oops...it just slipped my mind! Repercussions: none.

Meanwhile, a hard-working intern is reprimanded for using her computer to type up a paper for a class, even though she asked for her boss's permission first. Because using your PC to type a term paper is a serious issue. Not like forgetting to fly to Europe and missing a meeting.

President gets himself all a-flutter whenever one of the office hipsters is doing anything even remotely creative. He once referred to a guy with a blog as the "editor of an on-line literary magazine." He is not a fussy old man! He's cool, too! He works with all these cool young kids after all! And for the privilege he lets them walk all over him. Sometimes they even show up at the office, and do some work. If he's been a good boy.

Sigh. I know I need to find another job. I just hate to quit a perfectly decent job because the man in charge is a pompous ass. For a while, I thought it would be OK. My immediate supervisor, also not a big fan of the Pres, promised to try to act as a buffer between me and He Who Makes My Head Explode with Rage and My Soul Boil Over with Seething Contempt.

It was OK for a few weeks, until the President wigged out on me in front of dozens of people for no apparent reason. PMS that day, I guess. Literally, people were coming up to me afterward, whispering, "Are you OK?" People who hadn't even attended the meeting were asking, "What's going on? I heard something happened!"

I knew it was bad when I actually caught myself the other day on my lunch break, daydreaming about the management style of a previous CEO I had the pleasure of working for. Yes: daydreaming about management techniques, a topic that normally makes me roll my eyes and spew sarcasm. I wish we could be part of TV reality show called "Extreme Office Makeover," where management consultants come in and try to figure out why this department has such high turnover, why no one lasts longer than a year here except Suck-up.

I've discovered, after decades of trial and error, that having a decent boss is really a job satisfaction dealbreaker. For a boss I've liked and respected, I've stayed in jobs where I was way underpaid and brutally overworked. You can't really put a price on knowing that while your work may be dull and your salary less than inspiring, there is a person who counts on you, who respects you and wants to see you succeed, and is willing to go to lengths themselves to make that happen.

Similarly, I've had jobs where I was underworked and paid well, and no amount of money could convince me to stay there. I may have to sell my soul, but at least I get to choose the buyer and I do not choose you! No matter how much I made, I felt exploited or disrespected if I knew my boss didn't give a damn about me and was only out for herself or himself. Knowing that nothing you do will ever please this person or make them promote your interests over their own, makes getting out of bed in the morning difficult.

I still cannot figure out how this man got to be in charge of anything. God knows it is not because our department has such stellar productivity that it erases all criticism! I think he simply hung on for a long time...a beneficiary of bright flight. All the smart people fled this company long ago, leaving no one else left to be in charge. Why don't I ever have that kind of luck?

My One True Love

2008-09-29T10:47:00.006-04:00

I took a business trip to Chicago last weekend and while there are many fine and lovely things about the city of Chicago, there is really only one reason I'd ever go back:

Pizza, my one true love! In high school, I had a civics teacher who said, "Democracy is like sex. When it's good, it's great. And when it's bad, well, even then it's still pretty good." I've since heard variations on this phrase several times. For me, it applies to pizza. Even when it's bad, it's still pretty good. This one was awesome. Imagine a deep-dish apple pie, only instead of stuffed with tediously wholesome apples, stuffed with delicious CHEESE!

Like all true love, this one broke my heart. It came from Giordano's, a famous and crowded pizza-tourist destination. I was alone and sitting at the bar, fortunately next to another girl stranded by business and eating dinner alone. I could only eat two slices and got the rest wrapped up to go.

We walked around and ended up giving our leftover pizza away to a kid on rollerblades who asked for cash to buy food for him and his sister in exchange for reciting one of his original poems. My quick-thinking new friend said, "I have no cash, but I have this delicious pizza! But you have to say the poem first."

It was a decent poem, wisely tailored for his targeted audience, about bad choices and trying to stay off drugs. It didn't make me want to vomit or kill anyone, unlike the meeting I had attended that day. I felt the kid had earned some decent pizza. Possibly he intended to trade cold, half-eaten pizza for drugs, but if that were the case I'm sure the rollerblades were worth more. Maybe he really was hungry. He apologized for begging.

I felt good about my decision until around 11pm, when I was back to my hotel and ready for my third slice.

And until 8am, when I woke up and wanted leftovers for breakfast. Cold, congealed, leftover pizza--I'll take it over pancakes and eggs any time. Even when it's bad it's still pretty good.

I May Also Require a Sauce Policy

2008-09-29T10:04:00.008-04:00

I have been eyeing this sign for some time, longing to take a photo. I have been in quite a few McDonald's restaurants and don't think I have ever yet spotted one with an established, posted Sauce Policy--or a photo of President Bush on the wall:

Is that Coretta Scott King with the President, right below the Sauce Policy?

(*Update: Although Mrs. King did meet the President, according to Wikipedia, I think that may be the widow of Jackie Robinson. It's hard to tell from my crummy photo!)

I often hear people say "only in New York," but I think that may be too broad a statement for what may be an "only in certain parts of Brooklyn" situation. I suppose this prevents people from ordering a small coffee and four hundred packets of sugar, so they can go home and bake cookies.

I particularly enjoy "1 Jelly per Sandwich" and if I were in college would really want this sign to hang on my dorm room door. Who am I kidding? I want this sign NOW and want to hang it on my door.

This sign is right by the cash register, so I was too self-conscious to take the picture until I was in the McDonald's with my mother this weekend. Her antics, including harassing the girl behind the register ("What kind of syrups do you have for the iced coffee? You know, like hazelnut?" "We don't have hazelnut." "Good. I don't like hazelnut.") and trying surreptitiously to touch the dreadlocks of a man standing in front of her ("I always wondered what they'd feel like!" "Mom! That is harassment! That is ASSAULT! You are acting like a creepy old PERV, you are acting like AN OLD MAN, that could get you arrested! Or killed!" "Oh, relax, he didn't even notice! They were dry and rough, like rope!"), freed me to say fuck it, taking a picture in a McDonald's in Brooklyn really is not the worst thing you can do, especially if you pretend you are just, you know, testing your camera to see if the battery is dead.

I don't want to know what it says about my life that lately I have been taking photos inside fast-food restaurants. As my mother might say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"

I am ostensibly "blogging."

2008-09-20T00:42:00.006-04:00

I've been too busy and tired to think lately, much less blog. But I'm never too busy to use the bathroom, so here is a photo I took in the "bathroom" of a Wendy's "restaurant" in "Brooklyn." (I'm not actually sure my use of quotations there is incorrect, by the way...you had to see that "bathroom.") "SPARKLING!" I love it. Did I mention I'm tired?

For more fun and games, you can always visit the "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks at http://quotation-marks.blogspot.com/

Unlike me, they actually update their blog "frequently!"

I think I'm experiencing a misplaced quotation marks-related tipping point. It's starting to strike me as not amusing but sad, and instead of feeling outrage at our failing education system, I feel sorry for people. (For them or for me--I don't know.) Whenever pity creeps in, it's the beginning of the end.

Random stuff: A scrap of a poem, prayer, hymn, quote or random assortment of words on the Prospect Park subway station sign. It reads: "Just ask, just ask!" says the dew, and rolls away.

Who left this here? Why? Why here, why this poem? I spent all of five minutes searching for the quote using Google (did I mention I'm tired and busy and leaving for Chicago in a few hours?) and the closest thing I found is a Grateful Dead lyric with the line "Roll away...the dew."

I like finding random things like this. It's proof that there are people out there even more bizarre and disoriented than I am.

Reading Is Ruining My Life

2008-09-02T16:46:00.010-04:00

I recently tried to go for a whole week without reading. I allowed myself to read only as required for my work. Because my job entails a lot of online research, this quickly broke down so that reading blogs or book reviews was acceptable, as long as it was during work hours. By Friday I had broken down completely and caught myself reading a newspaper on the subway, then inhaling an entire New Yorker in one sitting, ashamed of my weakness and gluttony.

I was attempting this experiment because I think reading is ruining my life. I'm an addict, and I don't mean this ironically, as in I'm trying to brag about how incredibly well-read I am because gosh, I just read so much I can't help myself. I mean it seriously. I think I read way too much.

My mother was the first to notice this problem when I was a child. I'd be wrapped up in a book, and she'd try to make me go outside and play. I didn't need TV, Wii, or Playstation to turn me into a sedentary slob; I had a library card. I find it hard to believe that today's obesity epidemic is caused by technology. Trust me, a kid who enjoys sports will go outside and play. The kids who are becoming obese are lazy by nature. The only difference between them and me is that today's parents apparently are so terrified of child molesters and bee stings that they actually WANT their kids to stay indoors, where they can keep an eye on them, whereas my parents hurled us outdoors in any and all weather including thunderstorms and snow showers ("It's only a little water! Wear your play clothes!"), and let us ride our bikes from 9am until 8pm without wondering where the hell we were, as long as they had a little peace and quiet. Making mud pies and using them as ammunition was a common rainy day pursuit that I don't think today's neurotic neatnik parents could abide. So, obesity: blame the helicopter mom, not the poor child who probably would play outside if only he hadn't been brainwashed and given a library card and a bag of chips to entertain himself.

I read during my morning commute, during my lunch hour, during my evening commute. I read online articles and blogs when I should be working. I read while eating. When I eat breakfast, I read the cereal box, even the list of ingredients. I read when I should be cleaning, cooking, exercising, writing, catching up with friends, and in general having a life. I read in doctor's offices and on line at the post office. Sometimes I try to read while watching TV. I've tried to read while driving. I've never tried to read while having sex, but that's only because the lights are usually out, and I don't want to hurt anyone's ego. I have a problem. I think I'm reading not to enrich my life but to AVOID my life.

The problem with reading too much is that it's like exercising too much or eating too much fiber. It's such a virtuous and wholesome activity, so much better than, say, smoking or drinking, that no one will ever criticize you for it. Reading will bring you nothing but praise, often undeserved.

Even as a teenager I felt hypocritical when reading some trashy thriller brought me praise. "Wow, you must be so smart, you're always reading!" And I'd think, "No, not really...V.C. Andrews and Sweet Valley High are not making me a better person!" Cooking scrambled eggs a hundred times a day will not make you a gourmet chef. It helps, it teaches some basic skills, but it isn't everything. Similarly, reading doesn't automatically make you a more thoughtful, creative, intellectual person.

It started out innocently. I did not need to escape a horrible or abusive childhood. I needed to escape boredom. I was just so bored. I was so bored, all of the time, that I cannot, even today, find words to express this massive and all-consuming boredom. I don't think anyone has ever adequately described the epic boredom experienced by the average ten-year-old. I was criminally bored and suicidally bored. My friends and siblings and I would climb cliffs and slide down mountains and sneak through unlocked windows of strangers' homes and pick up snakes with our bare hands and try to cross rivers jumping from rock to rock. We'd sneak into friends' parents' bedrooms and check out their dads' poorly hidden porn collections. We crossed frozen lakes and fell in and almost drowned. People might say I was adventurous child, or crazy, or stupid. No. I was BORED. I would risk death to avoid boredom.

When a child does something colossally stupid, and adults scream, "What were you thinking?" and the kid shrugs and says, "I dunno," I know what they are feeling: complete, utter, and total boredom. To this day I do not trust any child alone in my apartment. What if they are as bored and bad as I was? God only knows what they'll do. Once we jumped off the roof onto an old mattress thrown on the ground just for kicks.

But eventually I grew too old for these things, or aware of my mortality, and I suppose that's when I started to read instead. When I think of my childhood, I remember three things: Sitting in identical classrooms while adults droned on and on and on. Lying on my bed, reading. Riding my bike around the neighborhood and playing in the woods. Nothing else left an impression.

I was bored on an epic scale. School bored me. Games bored me. Recess bored me. I mean, kicking a ball around in a circle--are you kidding me? I was bored in math class, bored in history, bored every day I wasn't either out running around the woods or reading. I would rather read a boring book about a boring kid sitting in a boring math class, than actually pay attention during math class.

But the more I read, the more adults praised me for being a big reader and gushed over how smart I must be.

These habits were only somewhat mitigated in college, where drinking, dating, and working took the place of reading for a year or two. In the summer I'd fall back into my old habits. Then I started working in a bookstore. I bought piles and piles of books. Some I never did get around to reading. I spent so much money I would have made more money if I'd quit. I loaded up my final year on so many English classes I had to read all summer to get ahead, because there was no way I could read that much during the year and get it all in on time. Moby Dick and Middlemarch and Vanity Fair and Wuthering Heights and Paradise Lost in five weeks? It can be done.

When I found a writer I liked, I obsessively read every last thing they wrote, every novel, short story, and letter. I'd spend weeks reading and rereading them. This is probably what scholars do. But I was not a scholar. I did not want to teach Jane Austen and F. Scott Fitzgerald, I did not want an M.A. in English literature, I did not want to open a bookstore or write reviews or run a literary magazine. I was a glutton. I just wanted to consume.

One day while reading, I realized the nature of my addiction. I came across this page in a short story by Somerset Maugham titled "The Book-Bag."

Some people read for instruction, which is praiseworthy, and some for pleasure, which is innocent, but not a few read from habit, and I suppose that this is neither innocent nor praiseworthy. Of that lamentable company am I. Conversation after a time bores me, games tire me and my own thoughts, which we are told are the unfailing resource of a sensible man, have a tendency to run dry. Then I fly to my book as the opium-smoker to his pipe. I would sooner read the catalogue of the Army and Navy Stores or Bradshaw's Guide than nothing at all....Of course to read in this way is as reprehensible as doping, and I never cease to wonder at the impertinence of great readers who, because they are such, look down on the illiterate. From the standpoint of what eternity is it better to have read a thousand books than to have ploughed a million furrows? Let us admit that reading with us is just a drug that we cannot do without--who of this band does not know the restlessness that attacks him when he has been severed from reading too long, the apprehension and irritability, and the sigh of relief which the sight of the printed page extracts from him?--and so let us be no more vainglorious than the poor slaves of the hypodermic needle or the pint-pot.

And like the dope-fiend who cannot move from place to place without taking with him a plentiful supply of his deadly balm I never venture far without a sufficiency of reading matter.

He's comparing a reader to a DOPE-FIEND? As soon as I read this passage I knew it described me. I am a dope-fiend of the printed page. Leaving the house without a book is terrifying. I will make myself fifteen minutes late for work running around trying to find some suitable reading material to shove in my bag before leaving to catch the train. What if the train breaks down and I am trapped for two hours WITH NOTHING TO READ? I started carrying a New Yorker or Metro with me, for comfort and security, like a smoker who quit but keeps a pack hidden in the house just in case. In case of emergency.

What eternity indeed. He goes on to write of the feeling of dread that comes over a reader upon entering a train car and realizing that fellow passengers have brought no reading material of their own.

It's like he was foretelling my life story. How many people carry Ipods for just this reason--not to listen to music but to avoid conversation with strangers? I will gladly enter into a conversation with a stranger bearing a book or newspaper, figuring they have brains enough to provide for their own entertainment and are therefore interesting enough to talk to, but the kind of blank who boards a plane without so much as a People magazine is clearly to be avoided.

The final straw came recently, in the last few months. I just did not have enough time to accomplish certain goals. I want to do so many things...keep up with this blog, for one. Write a few pages every day and work on some personal projects that will probably lead nowhere but keep me sane and busy. Start searching for a new job. Shop for furniture for my apartment, for clothes for an upcoming business trip, catch up with some friends, start cooking, start exercising, plan a vacation. These are not hard things to do. They might even be enjoyable. What kind of person is so busy reading they cannot plan their vacation? Was I using reading to avoid doing these things because they seem too much like work?

I'd find myself coming home, eating dinner, and immediately falling into a book. I'd look up around midnight and realize I'd better get to bed if I wanted to wake up on time for work the next day. For a while this was my routine. I couldn't figure out where my time was going. Then I realized I was reading probably 4 to 6 hours per day.

I noticed when someone asked me about the last book I read, I couldn't remember, despite reading three books in a week. I read so quickly I could hardly absorb all I was reading into my long-term memory. Almost every phrase of my conversation began, "I was reading an article about that just the other day--" or "I read a book about that--" I annoyed even myself. Don't you ever experience anything for yourself, or do you just freaking read about it? Was I missing out on life by reading too much? At the very least, there were things I wanted to do--cook, write, travel--that reading was interfering with. Unless you are a fiction editor or book reviewer what kind of a life is that?

I also wondered if my creativity would spike if I stopped reading. Maybe if I stopped drowning my imagination in the worlds and words of others, I'd be better able to come up with my own ideas. In some ways this seemed to work. In others, the best ideas I have are still those that strike me while reading someone else's work. When I was a child I loved stories so much I wanted to write my own. That hasn't changed. When I read a great story, I just think, "Wow. I'll never be that good." But when I read an average story, I think, "I could do that!" or "I could do better!" or "What if they'd done this instead..."

I tried not to read for about two weeks, then broke down and read Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. I'm not even a big Stephen King fan, but I had heard good things about his book and had to see for myself. I rationalized that it was a book about writing, and therefore didn't count as it was a productive, work-related sort of book. Like research. Then my new New Yorker came, and the new fall issue of InStyle, and I found myself falling again into my bad habits.

There is no help or hope for reading addicts, no Readers Anonymous. Can you see a bunch of pale chubby folks sitting around, drinking coffee..."Yeah, once I went on a bender, I woke up in a strange hotel room, the complete works of Dostoyevsky next to me in bed...can't even remember the titles, I suppose I read them...my wife was so worried, hadn't heard from me in weeks. Lost my job too." "That's nothing. I forgot to pick up my son from daycare...for three days. I was in the middle of the last Twilight book. Child Protective Services came. I won't get him back until I can prove I've been Stephanie Meyer-free for ninety days." "I told my wife I was going to clean out the basement, but she caught me reading my old Superman comics. She hasn't trusted me since. I told her I'd get help. We're in counselling."

But no. People actually form book groups to help them read MORE. How sick is that?Are there also drinking and smoking and heroin clubs?

So I am trying to limit myself to reading only on the train. I try not to read at home. I am not very disciplined. Even when I don't bring books home from the library, there is always the Internet. The only thing that's helped so far is thinking of all the other things I want to do that reading is keeping me from doing. I am getting better. I've only read one book in the last two weeks.

A story is truly like a drug--and I have a very addictive personality, as anyone who has witnessed my Diet Coke consumption can attest. I can't start reading a story and then just put it down and save it for later any more than I can eat half a cookie or just one M&M or turn off the radio in the middle of a favorite song. Maybe if I try to only read during my commute and my lunch break, it will help. Or maybe when I die, instead of a tombstone they will bury me beneath a pyre of books.

Smoochies Cure Deadly Art Virus

2008-08-26T21:32:00.003-04:00

Yesterday at work I found the first page of a short story someone left on the printer. Although I've often abused office equipment for personal gain, I hope I've never left evidence behind. Surely I am more devious and paranoid than that.

The story featured a female subway performance artist named Coco. Coco plays the accordion and tells fortunes. Although not terribly well-written (she considers "perspective clients"), it did have a certain bizarre, homespun charm, like outsider art. I found myself wanting to read more. I have a weakness for crackpot fortunetellers and checking my horoscope. When I was 15, I had my palm read, and not one thing came true: I was supposed to marry a tall dark-haired man and go into business with him and travel over a large body of water.

I am single, business makes my skin crawl, and it was 10 years before I’d travel overseas. If only Coco who wears nylon tights that "claim her thighs" had read my palm, who knows what future might not have come true for me?

Finding the story made me sad for two reasons. One, it was only 9:30am, and now the only interesting thing that was going to happen all day had already happened, leaving the rest of the day wide open for tedium. Two: who could the mystery author be? When you work in publishing, the answer is: everyone. I don’t think a single coworker isn’t working on a novel, applying to M.F.A. programs, blogging, or writing short stories. When you want to write, naturally you go to college and major in English. Once you have an English degree, naturally you work in publishing, preferably in New York. After that, your decline is brutal, but swift.

There is nothing like being surrounded by bitter failures all of whom know they were destined for better things. Weren’t we all? Is this all there is to life?

After ruling out my boss as the possible author, I showed him the page so we could speculate on the author. This is when I learned something that either depressed me or cheered me, depending on how you look at it.

"I almost got an M.F.A. in creative writing," he revealed. "I stopped about halfway through the program. But I used to write all the time."

I am intrigued. "What happened? Do you still write? Why'd you stop?"

"Basically, I'm not lonely anymore. Once (Name of Then-Girlfriend-Now-Wife) moved in with me, I'd come home from work, and we'd hang out together. Why sit up all night agonizing over some miserable story when I could be watching a movie with her?"

"So you were only writing because...you were lonely?"

"Yeah, I guess." He seemed to just be realizing this, as if he'd always wondered where his artistic impulse had gone and now he knew. Who needs art, when you have true love?

I once read a similar story by a writing teacher. She talked about a friend who used to write poetry, until she took up skiing and found a boyfriend and now was too happy and busy skiing to think dark tragic poetic thoughts.

That either makes me happy, or sad. Happy because hey, the more love in the world and the less loneliness, the better. Sad because does that mean art comes out of loneliness and misery? Or is this the dividing line between the real deal and the pretenders--the truly creative person will be driven to create even in the face of happiness and companionship? Plenty if not most successful authors and artists are married and have families. On the other hand, it is difficult to balance work and a relationship. I think you need to enjoy being alone, even crave spending time alone, to create meaningful work of any kind, but I don't think you necessarily need to be lonely.

After heavily editing Coco's story--and not necessarily improving it; instead of "spreading over the audience," her perfume now "seduced the audience"--we threw it away. While the temptation to embarrass someone by leaving it in a highly visible place, like the lunchroom or the Vice President's desk, was strong, I was overcome with empathy. How lonely must a person be to write, "Man troubles? Come see Coco"?

Hello, My Name is VENOM

2008-08-21T00:03:00.008-04:00

This didn't come out as clearly as I hoped: yet another photo taken in the West 4th Street subway station, of a sticker on the side of a newsstand. You can enlarge it by clicking on it.

I just loved that the person had written VENOM on the name tag, above their mini-rant about the Daily News. Clearly the work of a crazy coot (i.e., me in another 20 years).

And what is it with me and taking pictures in the subway? This one is from the Canal Street station near Chinatown. I like this tiled wall. Only subway stations that are heavily touristed get the benefit of public art, the rest just get movie posters that are defaced so instantaneously, I don't think I've actually ever seen one where the eyeballs haven't been torn out.

What do these symbols mean? Are these meant to be mah jongg tiles? I must investigate further.

Why look--another photo of the Verrazano Bridge! However did this get in here? It was taken from the Ceasar's Bay shopping center (yes the e is before the a), where a walkway overlooking the bay runs from the Kohl's and Babies R Us parking lot.

Myths of the City

2008-08-20T21:02:00.007-04:00

After six months in New York, I've hardly turned into Carrie Bradshaw. For one thing I probably outweigh her by 40 pounds. For another, I find it hard to write about living in the city, sex or no sex.

I have come to the conclusion that the main reason anyone moves to New York is to write the big I Moved to New York novel/blog/play/song. I think the Great American Novel might actually turn out to be the Great American I Moved to New York From Kansas No Less 'Cause I'm So Much Kewler Than You blog.

I know this is not true, but I am cynical and always suspect people of having the worst motives. I often think mommybloggers had children, for example, simply so they could become mommybloggers.

Being contrary, I find myself not wanting to write about living here, lest I turn into one of those people (you know, Those People). Like those boring girls who have nothing to say, then get engaged and overnight acquire all of their fiance's opinions. They're boring people who move to the big city and acquire all of its pretensions in lieu of an actual personality. Hey, I was an annoying complaining ranting blogging pain in the ass long before I lived here, damn it!

While living in Philly automatically knocks you down a peg on the pretentiousness scale, living in New York has the opposite effect of boosting you up a few notches, so the attitude is, "Well, I MUST be cool, because I live in New York."

So I dread becoming one of those girls who, having lived here for all of six months, now feels qualified to give expert advice on Life in the City, 90% of which is mindlessly repeated cliche, entirely a matter of personal preference, or just plain wrong. I'd bought into so much ridiculous crap about living in New York that I'm now irritated and avoiding all articles or blogs on the subject. It's like everything else in life. You just have to do it yourself and not listen to everyone else, because everyone else is stupid, especially Those People.

For example, one girl writes, "Don't be polite. It just marks you out as an out-of-towner. Do NOT make eye contact on the street! Hellooooo, tourist!"

Give me a break. I think people have seen too many TV shows featuring the cliched famous Rude New Yorker. Why would you advise someone who finds themselves in a strange place not to be polite? Should they actively be rude? Yeah, that's smart. Antagonizing people is always a good plan. Unless you're traveling to that mythical land I know only through sitcoms, the one where the cook will be insulted if you don't belch after your meal, I can't imagine that it's ever wrong to be polite. I only resort to rudeness when I feel actually threatened.

On the other hand, I can see where the temptation to play it up could be overwhelming. You're so totally right! Saying "please" and "thank you" in New York will get you KILLED! If you make eye contact, the natives will know you're from Kentucky, and thus, even though they themselves are from Toledo, Ohio, will immediately mark "Rube" on your sleeve with their magic invisible hipster pen, and all the feral teenagers will descend upon you like a pack of hyenas! Yes, it's all true! Only through my immense native wit and savvy have I, the street-smart urban warrior, managed to survive in this forsaken place!

People so far have been extremely kind: when my Metro pass inexplicably would not swipe through the machine, a man stuck his arm through the gate, swiped his own card, and let me through, costing himself a $2 ride. When I was sick at another subway station, two men stopped to help me and brought me water. I've seen teenage girls jump up and give their seats on the train to pregnant women. A woman at the grocery store told me to get in line in front of her, since I only had a few things while she, judging from her cart, was restocking her underground bunker for the upcoming apocalypse.

I think that life here can be so hard and impersonal that people feel a greater need to stick together and help each other. Also, anonymity actually makes it easier to help someone without worrying that you'll ever run into them again. So you helped someone carry their bike or baby carriage up the subway stairs--it's not like they're going to knock on your door and ask for favors every day now that they know you.

In the suburbs, this is definitely a concern. Smile once at your neighbor and for the next 10 years they're stalking you and inviting you over for coffee every time you pull in the driveway. Smile at your neighbor here, and odds are you'll never see them again, so what's to lose? I've lived here since February, and only just last week did I actually see the person who lives next door to me. And that's how I like it.

Here are a few other things I think of as Myths of the City.

1. It's so noisy.

Yeah, in Times Square. Actually, my Brooklyn neighborhood is quieter than my former home in the suburbs. Thanks to the thick pre-war walls, I barely hear the heavy traffic just a few feet away on Flatbush Avenue. I hear occasional sirens, but since I used to live a block from a fire station, that's nothing new.

Lacking large front- and backyards, my neighbors don't wake at the crack of dawn every Sunday and rev up the lawnmower, weed whacker, chainsaw, or snowblower. The lack of yards and my building's No Dogs policy (although I've spotted a few renegades) ensures that, unlike in the suburbs, I am never kept awake at night by a chorus of incessantly barking dogs with deaf and/or neglectful owners. On snowy days, the city is hushed and quiet--no yokels zooming around on insanely loud snowmobiles.

2. It's so expensive.

It's more expensive to visit for a weekend than to live here. One night in a Manhattan hotel costs about a third of my monthly rent.

Rent is expensive, but prices for food in my part of Brooklyn are similar or identical to the suburbs. I hate to say it, but chain stores like Trader Joe's and Stop 'n Shop and big box stores like Target have been essential to my financial well-being, as their city prices are virtually identical to their suburban prices. The bodegas offer a variety of cheap and exotic produce.

My electricity bill is about the same. My DSL/phone bill was a few dollars cheaper. My monthly subway pass was about $20 more expensive, but then, it is unlimited and takes me all over the city, from the Bronx to Coney Island, whereas in Philly the train passes are priced and limited by region, and you have to cough up extra cash if you venture outside your zone.

It's true that Manhattan is more expensive than most places, but you can get a $5 lunch if you're willing to just grab a slice of pizza or a sandwich. Greenwich Village and the NYU campus are close to my job, so there are lots of $2 falafel places, fruit stands, $9.95 all-you-can-eat Indian buffets, delis, and Chinese takeout shops tht cater to poor students. Not to mention happy hour.

A movie costs $12, but I don't go to movies often enough for the extra $3 to be a sincere hardship.

I think it seems more expensive because there are so many opportunities to spend. You feel poorer than you would elsewhere, because while before you never even thought about needing custom-made shoes or spending $50 on lunch, now you are aware of the possibility every day. Yes, Chanel has a boutique a few blocks from where I work. But there are also lots of used bookstores (one of which has a basket of free condoms by the cash register), too many free concerts in the park to keep up with, free museum nights and galleries, lectures at the libraries, etc.

It's not cheap, you just have to adjust your expectations. You won't be spending as freely and thoughtlessly as you did before, but that's not really a bad thing.

3. The city never sleeps.

Please. The city shuts down promptly at 5pm, 7pm at the latest, especially in midtown once all the commuters clear out. The suburbs never sleep. The suburbs have 24-hour drugstores, grocery stores, gas stations, diners, laundromats. But try buying a quart of milk after 9pm in the city. There are a few 24-hour places, but not nearly as many compared to the 'burbs. I guess that expression refers to the nightclubs and bars, but any big city has its share of late-night hangouts.

4. You have to dress up more.

Where? Again, I suppose for the clubs or Wall Street, or the really nice upscale restaurants. Maybe 'cause I work downtown, but...everyone here wears jeans. Even the younger women I see tend to wear comfortable flats, at least when walking outside. And my job here is much more lax than in Philly...I have seen people wear flip-flops and shorts to the office, and, in one eye-searingly awful moment, a man in bike shorts with a tank top and white tube socks (he was returning from his afternoon Rollerblade workout).

5. It's so dirty.

So you'd eat food off the street in your hometown, but not New York, because New York is so much dirtier?

This one is true and not true. Many people mistake "old" for "dirty." They would call any city dirty, any old building that isn't a sparkly shiny brand-new Target dirty. I do like sparkly and shiny and new, but I also love old and historical, even with the grime. It's like calling someone ugly just because they're old and wrinkled.

Maybe I'm just not as bothered because I grew up running around barefoot in the country with my feet literally covered in dirt. I'm a rustic slob to begin with and not terribly germphobic. At least here people pick up after their dogs, which they don't do in the country--why would they, with all that open space to abuse? (Walk through my mother's backyard if you don't believe me, but wear shoes!)

I also think there's a psychological aspect. People feel dirty when they feel crowded. But I've seen litter and people peeing in public everywhere. It's also a class issue; in wealthier neighborhoods and tourist spots, the sidewalks are scrubbed and litter is minimal.

Well, it was nice to get that out of my system. If I start sounding like one of Those People--the precious New York bloggers who go on about "discovering a little cafe the other day" and give condescending advice on How to Act Like a Real New Yorker--please leave comments of a rude and wake-up calling nature. Point out that in a city of millions, all New Yorkers cannot possibly be rude, or stylish, or culturally sophisticated. Point out that there is no point in moving to a city famed for its diversity if all you want to do is strive to conform to a stereotype. After all, it's OK to be rude to me--I'm a New Yorker now, I'll be used to it. :)

Da Pride A Flatbush

2008-08-01T20:45:00.010-04:00

After six months of living in New York, I finally got around to calling my insurance company and getting a new renter's insurance policy. The policy went into effect today, August 1.

Which is a good thing, because after I left work early (summer hours!) and wandered around Greenwich Village, stopping to rest on a bench in Washington Square Park and listen to a jazz band while watching a high school kid feed bits of his Subway sandwich to a swirling flock of pigeons, thinking, I already have a mouse in my apartment who has now evaded my traps for an entire week and if that FLYING VERMIN shits on my head you are a DEAD MAN, child, a dead man, I took the subway home and got off at Prospect Park to this:

That is NOT my apartment building. It's the apartment building two short blocks over, literally less than one minute away, close enough that I had to close my windows and turn on the air conditioning to filter out the smoke. So far I don't think anyone was hurt.

I'm not the kind of person who believes in signs and omens, but did I not just say the other day, just this week, that I am paranoid and have to update my insurance lest I come home to a heap of ashes? Lo and behold!

After feeling pity for the people who lived there, and realizing, my God, if that happened to me I really would be homeless, I don't know a single person in New York well enough to call and borrow a sofa, well, maybe my mom can phone in a favor to an old friend in Staten Island that I haven't seen since I was twelve, my next thought was oh my God, thank God I got my renter's insurance.

And then I thought, They'd never believe me. They'd never believe that on the very day the policy goes into effect, the building burns down. I'd be under suspicion before I even dialled 911.

The building did not burn down. I heard the fire started on the sixth floor, and the FDNY got it under control fast. Now I understand why tourists are always asking the firefighters at the station near my job if they can take their pictures. After seeing them in action, I wanted to start clapping.

Frankly I think they deserve medals just for wearing that gear in this weather. Here I was feeling uncomfortable because I wore jeans and the day turned out to be humid...at least I didn't need to lug a hose up a ladder wearing a moonsuit:

There were eight firetrucks there at least, then I lost count. Six ladders that I could see. A half-dozen ambulances. The building has six floors, if the layout is similar to my building that means at least 48 apartments. It could have been so much worse.

I felt my usual guilt: am I rubbernecking? People are losing their homes, they may be hurt, and here I am gawking and taking pictures. Is this callous? I usually never do things like this. I usually MAKE FUN of people who do things like this! But it was really interesting to watch, and the professionals seemed to have it under control. I didn't take any intrusive or inappropriate pictures, like of the one man who was on a stretcher (just smoke inhalation I think) with his shoes off, gasping into an oxygen mask.

That was actually the weird part: that it was kind of fun. It turned into a street festival. Guys had their kids on their shoulders, saying, "Look at the ladders, honey!" One little girl stomped by, mad after the police shooed people away and put up yellow tape, saying, "But I wanted to be on TV!" People were eating slices of pizza and, as one woman said into her cell phone, "just watching the fire."

I was probably outside for an hour, fascinated as the ladders went up, guys climbed up onto the roof, hoses were hooked to fire hydrants--the first time I've ever actually seen a fire hydrant used for its intended purpose--watching the reporters and news crews run around, the cops try to control the crowd and get the traffic organized (a total mess, two buses full of people were stuck), mysterious equipment was put in place, EMTs stood around, just in case.

The moral of the story (this is for you JENN G!!) is to sign up for renter's/homeowner's insurance! Actually, the moral of the story will most likely turn out to be, "Don't smoke in bed" or "Don't leave a candle burning unattended" or "Don't live in old buildings with faulty wiring" or "Wow, firefighters really ARE hot." Anything can happen to anyone at any time.

Love is a Bridge

2008-07-31T12:45:00.006-04:00

A friend was supposed to visit last weekend but cancelled at the last minute, claiming sudden-onset poverty. In reality, I suspect he was trying to avoid being dragged across yet another bridge.

Besides eating and sleeping, my favorite part of the day is riding the B/Q train over the Manhattan Bridge, crossing the East River from Brooklyn into lower Manhattan. You're underground in the dark tunnel (which was on fire last week, at least, the tunnel was filled with smoke and there were firefighters and cops crowding the platform, yet trains kept going into the smoke-filled tunnel, so maybe not), and then, suddenly, daylight bursts into the car as the train emerges from the pit and crosses the Bridge. It's a very TA-DA! moment.

It's less famous than the Brooklyn Bridge and not as tourist-friendly, but still beautiful and still standing after nearly 100 years--according to the plaque, it was built between 1901 and 1910. There is a footpath and a bike path. From Chinatown, through the arch, it looks like this:

The bridge from Brooklyn:

From the Manhattan Bridge you can see the Brooklyn Bridge (and Olaf Eliasson's waterfall art project that sounds much cooler than it is, just see the picture) and the Williamsburg Bridge, which I have yet to cross.

Save your money and go to Niagara:

When the train crosses the bridge I admire the burst of color provided by rooftop graffiti:

Quantity is the key to graffiti. I wish I could see graffiti as a transgressive, anarchist art form, instead of losers scrawling their name on someone else's creation rather than making anything thoughtful of their own. But as you can see, if a thousand monkeys spray-paint their names for a thousand years, the effect can be kind of cool. Of course that's the view from the bridge--I have no idea how the residents of these buildings feel about it.

I don't know if I'm actually obsessed with all bridges, suspension bridges, or just old, funky, iconic bridges. I just feel happy and excited when I get to cross a bridge. It's like that feeling of starting a journey, like going to the airport, only with less frustration. I don't want to analyze it too much. It's not like I collect books on bridges and have bridge underpants and bridge wallpaper and bridge plates and cups and snow globes. I just like walking across bridges.

Driving across bridges, on the other hand, makes me nervous. I'm not afraid it's going to collapse. It's because once you're on a bridge, you can't change your mind and turn around. I am an indecisive person. This level of commitment alarms me.

That being said, I do enjoy the Verrazano Bridge, connecting Brooklyn to Staten Island. You can't walk it, the traffic leading up to it sucks, and it costs $10 to cross, but isn't it graceful? Also, according to Wikipedia, it is the largest suspension bridge in the all of the United States. Also, Verrazano is fun to say.

This photo was taken with one hand with the other on the steering wheel. And you were worried about people talking on cell phones while driving.

Next up: the Williamsburg Bridge. Weekend guests, beware.

("Love is a Bridge" is an old song by the Little River Band which I've actually never heard. I hope it doesn't suck, because I can't think of another title for this post.)

Urban Legend Art

2008-07-30T22:32:00.012-04:00

The Metro Center courtyard in downtown Brooklyn, outside the Polytechnic Institute of NYU, has interesting public art. This one makes me happy.

Also these weird things in the trees. What are they? Lights? At first I thought they were made out of those barrel-shaped plastic bottles of fruit juice we drank as kids.

I also like how the trees are planted in a very regular, orderly pattern:

And the beat-up old signs outside the nearby Jay Street subway station:

Are there any jobs where you get paid just to wander around and look at stuff?

DMV = Devil's Main Venue?

2008-07-29T22:21:00.007-04:00

Sunday night I saw a dark spot on one of the white drapes I'd just hung. That has to be some kind of record, I thought. I put them up on Saturday and by Sunday they're already filthy? Further inspection revealed a baby mouse clinging to the bottom of the curtain.

Naturally when I have a mouse he's some kind of mighty Tarzan breed that swings from the drapes! Which, I might add, hang at least six to eight inches above the floor! I freaked out, but by now I know the vermin drill and was up until 2am setting mousetraps. As I had no peanut butter or cheese and it was too late to run to the store for mouse treats, I ended up preparing a tasty combo of Special K flakes dipped in honey.

The next morning, after four hours of sleep, I began my descent into the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was at this point that I began to wonder where I’d taken a wrong turn in life, that I am forced to cope with the DMV and vermin in the same 24-hour period. Where did I go wrong?

I feel like I just got back from a Third World country that recently suffered a major natural disaster that left it in shambles with no government or infrastructure. It was like Burma, only without the Red Cross passing out bottled water and first aid kits. I haven’t had such an awful day since I got food poisoning and threw up on the tracks at the DeKalb Avenue subway station.

I wanted to change my Pennsylvania license for a New York license, and, unlike 90% of the drivers in my neighborhood whose plates hail from Georgia, Connecticut, Florida, and Mongolia, I actually wanted to be law-abiding and register my car in the state which is my primary residence.

I didn’t expect to be applauded or honored for my honesty and willingness to pay an extra $300/year in car insurance (which is not that much spread out over 12 months and if I can afford it, the Lexus with the North Carolina plates certainly can). But nor did I expect to be herded into the Brooklyn equivalent of Guantanamo.

I could literally feel a change in the air as I approached the DMV. The Brooklyn DMV is housed in a center that also contains a random assortment of stores, including Target, Chuck E. Cheese, and Victoria’s Secret. Along the walkway linking Target to the DMV, the air temperature plummeted as the humidity rose noticeably. It was as if a line was drawn across the hall, an invisible curtain of dank, humid air to signify your exit from the world of the living.

Food and drink are not allowed. Water fountains and restrooms do not exist. The A/C was barely working, and the room was mobbed with well over 100 people. You are guilty until proven innocent and can receive no comfort or quarter. Asking questions only makes you stand out as a troublemaker. Fights broke out. Someone was ejected. After an hour I was near tears, ready to confess to anything. After the security guard and another employee failed to resolve one dispute, the manager actually came out from behind his bulletproof plastic fortress and spoke forcefully to several customers. Everyone started laughing and shouting because “He’s as bad as his employee! No wonder they can get away with treating customers like that, the manager is just as rude!”

We had foolishly assumed the manager was coming to assist the customer, but no. He was berating the customer for giving his staff a hard time by asking questions they couldn’t answer, like, “Why did you tell me to stand on this line?”

Years of working in retail left me with nothing but pure misanthropic loathing for customers of every kind, yet I had to side with them on this one. People stood on line for over an hour, only to find out they were on the wrong line. The security guard directing the line was only capable of understanding the first 3 words of any sentence, thus mis-directed people constantly. Then they’d get angry, he’d blame them for being idiots, and the manager would throw them out for causing a problem. It was just like I imagine life in a repressive regime, like if Saddam Hussein ran the DMV.

In the land of confusion, there is no organization, no direction, no clear instructions, only a few vague, contradictory signs (“Information,” “No Frames on Plates”). Even if you only have a simple question, you have to stand on line for 3 hours for an answer. Calling leads only to a recorded message that reads aloud the forms posted to the website, which require several hours and an advanced degree to decipher.

I myself drove the security guard to the brink by asking a question that, in his opinion, I had no business asking. (To digress, I always find this curious—like the entire world is under the delusion that they work for the CIA and info is only to be given on a need-to-know basis. If, for example, a female colleague asked me where the men’s restroom was, I’d just tell her. Sure, unless she had a sex change on her lunch hour, she doesn’t need to know, but she’s asking nicely, and what’s it to me?

Also, haven’t we all learned by now that most people are incredibly dull? It is almost 100% guaranteed that she is not up to anything at all interesting. She is not going to set up a prostitution ring in the men's restroom. Probably, she’s going to do something dull, like borrow a roll of toilet paper or relay the information to visitors. Most information is useless and most people are both useless and dull, and yet still people will insist on hoarding the few scraps of information they manage to acquire, as if sharing it might diminish their imagined authority. End of digression.)

So. I saw three lines at the DMV. One line was for photos. One was for Information—everything that is not photos. But I needed both a photo and a registration—did that mean I needed to stand on line twice, for two different windows? And what was the third line about? The website had lots of forms available but nothing useful, like a layout of the DMV office and a chart detailing which line to stand on.

I asked the security guard what the third line was. “You need to be in that line over there.” “But what’s this line here for?” “That line is the one you need to be on.” “I know, thanks, but what is this line for?” “You don’t need to be on this line!” I felt like I was trying to break into the Pentagon. What’s he hiding? Why is this top secret information? How did he know I didn’t need to be on this line?

So I turned and asked the woman in line, “What are you on line for? What is this line?” “This line is for Information,” she said. I could not believe 100 people would stand on line for over 2 hours just to ask a question from an information desk. “But what are you here for? Is this for registration? Licenses?” “It’s for everything,” she said. I gave up and just got on a line.

The ordeal lasted over three hours. While I did get a new license, the registration effort was a bust. I’d printed out a veritable dossier, and brought a thick manila folder of documentation with me—but one form contradicted another and one crucial piece of information was missing. I pointed out the section that said I didn't need this, and the DMV woman said, “Oh, well, we need to update the website I guess.”

To no avail, I had brought six forms of ID including my passport, Social Security card, a utility bill, and a bank statement, the title, insurance, registration, a form detailing the odometer reading, and the original bill of sale from 8 years ago, as I had to prove I’d once paid taxes on the car and, considering it was 8 years ago, could not recall the purchase date, exact price, or how much I’d paid in taxes 8 years ago.

They also would not accept their own official eye exam DMV form signed by my optometrist, because he had not "stamped it." What is this about? So docs can prescribe Percocet with just a signature on a scrap of paper, but need a special STAMP for the DMV?

After three hours, I was too dehydrated and bitter to care. I was just grateful to escape alive and without having to serve as a witness to an assault and battery case.

So I have to go back for registration. There is no way this needs to be so complicated! Seriously, the terrorists have already won. Next time, I’ll just get drunk first.

I finally got home and collapsed in exhaustion, grateful to have survived at all. Then the mouse ran out from behind the TV.

I can't believe he snubbed my Special K treat. I went out to buy peanut butter. Jif brand peanut butter: $3.99. My crappy frozen microwave burrito lunch: $1.50.

The vermin is eating better than I am. Once again: where did I go wrong?

Fun Fur

2008-07-21T12:16:00.010-04:00

I saw this ad in the West 4th Street subway station this morning. Alas the photo didn't come out too well--the glare from the flash, necessary in the dim underground station, reflected off the ad.

I didn't need to see this before lunch. Now I have to worry about this?

http://www.bettybeauty.com/

And what is with the fun hot pink color? Fun? My God, do men actually want a woman who looks like a hairy Bozo the clown?! Wouldn’t you feel like you were fucking a Care Bear? Although, a coworker and I agreed dying your arm hair different colors might actually be kind of fun, if you wanted to dress up as Hulk for Halloween or feign a rare disease and freak out your boss.

Does it come with instructions on how to keep straight face at the doctor’s office? ‘Cause I’d need them. I think if I saw a man who had used the “fun” color, I’d kill the mood with laughing.

I'm sure there are women who saw this ad and thought, "Thank God! At last! Now he'll never know the truth! Thank you, Betty Beauty!" And a friend's red-headed girlfriend was recently approached in a bar and asked, "So, do the rugs match the drapes?" proving that at least the appearance of authenticity is important to men of the loutish persuasion.

Even if I were still highlighting my hair, I'd absolutely refuse to worry about this. If you’re man enough to be dating bleached blonde hussies, you’re man enough to deal with discrepancies of color. As for waxing, I maintain the attitude that any man who cannot handle a normal amount of reasonably groomed body hair is a whiny little sissy baby and needs to go to lumberjack camp to toughen up.

In fact, I picked up a flyer this weekend when I drove home to Pennsylvania: www.lumbermuseum.org/bark.php. At the Bark Peeler’s Convention, men will learn such manly skills as axe throwing, blacksmithing, and woodhick skills—whatever those are.

Being a girl is just too much work. Maybe I’m the one who should become a lumberjack.

Yes, I Get Paid For This

2008-07-16T17:01:00.001-04:00

So this afternoon I went into my boss’s office after an hour of goofing off—way more than an hour, actually, but I won’t confess exactly how much of my day was spent not working, the same way I never confess how much Diet Coke I really drink—in fact, I am goofing off right now, updating my blog from work—and told him I needed more variety as I just could not spend seven straight hours researching (i.e., Googling) diseases of the salivary gland.

“I just can’t. I get too bored. I need more variety throughout my day. What do you do when you’re burned out on research?”

He pointed to a picture taped to his bookshelf of a small monkey riding a sheepdog. The monkey is quite famous; perhaps you’ve seen him on TV.

“No, really. What else can I do?”

He pointed to the picture again. “Just stare at that for five minutes.”

“Are you serious?”

“----“

“There has to be something else I can do.”

“Well…you can go to our website and look for typographical errors to fix.”

This is hardly challenging as our website contains millions of typographical errors. Part of being a multinational corporation is that half of our employees speak English as a second language, leading to many malapropisms and mistakes. Actually, that’s unfair to my foreign colleagues. The Americans make just as many mistakes, only instead of being amusing and understandable ours are just pathetic.

I thought five o’clock would never come.

no word for art

2008-07-14T12:33:00.004-04:00

This weekend I went to the Brooklyn Museum of Art, which turned out to be only a 15” walk from my apartment. I avoided the big Murakami exhibit, the one famous for having an actual Louis Vuitton store included as part of the exhibit itself, causing much hand-wringing over the seamless merging of art and commerce.

It was only an extra $2, but it was mobbed and I’m not sure I would have been allowed in anyway, as the ticketholders’ line seemed to be made up entirely of hipsters under 30. From what I could see, it reminded me of goofy 70s flower power: pink cartoon flowers with smiley faces, big-eyed robots and anime characters. They called him “Japan’s Andy Warhol,” but I swear his designs were lifted from clothes I wore as a child, particularly the velour shirts embroidered with puffy satin rainbows and flowers. Although I certainly never wore anything like his Hiropon, described as "a Japanese girl jumping a rope created by milk spurting from her gargantuan breasts."

Anyway, the rest of the museum was large enough to take up several solid hours. It was bigger than I expected—5 floors of standard art museum stuff (Egyptian mummies, African masks, sculptures of Indian goddesses, Islamic calligraphy, American paintings) plus a whole section of feminist art, including Judy Chicago’s “The Dinner Party.” Then I stumbled across this quote on a plaque (approximate quote, as I scribbled only half the words):

“Egyptians had no word for art. These items were meant to be used, were for ritual and communication, meant to communicate meaning as part of their intricate religion.”

I just thought the first sentence was fascinating in light of the things I was seeing, like a cat sculpture with an indentation in the forehead where a blue faience scarab was placed, erotic sculptures of men and women tangled up together (plaque: “Some say the Egyptians did not make erotic art. These sculptures prove them wrong”), intricate jewelry, mummy cases covered in hieroglyphs and images of gods.

Yet they had no word for art…so to them this was just ordinary stuff, like pots and pans? Like we consider coffins and postage stamps and coffee machines, they considered these items just…stuff? I wonder what they did call it. Tools? Relics? Religious icons? Or did they just use the word for the thing itself—a statue, an urn, a bowl?

I once heard that there has never been a society that did not have a religion. I wonder if anyone has ever come across a society that did not make art.

It makes me happy to think that no matter how primitive their tools, no matter how difficult their daily life, no matter how short their lifespan, people always had the urge to create beautiful things, or to beautify everyday objects, weaving patterns into quilts or painting designs on pottery. Although, as one plaque pointed out, the average Egyptian most likely could not afford to make or buy any of these items--proving that the hand-wringing over art and commerce is pointless as it has existed since, oh, forever. Only wealthy pharoahs could afford the fancy decorated tombs. The Catholic Church commissioned Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel. Mona Lisa was some rich businessman's wife. Has art ever been created in a money-free vaccuum?

It also points to the human need for creative expression—at least as strong, or in the case of the Egyptians, similar to or the same as the religious impulse. Art and music classes are the first to go when school budgets are slashed. But now I wonder if art classes are even necessary, except to train future professionals. They’re fun, sure, and in school I certainly preferred art to algebra, even if I was equally untalented at both solving equations and making clay pots.

But if even people whose daily life involved carrying jugs of water and weaving cloth could find a way to make art, using whatever materials were at hand, surely people today can do so. Not that the kids in my neighborhood need any more encouragement to spray paint the walls with graffiti...yikes...but it’s reassuring to think that if the need for creative expression is inherent in humans, and truly as strong as the religious impulse, somehow, a way would be found.

Liberty Enlightening the World

2008-07-02T13:48:00.017-04:00

This is not the real Statue of Liberty. For one thing, that's a man under there.

It is worth visiting the real Statue of Liberty and especially Ellis Island's museum of the American immigration experience. However, if you visit in summertime, you must have patience, humor, and tolerance. Unlike me.

We arrived at 9am, but that wasn't early enough to beat the crowds. We stood in line for an hour in the sun, annoyed by a woman with an intrusive baby carriage the size of a small car and serenaded by a guitarist in a rainbow Afro clown wig who tailored his songs on the spot: "You're from England?" (Strums the guitar.) "Oh yeah, I'm going to England, have a baby with Princess Anne...she ain't too old, you'll see, you'll see it in the newspaper, brother from Brooklyn and Princess Anne have a baby!" Children might not be afraid of clowns if they were all like him.

So we went through the security check to board the ferry, then disembarked only to find ourselves standing in line for another, more extensive security checkpoint before entering the monument, as somehow, on the ferry, in the middle of the bay, we might have armed ourselves using ordinary items like the cheap carpeting from the cabin floor (which was conveniently pre-ripped).

As my Patient Friend said, "So it's OK if you sneak a bomb onto the boat, but not on the island?" I suppose it depends on if you prefer to die in the water or on land.

Still, the double-check made sense--you could have gone out on a boat the night before, dropped a cache of weapons in a waterproof chest underwater, then retrieved them once on the island. Or a diver could have swum under the boat and attached a weapon to the side. (To outwit a terrorist you must think like a terrorist!)

The heat and humidity were unbearable and it wasn't even noon. After being forced to empty my water bottle--in 90-degree heat!--and stand in the sun and pay to leave my bag in a locker, the bitching began. Who cares about security, when you're dying of heat exhaustion and developing skin cancer? I can't help it. I suffer from "heat stroke of the personality"--the sun strikes my skin, I start to sizzle and burn and ooze grease like a cheap hamburger, and my mood turns black.

Me to Patient Friend: "If you weren't here, I'd be swimming back to Manhattan by now! This is embarrassing to America! No air conditioning? What, are we in Calcutta? I feel like MY liberty is being shackled!"

Patient Friend: "Yes, it is odd."

Me: "I can't take this! Did you see the bathroom? It was filthy and rusty and the lock on the door was torn off. It wasn't missing--it was TORN OFF, like someone had ATTACKED it with bolt cutters or something! The metal was all twisted like your car after it's been in an accident!"

Patient Friend: "Mm-hmm."

Me: "What could have happened to it? I mean, it was dangerous. Someone could actually cut themselves on that jagged metal. Like, what could possibly happen in a bathroom stall that would require you to tear the lock off the door?"

Patient Friend: "I don't know."

Me: "They could at least cover it with duct tape."

Patient Friend: --

Me: "Visitors are coming from foreign countries to see one of America's premier monuments--THE symbol of America--and the bathrooms are disgusting and there's no air conditioning? How can we not have funding for this?"

Patient Friend: "Maybe all this waiting on line is to help us understand the true immigrant experience."

I can't recall if I said this or just thought it to myself: "My grandparents came to this country so I wouldn't HAVE to live like this!"

Once we graduated from standing outside in the sun to standing inside a dank, muggy canvas tent with no air circulation, even Patient Friend's patience began to wear thin, and she suggested at the very least she would have expected an educational video from the National Parks Service to keep your mind off the fact that you were suffocating.

I understand the need for safety and certainly don't want anyone blowing up our beloved Lady Liberty (and I mean that unironically). I just expected something more like a nice airport: streamlined, modern, everything chrome and shiny, expensive equipment, clean bathrooms, working water fountains, air conditioning.

Anyway, then we were X-rayed and sniffed for explosives residue by a machine that pelts you with puffs of air. It felt pretty good after the hot, stuffy tent.

Then it's into the monument, where again it is muggy, dim, and dank, which doesn't promote lingering to look at the handwritten accounts of immigrants' first sight of the Statue, or the artwork. One, an advertising image of the Statue of Liberty wearing tight jeans, struck me as grotesque. Lady Liberty does not wear JEANS! No one needs to see her LEGS! That's worse than a mustache on Mona Lisa. It's like seeing a nun in a bikini! That is just six kinds of wrong. So I left and climbed the stairs to the base of the monument.

All this so I can look up a lady's skirt?

OH, ALL RIGHT. It is pretty freaking cool, and I suppose it's worth waiting three hours on line and a ferry ride to spend thirty minutes in the presence of greatness. I do not aspire to be one of those jaded New Yorkers who brags that they've lived in New York for twenty years and still haven't gotten around to visiting the Statue of Liberty. I'm not sure if I'll live here for one year, two years, or the rest of my life, so I'm living like a tourist and sightseeing while I'm here. Someday I may move to Outer Getthehellawayfromea, and then at least when I see pictures of New York on TV I can feel nostalgia, not regret.

That being said, I don't ever think I will ever do this ever again, ever ever.

What I wouldn't mind doing again is visiting Ellis Island. The security is minimal, so you step off the boat and into the spacious building and can wander around freely, relaxing in the AIR CONDITIONING. Despite the many visuals, it's a lot of reading, so not suitable for small children. But it gives you a good idea of what it was like for people to pack their most valued possessions and set off for a foreign land, not speaking the language or knowing what to expect, and what life was like in the tenements (the Lower East Side Tenement Museum is also a great place to visit when you feel like your one-bedroom apartment is too small).

Then, I did feel a little ashamed for having been so bitchy while standing on line. At least I did not have to do so wearing layers of petticoats and carrying a featherbed and a samovar, en route to meeting my husband for the first time seeing as how I was a mail-order bride from the Old Country.

It is also enlightening/frightening to realize how little things have changed. The museum's display of anti-immigration posters and news articles could have been written today--just substitute Mexicans for Europeans. It's not even funny. They'll steal our jobs! Overrun our schools and hospitals! Water down our racial stock! (OK, probably no one comes out and says that today, but you know they're secretly thinking it.)

I remember two quotes from Ellis Island. One is an old Italian joke that goes, "I was told the streets of America were paved with gold. The first thing I learned was that the streets weren't paved with gold. Second, that the streets weren't paved. Third, I was expected to pave them."

I can imagine my Italian great-grandfather saying something like that. He went from growing olives in Italy to selling ice on the streets in New York, when people still used iceboxes to keep food from spoiling.

The other quote was from a girl being given the "mental fitness test." Asked, "How do you wash stairs, from top to bottom or bottom to top?" she replied, "I didn't come here to wash stairs."

I'm sure her descendants enjoy the miracle of modern air conditioning to this very day.

Tribeca Bridge

2008-06-28T07:46:00.008-04:00

(Updated July 2) This post is just a test. I've never uploaded images to my blog before and am not the world's best photographer--let's see how it comes out. This is the Tribeca Bridge which I stumbled across while trying to find lunch near my office in SoHo. I just thought it was cool.

Here is the view of the West Side highway (I think) from the Tribeca Bridge.

View in the other direction:

I can't remember when I took these pictures--April or May, I'd guess. I love bridges for reasons I can't really explain. I've walked across the Brooklyn Bridge probably ten times now. I have to walk across the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges next.

Do Try This at Home. Repeat: HOME

2008-06-22T22:42:00.002-04:00

I'm always taken aback when I see people doing things in public, in broad daylight, with witnesses, that I do in private all the time but would never dream of doing in public. Do they think no one's watching, or do they just not care?

I saw a woman on a Septa train in Philly peeling back the foil lid from a carton of yogurt, then licking it thoroughly--and by thoroughly, I mean it took her three or four licks. I didn't see what she did with the lid after that, but this was Septa, so you know it did not go into a plastic bag or receptacle of any sort.

I mean, I do this at home all the time, especially with Brown Cow yogurt with Cream on Top because the layer of cream is the best part, and half the time comes off stuck to the lid in one solid piece, like the fudge frosting on an Entenmann's cake which can also be removed in one layer and eaten separately, except what kind of animal would do that (in public?).

I also double-dip chips into salsa, but judging from my reaction on seeing this woman lick the lid on a train, you'd think I was raised in Buckingham Palace.

Once I saw a woman rushing through the train station carrying a purse, a totebag, a thermos of coffee, a styrofoam takeout box, and a pancake rolled up in one hand, wrapped around a sausage and oozing with butter. Of course she fumbled and next thing you know, the sticky pancake hit the floor along with everything else and I was thinking, "My God, were you raised by wolves? Pancakes and sausage are not finger food!"

Except I used to make pancakes all the time and eat them with my bare hands. I treated them like flatbread or pita, only I'd put extra butter in the pan so the edges would brown up nice and crisp. However, I wouldn't try this in Market East Station.

Some things you really try not to do in public, like dislodge a wad of underwear that has somehow wedged itself up your butt, but then the discomfort becomes such that you're forced to invoke the Desperate Times Clause and pick your wedge in public--but subtly, like you're really just stretching or practicing a yoga pose or scratching an itch on your way-lower back.

Other things I can't even imagine wanting to do, no matter how convenient. I recently discovered gnawed chicken bones in the stairwell of my office building. I can't imagine who'd want to eat lunch on the dank, dirty, heavily trafficked stairs, but who knows, maybe some people like cockroaches and the scent of rotting meat. A friend once sat beside a man on an airplane who decided to change his shirt and apply underarm deoderant and anti-itch foot powder while in his seat. I've seen women change poopy diapers on the floor of department stores, even when bathrooms with changing tables (and, more importantly, running water and soap) were available.

The worst was when I was driving a guy friend home from a bar and he thought he'd just piss in the parking garage. The concrete parking garage, which is not exactly the same as the nice absorbent soil in the tree-and-bush-filled park right across the street. That put me over the edge. I don't care if guys hold pissing wherever and whenever as a sacred birthright. In the woods is one thing; in the city it's just foul. I mean, come ON. Is it that hard to hold it? What are you, two years old? Were you not potty-trained? Is this some kind of teenage Fight Club-ish act of rebellion? Couldn't you have gone before you left? Even if you're homeless--what, you couldn't find a rat-infested dumpster to stand behind?

I stood there in disgust until, poor thing, he was unable to go, because I was looking. Well, yes, that's the point when you do things IN PUBLIC. There are PEOPLE there. They can SEE you and your nasty yellow puddle, too.

I wasn't sorry. In the city pretty much every subway station reeks of piss, and occasionally vomit, and every stairwell. Once I almost walked into a yellow puddle in an elevator. You're afraid to wear sandals sometimes. People clean up their dogs' poop, but sometimes poop is hardly the problem--or dogs, for that matter.

Shockingly, public pissing culprits are not always men. Budget Travel magazine once ran a charming little story about an American woman in Paris. She drank wine at dinner, left the restaurant, then realized she couldn't hold it until she got back to her hotel. She couldn't find a public restroom, and so pissed herself, standing fully dressed on a street in Paris--seriously, like, streaming down her legs while a Frenchman stared in disbelief and her mortified daughter walked away and pretended she didn't know her.

This was a grown woman with children (not some drunken college girl on spring break, although that would only make it marginally less foul, or an old lady in need of an adult diaper, which would just make it sad). She actually thought this anecdote was so amusing she sent it to a national magazine to publish as a funny vacation story, complete with her real name, hometown, and a color photo of her and her daughter, smiling (although not pissing). You'd think she'd be ashamed.

Why isn't she ashamed? What's wrong with these people? If this happened to me at the very least I'd run between two parked cars or else double over and pretend to be in the throes of some kind of medical condition. I'd at least make sure to say, loudly, "Oh my God, food poisoning!" I'm not much of an actress, but I'd do my best to make sure people thought I was crazy, senile, sick, or all three, and in need of sympathy and medical assistance, not a smack across the head.

And here I thought I was tacky because I bite my nails and yank up my bra straps in public and am always kicking my shoes off under my desk! If I was a better paparazzo I'd start a new blog of photos of people doing disgusting things in public, kind of like those fashion magazine "Do's and Don'ts," only I wouldn't put the black bars over their eyes. Who cares about girls wearing leggings as if they're pants and black bras under white tank tops, when people are walking down the street pissing their pants and hurling chewed-up chicken bones on the sidewalk?

DON'T piss on stairs! DO keep it zipped until you're behind closed doors!

DON'T eat pork lo mein with bare hands! DO use a fork!

DON'T pick your nose! DO use a Kleenex!

People are not Popsicles! DON'T grope, slobber, and slurp at your loved one on the train! DO practice safe sex behind closed doors!

DON'T sing along with your IPod! DO shut the hell up until you're alone (or standing in front of Simon Cowell, in which case he can tell you to shut the hell up).

Except YouTube already exists, and as the Paris Public Pissbitch shows, some people don't think they're doing anything wrong. They think they're funny and entitled to do whatever, wherever, whenever. They'd probably start doing even grosser things, Jackass-style, just to try to get their photo taken.

Here I Am! And There Goes the Neighborhood

2008-05-18T16:51:00.006-04:00

They hate me. They really hate me.

I knew when I moved here that I was one of a white minority, but I didn't think it would bother anyone but me. At first, walking down the street, I felt like I stood out like a sore white thumb, and had that "everyone is watching me" feeling. After a while it wore off to the point where if someone really is watching me, I wonder what they're looking at--do I have something on my face?

My neighborhood is largely Caribbean. It's close to Prospect Park, close to the subway, and the streets are lined with trees. I can walk to several libraries and groceries, a Blockbuster and a RiteAid. In case of emergency laziness, there is a pizza place and Wendy's and Popeye's Chicken. There are bodegas on every corner selling vegetables and fruit and milk. They sell Guinness and Magic Hat six-packs in the grocery. What more do I need? I like my neighborhood, which is fortunate because I can't afford to live anywhere else.

But then there is the guilt.

I'm walking down the street and the woman behind me is complaining to a friend that she needs to move, because they're raising her rent and she can't afford it. "I'm paying $1,000 a month," she says, "and it just keeps going up! We've been here 20 years, and now they're chasing us out. You know, So-and-So is being evicted--"

And I'm thinking, I pay over $1100 per month in rent, for one bedroom, which in New York is cheap--I saw studios that cost $1200 and more, even in Brooklyn. I thought this was a good deal because it includes heat and hot water, and the building is rent-stabilized, meaning the amount they can raise the rent each year is fixed by law. Still, am I the reason she's being evicted?

Then, this morning at the laundromat, 9am, I put my clothes in the washer, ran home (literally across the street) to jump in the shower, then ran back (with new and improved fresh scent) to put my clothes in the dryer. When I walked in, a lady who had the washer next to mine was raging. "They're kicking all of us out and bringing only white people in! It's not fair, we've been here 20, 30, 40 years and now we get evicted, now we have to get out?" she was shouting at another woman. "It's all these white people everywhere, they can't just let 10 black people and 10 white people have the building, no, it has to be all white! They're raising the rent and where are we going to go? We have to stand up for ourselves and open our mouths or we're going to end up out on the street! What, we're all just supposed to leave?"

She had her back to me, so I pulled out a magazine and waited for my laundry, thinking, "So, this is what it's like to be hated for the color of your skin." (Either that, or she was mad that I'd displayed poor laundromat etiquette by leaving the premises with my clothes unattended.)

Never mind that while I may be white, I'm a fairly poor white by American standards, just this side of trash--a free school lunch kid who sent myself to college and paid for it with loans and credit cards and, for one horrible year, by working three jobs, and wanting to die every moment I wasn't working, in class, or sleeping, which fortunately was almost never. Currently, I work two jobs to get by, and I'm still struggling to pay off the student loans.

My next thought is, "Hey, what comes around goes around. Join the club; now it's your turn." I was born in Staten Island, NY, and we moved to Pennsylvania to get away from the 1970s crime wave, which some people say is white code for black people, and my mother says means exactly what it says, it's crime and she doesn't want her kids around it. "It just got scummy," she says when I'd ask why we left the city. "Dirty. Crime everywhere. Drug dealers on the corner. You never had to lock your doors at night, and suddenly you're afraid to let your kids play outside. I grew up there. I never would have left. But it wasn't the same, it just got scary." So we left for the greener pastures of Pennsylvania.

Only, of course, to be mistrusted and mistreated by resentful natives. My parents, with their thick New York accents and penchant for odd ethnic foods like bagels and fettucine alfredo, didn't exactly fit in with the locals. My mother's only friends were other New York transplants, who understood that not loving scrapple did not make you a bad person.

It was hard for her to find a job. In rural areas, there are few jobs at all, much less jobs that pay well, and to hear her talk, she was regarded the way illegal immigrants are today: she's just here to steal our jobs, take all the cheap housing, and use up our resources! You know that Mike's daughter Jessie would have gotten that job if it weren't for her! And who the hell is she, she wasn't even born here!

Now the quiet country where I grew up leaving the front door propped open at night so the cat could come in after her midnight prowls is gone. The family farms are now strip malls, traffic is a nightmare, and McMansion developments are plopped on pristine hillsides. Crime is going up. I worked in Philadelphia, only to read headlines like, "Gang activity on the rise in the Poconos," and "Bloods and Crips establish Poconos presence." My favorite story was how teenage gang members shot each other during a party inside a gated community (haha! Is the gate to keep the savage kids in, or out?).

Property taxes rose so much that my sister's in-laws, who owned farms and homes in the area for generations, almost lost their home recently--the mortgage was paid off twenty years ago, but the retired couple can't afford the rising property taxes. My sister and her husband had to kick in thousands of dollars to keep them from losing the family home. A new school was built two miles from my mom's house, and now her school taxes have tripled. I start worrying and thinking maybe it's time for her to move, again, to escape the rising costs and crime. But escape to where?

The economy is a whole other issue--the gap between rich and poor and the vanishing middle class. It may very well be that someday soon there won't be any place left for middle-income families, younger people starting out, or older people retiring, to live affordably and safely, and convenient to jobs and schools. Maybe that is the real issue here.

My younger brother has lived in California, Montana, and Alaska. Besides dealing with the "Go back to the East Coast," mentality--I think everyone in my family has now lived with the Xenophobia Experience--he also watched Montana's population grow as people from L.A. and the East bought ranches like summer homes at the shore, and built communities of mansions that price the locals out of the market and make those who've lived there for 40 years, with their modest single bathrooms, feel inferior and pushed out.

So then my affluent white guilt shifts into resentment. Just because I'm white doesn't mean I'm rich. Just because I'm slightly wealthier than you, doesn't actually make me wealthy. And even if I am wealthy by your standards, that doesn't mean I'm not being pushed around or kicked out in turn by people who are even wealthier. It's a dog-eat-dog world, or some other bitter cliché. Life is freaking hard and no one cares. No one is happy with what they have. They always want more, bigger, and better, and if they can't find that where they are, they'll go someplace else. Isn't that how immigrants ended up here in the first place--looking for an affordable home close to jobs and schools?

So now I've lived on both sides. I've moved away after both of my hometowns were overpopulated and overpriced, and now here I am, ruining someone else's world simply by trying to find an affordable place to live.

For me, the only way I can think to resolve this problem is to stop thinking of it as a problem. It's just the way life is, like hurricanes and people dying. Stuff happens. You can't get complacent, or expect permanence or stability. Life isn't fair; nothing is guaranteed; everything changes, nothing stays the same: deal with it. I've had to deal with it; now it's your turn.

But don't worry, in five years, it will be my turn again. This I'm sure of. Feel free to come back and laugh at me, when all the bodegas are replaced by Whole Foods, the Mr. Softee ice cream truck by Pinkberry, Payless Shoes by Marc Jacobs or some quaint boutique where Tshirts crafted by independent artists cost $40 (causing head-exploding angst as I think, "but I'd like to support the indie artists!" and head-exploding rage as I think, "but Target has Tshirts for just $7.99, and hell I have to eat!") and my rent increases to $3,000 and I have to move to Far Eastern Zambonia or South Dakota, all the time cursing the rich bastards who priced me out of "my" neighborhood.

I think the trick is to realize that by the time the neighborhood changes, you won't want to live there anymore. It won't be the home you knew and loved, and you'll be ready to leave. From what I hear, Greenwich Village used to be bohemian, cheap and gritty; now, double-decker buses bring tourists to Bleecker Street and gourmet frozen yogurt chains line the streets. SoHo used to be full of affordable artists' lofts and galleries, now it's a designer shopping district. Cities evolve. It's not like they're destroying it, like pouring concrete into the Grand Canyon and putting a shopping mall on top. It's a dynamic city, not a staid national monument. It's not Colonial Williamsburg.

In the meantime, I keep supporting the local businesses. I buy at least half of my groceries here, eat at restaurants and rent DVDs and do my laundry here, donate books to the local library, and try not to annoy my neighbors. Even though I know they hate me.

Mommy's Little Money Shot

2008-05-07T21:33:00.002-04:00

The mom placed the cake in front of the birthday girl. Then she stepped back, camera ready, waiting for the baby to cover herself in messy pink frosting.

The baby reached out with one finger and took a tiny smudge of frosting, which she placed in her mouth, daintily, wearing a thoughtful expression. Quite ladylike, for a one-year-old. You'd think a mother would be proud.

"Come on," said her mother, impatient. "Go for it!" Baby took another delicate nibble of frosting.

And another, licking her finger slowly.

Finally, I watched the frustrated mother reach over, take her child's hand, and smack it squarely into the cake, mashing it around to make sure lots of frosting rubbed off. The baby put her hand to her mouth, and couldn't help but smear frosting on her cheeks. Finally! Cameras clicked like mad.

The baby tried to wipe the frosting from her cheek (really, I've never seen such a civilized one-year-old) and a satisfied "Ooooh!" went up from the small crowd as the gooey frosting made its way into her hair. At last, the shot Director Spielberg demanded from the child actor! I mean, that Mom expected from her daughter.

Is this what happens when Bridezilla gives birth? Not only are today's overscheduled kids not allowed the free time necessary to develop an active imagination, now even their memories are scripted and controlled by parent-auteurs more concerned with the perfect scrapbook than reality.

"Pictures don't lie?" Hah. The child will probably have no memory of her first birthday party. She'll only have the pictures. While pictures never tell the complete story and are at best only a representation of an actual event, these photos are fraudulent from beginning to end. I wish I could be there in twenty years to tell her: It didn't happen that way at all. Screw the cliche. You were a dignified baby, and completely charming.

Instead she'll grow up to look at the stereotypical pictures of an adorable frosting-covered toddler that every parent feels entitled to have--whether it actually happened that way or not. Will Mom tell her that she literally forced her hand? Why let a little thing like a well-behaved child (with excellent motor skills, I might add) interfere with Mom's scrapbook requirements?

The parent-auteur seems less concerned with their child than with documenting the perfect childhood. Sometimes I don't blame them--I get the feeling that what they really want is proof. Thirty years from now, when their child claims to have had a rotten childhood, they'll whip out the photos and say, "I gave you a perfect childhood! Pictures don't lie! Your American Girl dolls wore $50 dresses! You had pony rides on the beach! And here's the proof!"

The focus on capturing memories seems to have overwhelmed the actual creating of memories, from bridezillas who stage every aspect of their fairy-tale wedding with a videographer at every turn to dads who watch every Little League game through a lens rather than their own eyes.

I assume it's partly a way for parents to distract themselves from the tedium of these childhood events. Nothing is duller than a dance recital. (My mother disagrees, pointing out my fifth-grade choir concert, where we sang Toto's "Africa".) Fiddling with a gadget helps distract from the tedium of three hours of preteen tap-dancers. Ideally, I suppose, parents could isolate themselves from the experience completely, pay a proxy to attend the recital, then watch the tape or DVD later, fast-forwarding to their own child's performance from the comfort of home.

The kids can't win. Either they're unacceptably natural, just doing their own thing, like the tidy one-year-old with her cake, or creepily unnatural. I watched in disbelief one Christmas as my two oldest nieces restrained themselves from tearing into their presents. They share the same greedy impulses as any child and refrained not from politeness or good breeding: "Mom! Hurry up and bring the camera!"

They'd been trained to understand the videotaping of gift-opening as an integral part of the holidays, just another family tradition. They'd scarcely ever opened a gift without a camera rolling--it didn't occur to them that they could do without it. So the two girls sat impatiently until their father showed up with the camera. Then they ripped into their gifts.

And turned, big smiles, holding up their gifts for the camera, all the world like perfect little game show hostesses: Vanna for the Hannah Montana set. It was a well-choreographed routine: Open gift. "Ooh!" Pick up gift, turn, pose, one-two-three, smile for the camera! Next present.

What's wrong with these kids? You know, back in my day, parents had to convince their savage, uncouth, barely civilized little beasts to sit still long enough to pose for a photograph! Most of my childhood pictures are just plain trashy: pajamas, bedhead, making a mess. Who cared about the stupid camera? Christmas presents! Halloween candy! Easter candy!

It's weird when the kids start posing before they're even asked, acting like little child stars, demanding their close-ups. It's even weirder when it's the parents demanding a retake--no, I'm going to relight the candles, now blow them out again and keep your hands out of the way this time! Get your hair off your face! No, lean over the cake, like this! Hold up your new doll!

More and more, when I'm with family or on vacation, I just want to relax and enjoy the moment. It's hard enough to live in the moment without feeling obligated to document it--much less script, direct, film, and edit "The Moment: My Fascinating Life" for future screenings.

The Freak Wants Pants

2008-04-05T21:32:00.007-04:00

I almost cried today over the stupidest thing. I take that back. I almost cried today over a major problem that has been tormenting me for as long as I can remember, since I was eleven or twelve. I always think it's a stupid thing to get upset about, until I recall that I have been dealing with this problem since I was a child, and it never gets any easier and it will never, ever end.

Just when I thought I was finally an adult who takes hard knocks in stride, I find myself on the verge of tears over something so trivial that I'm embarrassed and enraged at the same time: shopping.

I hate shopping. More specifically, I hate shopping for clothes. This is not because I am a snob who looks down on style-obsessed shoe whores* who live to spend. It is because fashion hates me. The fashion industry pretends it just wants my money; I'm convinced it wants me dead.

This is how I feel on a normal day: "Sure, I'll never be a swimsuit model, but nor will I ever need to wonder if a man really likes me for me and not my flawless body, a problem I'm sure poor Jessica Simpson faces every day."

This is how I feel after a day of shopping for clothes: "I am a freak, a fat, disgusting freak. I am a genetic mutation. Someone should have stopped my parents before they combined their recessive genes to produce the misshapen, lumpish, hideous abnormality that is me. I'm starting to doubt that I'm even human, much less female. There is something horribly wrong with my body! What is wrong with me? I went to 10 stores over 6 hours and tried on 400 pairs of pants, and not one pair fit me! Am I cursed? Am I the only woman in America with an ass? Why am I such an ugly fat freak? And what the hell am I going to wear to work tomorrow and for the rest of my life?"

Then I start to cry and have to go home, empty-handed, wondering if wanting to wear a burka is a good enough reason for converting to Islam.

On a normal day, I'm reasonably content with my looks. I am between 5'6 " and 5'7", and usually can fit in a size 10. At times I've lost weight and fit into a size 6, at times I've gained weight and been a size 14, but usually, without too much exercise or effort, I find myself drifting back into a 10, which is kind of average, neither fat nor thin (I like to think). I know I should probably lift weights and tone and trim blah blah but in general I am content being a mediocrity in the body department.

Yet, after a day of shopping, it is hard to remind myself that I am not actually a freak of nature, that on a bell curve I fit somewhere in the middle. Why is this so hard? All I want is a pair of pants, for God's sake! Clothing is not something on which I would choose to spend a lot of my time, and yet, here I am, an entire Saturday wasted, and I still don't have a thing to wear. I could have, like, planted a tree or built a homeless shelter in the time I wasted shopping.

This is not a trivial problem because I have a job. I have to leave the house. I cannot always wear stretchy yoga pants, unless I become a yoga instructor, and even then I'd probably occasionally want to wear something else on my day off. I work in an office, I have to dress--and I just can't.

I was never a typical girly-girl with thousands of shoes and outfits for every occasion. I've always been pretty basic or minimalist, as much as a woman can be. Now my wardrobe has dwindled to the point where when I say "I have nothing to wear," or "I have no clothes," I'm not exaggerating. I can't wear the same black pants three days in a row. (I would have bought those pants in five different colors, but they only came in black.)

I've always had this "pants problem," but it never really hit me until I started working. It's practically a second job trying to find something, anything that fits. At this point, I can't even afford to care about the price, color, style. Purple polka-dot glow-in-the dark pants for $300? Do they fit? I'll take them. And tell my boss I moonlight as a circus clown.

I don't even know what the problem is anymore. If only it were consistently one thing or the other, I'd know how to work with a tailor to make adjustments. Instead it could be anything: The waist fits perfectly but the legs are too tight/too baggy/too short/too long. The legs fit but I can't button the waist/the waist could fit three of me. The pants are not leggings, but fit like leggings, because that is the current style, because everyone knows that all women, like Audrey Hepburn, look good in painted-on crotch-huggers. The pants claim to be "curvy fit," a euphemism sometimes aimed at larger women and sometimes aimed at "ethnic" women, i.e., Latina or black women, i.e., WOMEN WITH ASSES, because everyone knows white girls don't have asses, and they claim to be wider in the hips and smaller in the waist, but they're not, they're just warped and weird and don't fucking fit, like some kind of bizarre modern-art pant sculpture, not like something a woman would actually wear.

Right now, the main problem is the Gap. Not the store, the fit. I put on pants and face myself in the mirror. It's my lucky day, they look all right! I turn around. Why, Ass-Crack! How nice to see you again! And Underpants, too!

I keep trying to imagine the woman these pants actually fit. Does she have a hump? A massive tumor of the lower spine that requires the waistband of her pants to curve outward a good six inches? Seriously, I could carry a bottle of water back there. Or is it my butt that is the problem, bulging and pushing out a waistband that should, if I were not a genetically disadvantaged freak, lay flat against my back?

Today's pants seem oddly shaped to me--as a teenager I could pull pants over my hips but not button the dramatically tiny waist, clearly designed for the classic hourglass-shaped woman; now, I can pull the pants on and button them, too, but they then--I can't really describe it, and I'm sure as hell not providing photos--they DO WEIRD THINGS. On my body.

I liked the low-rise, bootcut pants for a while; they seemed universally flattering. But the ones I used to wear aren't made any more, or else they've changed the cut so they're still called bootcut but are really just skinny-leg jeans in disguise.

Weight loss doesn't help. It's not my size, it's my shape. I've been every size from 6 to 14, and shopping for a 6/8 was just as hard as shopping as a 10/12 and 14. Actually, shopping for pants was harder as a 6, because apparently if you're a 6 you're also only 5'4"--pants tended to be ankle-flapping short when I took a smaller size. (But, at 5'6", I was still too short for the Tall or Long size.)

In my most extreme bouts of shopping-induced despair, I have actually considered liposuction, if only so I can fit into clothes. I imagine going to the doctor's office with a pair of pants, and when he asks what the problem is, I will put them on and say, "Just make me so I can fit into these."

For a while I was doing pretty good. I became arrogant, complacent. I found a store--ONE store--whose pants fit me, and stocked up. This was about three or four years ago; I still wear some of the pants, others no longer fit or are just worn out. I've since gone back to the store many times, but they've changed the fit, as well as jumped on the cutesy-poo bandwagon by naming their pants. Now, you don't dress in simple descriptives such as loose fit or slim fit, but with names like Kirsten, Julie, and Bridget. You put "Marisa" on your ass, not "classic fit." Who is that wedging up your butt? "Margo," you naughty girl!

(Why don't men have to put up with this bullshit? Does any woman really find this helpful? I don't know, but I honestly can't imagine guys are standing around saying, "I think I need to try the Aaron pants. Steve is just too tight and Mike makes my butt look big." Guys seem to be OK with facing harsh reality, even if it is an Extra-Loose Relaxed Fit with a 40-inch waist.)

In any case, none of their clothes fit me now. None. Nor does any other store I've recently shopped. If my three-year-old pants are to be trusted, I'm still a size 10. So what is the problem? And what the hell can I wear to work?

Horribly, for this former tomboy and perpetual slob, I think the answer may be: skirts.

I love pants, pretty much wear pants 99% of the time, and don't see why you'd want to run, bike, rock-climb, etc. in anything else. But one of my recent random pet theories is that body issues for women did not reach today's epic, all-consuming proportions until women started wearing pants. Pants require a precision fit, closely following every tricky inch of your childbearing body, every curve or bump or bulge. Skirts (at least A-line skirts, not slim, tailored pencil skirts) tend to fit snugly around the waist, then just flow loosely over the hips, thighs, and bottom--all the typical problem areas for women. Not surprisingly, the women who first popularized pants, like Katherine Hepburn, tended to have lanky, boyish bodies, without round hips or curves. Could it be that skirts are not the Satanic tool of the patriarchy, hell-bent on keeping women from practicing sky-diving and karate, but just the garment that is naturally most suited to most women's actual shape?

After my latest round of retail torture (retail therapy? hah!), I find it hard to see pants as the great liberator. Maybe our great-grandmothers deformed their organs by mashing themselves into too-tight corsets, but after trying to mash my body into ill-fitting jeans, I really don't see much difference, except that you look prettier in a dress with a cinched waist than you do in tight pants with a fugly muffin top and a topographic map in denim to every bulge on your behind.

I wish there was some way to compare women's body images or self-image from 150 years ago to today. Would there be as many eating disorders, would as many women be on diets, would as many ordinary, size 10 women consider themselves fat and freakishly shaped? Or would they just pull on a dress and not think about their thighs, since no one except their husband and midwife would ever see them?

I'm guessing that while women were always concerned with keeping a nice figure, it didn't blow up to today's epic drama until more revealing fashions came along. Who cared about abs until the bikini? Who cared about upper arms until spaghetti straps?

I'm still not a huge fan of skirts and dresses. Especially since I have taken a firm vow against pantyhose, especially in winter when cold breezes blow, especially when I oversleep and don't have time to shave, especially when I don't feel particularly ladylike and want to wear sneakers or chunky shoes, especially--OK, the reasons I don't wear skirts are many. But until the fickle fashion gods allow me to buy pants again, I'm not sure I have a choice. I'm running out of clothes. I have two pairs of jeans, and one is over five years old. They're not stylishly distressed, they're disintegrating.

So these are my options:

a) skirts
b) career change = yoga instructor
c) convert to conservative religion, become a "covered woman"
c) win lottery and buy all clothes bespoke
d) nudist camp.

*"shoe whore" borrowed from James Wolcott's blog

Must I Draw You a Picture?

2008-03-24T00:03:00.003-04:00

I heard something this week at the library that is haunting me.

According to the database, the book I wanted was available and on the shelf. I searched. It was not on the shelf. I know this means it has either been stolen or misplaced, but, ever the optimist, I asked the person at the desk for help. He called up the book’s record, which displayed an image of the front cover as well as the author’s name, call number, etc. Then he asked an assistant for help checking the shelves.

“The author’s name is Black,” he said, indicating she should check nearby shelves.

“What’s it look like?” she said. She’s young, in her early or mid-twenties.

“It’s a paperback. Young adult. The author’s name is Holly Black. What’s the title again?” he asked me.

She brushes me off with a wave of her hand before I can speak. “But what’s it look like? See, I’m visual. I need to see it or I can’t find it.”

She shook her head and stalked off to look at the image on-screen.

It was the way she said “I’m visual,” with such exasperation and contempt, refusing even to learn the title or author because it would be of so little use to her. I mean, I know lots of people who are “visual,” who prefer TV to reading, or have a flair for fashion and decorating, or love art and design, or have good spatial sense and thus can parallel park with ease...but they can still read. I'm not so sure this girl could. At least not at the level you'd expect of someone working in a LIBRARY.

That would be, like, I don't know, me working in a sporting goods store, or helping people pick out tools at Home Depot. Personally, I am terrible with pictures to the point where I probably should be classified as having some kind of neurological disorder. I see the image of a hand on a street sign, and assume it is beckoning me to cross, in a friendly, "come on in, the water's fine!" kind of way, not warning me to stop. I still do not understand the tiny graphics on my digital camera, despite having them explained to me many times--I think the lightning bolt means "flash," but the rest are a mystery--and I'm probably doomed to always be a dorky PC person instead of a hip Mac person, because I prefer typing commands and using function keys to clicking on icons.

I just can't connect with images and icons; too many alternate possible meanings come to mind. I'm always like, "What is that squiggly line?" And a friend will say, "That's the volume." And I'll say, "Why couldn't they just use V for Volume? That's logical." And the exasperated friend will say, "It represents sound waves? And this way they can sell it in countries where they don't speak English? Why are you so dense?"

So I've always found not being a "visual" person to be something of an impairment. I never thought about the opposite, about being so completely visual I can't even really connect with words, can't even scan a shelf of books for a title.

I recently read an article in the New Yorker about not the decline of literacy so much as the decline of the “reading mind,” which made it sound like we’re devolving. Apparently as we lose the habit of reading and rely more and more on images and sounds--on television instead of newspapers, on GPS systems that tell us "turn left" instead of making us interpret a map--the way we think and perceive the world actually changes. The visual mind is less capable of understanding complex ideas and following long trains of thought or making logical connections, similar in its thought processes to preliterate societies that lack a written language.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing if you live in the wild and hunt for your food day to day. But the combination of a preliterate mind in a modern, urban setting is something to ponder. Maybe technology will take the place of reading for the average person someday.

This also reminds me of an episode from Carla Speed McNeill’s excellent Talisman, part of her Finder comic series, which is set in a futuristic world. A little girl asks her mother if she may learn to read. The mother is in the process of plugging computer jacks directly into her skull. "It's a rather archaic skill, like penmanship, but I do think the old ways have a lot of charm," she says. "Your grandmother will be thrilled..." The daughter asks if her mother can read, and she replies, "Of course...But I never liked reading for pleasure; it's bad for the eyes."

It’s not going to be fiction for long!

Maybe someday in the future kids will be in a position to take up reading as “retro” and cool, like knitting is today. Or maybe books with lots and lots of words will go the way of the corset and the parasol, and everything will be written as manga.

And I'll be this hopelessly out of touch elderly person stumbling off a cliff and plunging to my death because I thought the flashing red image of a tipsy stick figure surrounded by zig-zaggy lines meant, "Groovy Sights Ahead! Sure to Leave You Reeling With Excitement!"

Back to Work

2008-03-22T08:51:00.003-04:00

A rough accounting of my first month at my new job, displayed as a list of the things I did not miss while freelancing from home for many months.

Day 1: Professional Attire, i.e., "man clothes"

I hate tailored dress clothes. The feeling is mutual. My body defies these clothes, mainly because the clothes may be tailored but my body is not.

Fortunately, I work in downtown Manhattan, where you can tell the V.P. from the janitor because the janitor is wearing khakis, oxford shoes, and a button-down shirt, while the V.P. is wearing distressed jeans, sneakers, a cashmere hoodie over a designer T-shirt, and carries a messenger bag.

Everyone here dresses like a kid. Forty is the new four! I'm not complaining. But for now, until I start shopping, I'm stuck with my hateful wool/rayon blend dress trousers and pointy black heels.

Day 4: Lazy Office Fucks

I’ve worked here four days and have replaced the water cooler jug five times and mopped spilled coffee from the floor and counter. Is everyone here blind, crippled, and stupid? Maybe this was the real reason I was hired: "She looks like the kind of girl who refills ice cube trays! Hallelujah, we haven't seen ice cubes 'round these parts since Becky left back in '03!"

Day 5: Work-From-Home Bosses

For the second time in my life I’ve come across this phenomenon, and for the second time I've realized how much it sucks to work for a Phantom Boss. How on earth can you manage a staff from 100 miles away? Half her employees stroll in around 10:30 and leave at 4.

More importantly, how do I get one of these cushy jobs, with the title Executive, an office I only use once a week, three assistants, a staff I rarely interact with, and a work wardrobe that consists entirely of sweatpants?

Day 7: Pretending to be Busy

My immediate supervisor said to me, "If you want a job where you get paid a reasonable amount for not doing very much at all, publishing is the place to be."

What a sucker I've been! I should have moved to New York years ago. All the jobs I held in Philly had me working my ass off, juggling a dozen projects at a time. Now I dream of those happy deadline-filled days as I write blog posts at my desk and check to see if the library has that copy of "The Mole People" in yet.

Now that I'm taking the subway every day I am very interested in mole people. Lots of people are; seven other people are ahead of me on the wait list.

Day 10: Commuting

On the subway you are a captive audience for aspiring gospel singers.

Day 12: Toxic Coworkers

I used to hate pretending to care about meeting sales goals and other stupid crap while knowing that no one else really cares, either. So why are we pretending? Can’t we just all be honest? We're all just here to collect a paycheck, right?

Then I discovered what is worse than not caring: someone who doesn’t even care enough to pretend to care.

See, I tried never to let my cynicism crush the bright young people surrounding me. Life would break them down soon enough. I tried to reveal my bitterness only to other bitter, cranky old bastards. Besides, embittering the new hires was not in my job description.

Yet I’ve been awash in cynicism the moment I get here. I’m using all of my strength and self-control to keep up the routine of Eager New Employee Who is Most Definitely NOT Going to Show Up Unshowered OR Take a Two-Hour Lunch Her First Week on the Job, OR Use Foul Language in my Boss's Presence for at Least the First Month. For my pains I am being smothered in tales of woe and resentment. Everyone hates the IT manager. Everyone hates the office manager. The trainer is an idiot. Etc.

The worst part is when it turns out that they aren't just whiny complainers. The trainer really is an idiot.

Day 21: Town Hall Meetings

A low talker refuses a microphone. No one has any idea what he said. There were PowerPoint slides with bar graphs and pie charts. The gist is that the company won't be going out of business this year, so there's no need to panic. Good news. I am impressed that unlike at other corporate town halls I've attended, this one had muffins and bagels.

Day 23: Tightwad Executives

One day, Phantom Executive emails me to arrange a lunch meeting to discuss my workload. At last! An hour before the meeting, she reveals that she has not yet had time to think about my workload (or, by extension, me). But she'd still like to meet over lunch, and chooses a restaurant.

The check comes and Phantom Executive says, "So, can we just split it three ways?"

I'd assumed, based on previous experiences, that when my boss invites me to a working lunch the company is paying. Even the most useless people I've ever worked with understood the function of the corporate card. In any case, I don't have enough cash on me and have to put it on my card. I also leave the tip.

Day 25: Never Mind That Man With the Gun

Phantom Executive lets it slip that "the company is not entirely committed to the future of (insert product I produce here). Oops—I really shouldn’t have said that."

Awkward pause in front of six employees. "I didn’t mean it that way, of course, I mean, I'm sure it will be around for years.”

Day 27: Corporate Morale-Building

Today we received an email from Phantom Executive, who is, as usual, working from home. She wants us to choose a "team name." A few hours later I ask my immediate supervisor if he's thought of anything. He brightens up and says, "No, I think that can be your job!"

So, if I quit a job after less than 3 months, am I obligated to include it on my resume? Maybe I only thought I needed health insurance.

Packing as Therapy

2008-03-13T12:21:00.004-04:00

Oh, you thought I was done bitching about moving and how much I hated it? Think again, sucker! This is sort of an expanded rehash of the last post. What can I say, I wasn’t done venting.

Packing as Therapy

Moving isn’t really so bad. I like to travel, and moving is like traveling, only with more stuff, and instead of paying to stay in a hotel you pay for a new home.

Moving is fun. Packing is what sucks.

Packing started out fun, believe it or not. I like the sense of purpose and accomplishment that comes with starting a new project. Relocating was an opportunity to start over with a clean slate, to finally get organized.

Bags of clothes went to charity, books and DVDs to the library. Strangely shaped cooking utensils whose purpose I couldn't identify, tacky holiday decorations buried in the closet since the day my mom gave them to me--all of it gone. It feels good to unload.

I was tempted to just throw stuff out, certain that plaster Easter bunny candleholders are trash, plain and simple, but I resisted. I told myself that one woman's trash is another's treasure, and 'tis more blessed to recycle than to raze and burn. Ruthlessly I purged.

Gradually the ferocious purge slowed. Indecisive and easily distracted, I began re-reading books I hadn't so much as dusted in years, and was sucked into hour-long conversations with myself, leading to soul-searching of the “my God, what have I done with my life?” variety:

"How can I get rid of my secondhand high-school copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra? OK, so I barely understood it then and wouldn't understand it now, but it reminds me of the girl I was--earnest, self-motivated, philosophical, curious--really, you know, trying to understand the world--educating myself haphazardly by reading any book I saw mentioned in a music or literary magazine, or in Sassy.

“I will never read it again--but you never know. How can I give it up? It would be like admitting I’m no longer that intellectually curious person, but instead a burned-out workaday drudge who can barely keep up with the daily news, much less find time to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. Well, I’m not that person, and by keeping this book, I am refusing to admit defeat.”

But I did get rid of it--not because I was able to convince myself that I’d never read it again, but because of the faded, yellowing pages. It will be easier to find a clean copy at the library. Thus I purged most of the classics--what library doesn't have a copy of The Scarlet Letter? Plus, if I ever desperately need to know Hester Prynne's daughter's name, there's Google.

Sometimes, like a high-school reunion, packing led to rediscovery and reigniting old flames.

I was this close--really. That old college copy of The Portable Thoreau was in the donation pile. And then I took a break...and made the mistake of picking it up and flipping through it, just to make sure I really wanted to get rid of it. And I stumbled across the essay on Economy:

"I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out the window in disgust."

My feelings exactly! So I'm probably interpreting this out of context and all wrong, but the way I see it, it's better not to own stuff, no matter how beautiful, than to have to spend even five minutes a day cleaning it. The responsibilities of ownership are onerous.

And yet, somehow, I own about, oh, a thousand metaphorical pieces of limestone, only half of which I was able to throw out the window.

In any case, how could I get rid of this book now? Surely it's worth saving for this one chapter alone. So I kept it. Thanks a fucking lot, Thoreau. You and your 698 portable pages have really helped me to simplify.

It's not just that "the things you own, end up owning you." The process of packing and moving is more like a mid-life crisis. One day, you wake up and realize you are mired in a swamp. You cannot move. You are not light, flexible, open, with endless possibilities before you. You are weighed down, heavy, slow, OLD. You have stuff, and not just any stuff, but lame, old-people stuff. Like a melonballer and a cordless screwdriver and boring nonfiction finance books. The reality is that there are reality TV shows devoted to helping people like you.

You can’t even ask for help, because your friends and family are all in on it. Your mother will not only convince you that you need a melonballer, she’ll also bring over a cheese-slicer, a garlic press, a pizza cutter, a special bagel-slicing gadget, a citrus peeler, and a plastic gadget whose sole purpose is to make it easier to drain the water from cans of tuna. The world is against you. I suppose it helps create a more stable society if everyone is kept immobilized by prosperity, weighted down with lots and lots of stuff.

Then it turned ugly. Time is running out. The nostalgia turned into a kind of tough-love therapy, a forced intervention, only instead of relatives and friends barging in to tell you what's wrong with your life, it's just you and your demons--you and your pretensions and illusions and your stuff, alone on the living room floor with twenty cardboard boxes and a roll of packing tape.

Every one of your possessions, from the spare toothbrush to the can of tomatoes, takes center stage and demands of you: "Justify my existence. Why do you own me? Why must you keep me? Do you need me? Do you love me? Will I be of use in your new home? Take me with you. I promise I'll be good. I won't take up that much space. Can you really live without me? Will this be a decision you regret? But I love you."

Asking “why do I own this?” forced me to confront a few delusions. I realized I had a lot of stuff that I owned purely for its symbolic value: “Owning this intellectual book/too-small dress/exotic souvenir/gift from ex-boyfriend/expensive handbag proves that I am still smart/young/thin/cool/interesting/loved/successful.”

It was especially hard to part with the books. Personal nostalgia was replaced with insipid vanity, as in: Someday, someone will see this book on my shelf, and they will know I am not a vapid fool, I am a vapid fool who once read Milton and Keats, Homer and Plato, Chekhov and Faulkner (and was apparently completely untouched by them all). It's not just a book--it's shorthand to my soul. It's proof I'm not an idiot--'cause sometimes I do need proof.

Even though I haven't read it in ten years and can't even remember the main character's names. Or the plot. Uncle Vanya? Read it, didn't hate it, passed the written exam. I think it's about some guy named Vanya. He's somebody's uncle. So much for my college education.

Then, in case the mid-life crisis wasn’t convincing enough, I find myself arguing about the practical need to own three spatulas, and realize I’ve turned into my mother:

"Just because I didn’t even know I owned it, much less used it once in five years, doesn't mean I won't need it tomorrow! You can always use another spatula! What if the two you already have catch fire and melt? You won't just go to the store and spend $2.29 on a new one--no, you'll wish you'd kept this spare spatula!"

Sentimentality is the last of the finer instincts to go. The Valentine card from my adorable little niece? Trash. (That it was a Hannah Montana card made it a little easier.) This weird carved wooden African mask from my brother? I must keep it FOREVER. And ever. And ever. I'll be 90 years and drooling in a nursing home and this damned scary ugly mask is going to be staring down at me...nope. Trash.

Soon I am in full-fledged resentment of my possessions, which for me is just a short leap to self-loathing for possessing them in the first place. What kind of vacuous, morally bankrupt, pathetic excuse for a human even owns a special tin for baking miniature Bundt cakes? It is frighteningly easy to convince myself that owning both a round and a heart-shaped springform pan makes me Imelda Marcos.

Then, after packing and moving, it’s time to unpack. And the process starts all over again, and I'm not sure I feel any wiser for it. Just maybe less likely to hold onto things.

Get This Girl a Flamethrower

2008-03-09T19:58:00.004-04:00

I think the emotional reaction to the process of packing and moving your possessions can be broken down into stages, like Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief. Only instead of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance, stretched out over a period of months, I went through seven stages, from Optimism to Self-Loathing, from Paralysis to Breakdown, in a mere seven days.

Stage One: Optimism (also known as Ignorance)

"How hard could it be? I'm one person who lives in a one-bedroom apartment. It's not like I have two kids, a dog, a house, a basement, and a garage so packed with junk I can’t fit my car inside. I'm not materialistic—I don’t have that much stuff. Besides I already got rid of so much--I just took FIVE bags of books to the library! And I'm planning on getting rid of so much more--that old bookshelf, the TV stand, the table, that wardrobe. What's left to move, really? Just some clothes, books, dishes."

Stage Two: Nostalgia

“Wow, I forgot I even owned this T-shirt! How could I forget Madonna’s “Who’s That Girl?” tour from the 80s? Oh my God—my high school yearbook. I haven’t looked at it once in 10 years, but I can’t possibly get rid of it. I’m so glad I’m finding all this stuff. What a trip down memory lane!”

Stage Three: The Rude Awakening: Reality Creeps In

"So I have slightly more stuff than I expected. I can't believe I donated five bags of books to the library and STILL have THIRTEEN BOXES of books to take with me! I can't believe it took me two days just to pack books! God I'm exhausted. But I will persevere! I've been packing ten hours per day for two straight days. Surely I must be halfway done."

Stage Four: Rage, Self-Loathing and Lashing Out

"WHY DO I HAVE SO MUCH SHIT!? I AM ONE FUCKING PERSON! This isn't just ridiculous, it's disgusting. It cannot be right or proper for ONE PERSON to own THIS MUCH SHIT!”

“What IS this junk ANYWAY? It’s all shit, garbage, crap!”

“Where did all of this come from?!”

I found myself on the telephone, near tears, telling a friend that I envied the victims of Hurricane Katrina. "At least all their stuff just disappeared! They didn't have to DEAL with it! One day they were just free, unencumbered, unburdened--God I wish it would all just go away!”

“You sound like you need help.”

“What I need is a flamethrower!”

“Do you want me to come over and help?”

“I want it all to go away. I just wish it would all just go AWAY and then I'd get new stuff later."

And I would have, too. If I could afford to give away everything I own and start fresh, I would have.

And then the inevitable First World/gluttonous American/overconsumption/we-have-so-much-while- others-have-so-little guilt set in. To be complaining about owning so much stuff, when others don't even have clean water to drink! To complain about owning a Cuisinart and a KitchenAid mixer and an ice cream maker and a rice cooker and a toaster ad nauseum, when in some countries they are lucky to own one little pot--probably not even with a high-tech nonstick coating! I am disgusting, I am gross, to have so much and be so ungrateful.

I hate myself. I blame it all on moving.

Stage Five: Paralysis

I'm stuck. I just...don't know what to do. I'm packed...sort of. But I have all this...stuff. I don't know what to do with it. I can't throw it out. I can't leave it behind. I guess I have to pack it. But I can't figure out--I mean I don't know--I mean--what do I--here's that scarf a friend made for me eight years ago that I've only worn twice but--well it was a gift—I can’t leave this behind, can I?

Stage Six: Breakdown

Friends began to call. "I just wanted to see if you were still alive," began one phone call. I've received at least five such phone calls in my life. Sometimes I think I make people worry more than other people do.

Me: "Nothing is worth this! Nothing! That's it. This is such bullshit. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I wish I could just call it all off."

Friend, incredulous, "You mean you're thinking of not moving and quitting your new job before you even start, just to avoid finishing packing?"

Me: "Yes. But I can't, I already signed the lease. But nothing is worth this! Remember this, in case you decide to move someday! NOTHING."

Finally reinforcements arrived. Like a zombie, I wandered, numb, from room to room, often contemplating a piece of tape, dust, or scrap of paper. A friend helped me pack, mainly by packing for me while I stared into the depths of an empty cardboard box and then, after five or six minutes, put a coffee mug in the box, then took it out again, then put it in again.

Stage Seven: Resignation

My fingertips literally peel off in multiple layers due to constant exposure to ammonia, bleach, and various cleaning products. I am nauseous from not eating, coughing from constant inhalation of dust and the fumes of oven cleaner, bathroom cleaner, and glass cleaner, and aching from constantly lifting heavy boxes. On the plus side, I temporarily possess firm, toned muscles in my upper arms.

The process never improves as I plod towards the finish line, defeated and numb with despair. I take out one last bag of trash, and it breaks, spilling garbage onto the pavement and I am standing in the back parking lot scooping up damp trash with my bare hands and illegally dumping it into a dumpster that belongs to the bar next door.

I find some rocks and seashells from vacations past and decide they need to be liberated, returned to their natural habitat, not buried inside a plastic bag in a landfill. As I'm dumping them out by the roadside, I notice too late that a cop is watching me. But I am not convicted of dumping, because rocks don't count as trash, or because he sees my state of mind and pities me.

I decide that instead of throwing out an old TV stand I will donate it to the church thrift shop down the street, and after I wrestle it out the door and down three flights of stairs, one of the wheels breaks off. It is now irreparable junk. So now I have to lug it to the dumpster instead.

With only three days to spare, I decide to hire movers, because I have been packing for seven straight days and the thought of loading the forty or fifty or sixty--I don't even know, I lost track, just lots of boxes--plus the sofa and bed and bookshelves, into a van, then driving for hours and then unpacking it all and lugging it up to my new third-floor apartment, then returning the van, then picking up my car and driving back, makes me want to cry.

It's wasteful and I can't really afford it but I chalk it up to the cost of sanity. It's bad enough that to save money I rented a carpet cleaner from Home Depot, and shampoo the carpets myself instead of hiring a professional. The machine weighs forty or fifty pounds and pulling it across the carpet is like working out on a rowing machine. After working up a sweat, I rinse out the filthy thing and accidentally pummel myself in the kidneys with the handle as I lug it down the stairs. I am so very, very tired of lugging.

To paraphrase a famous book title, this is a supposedly economical thing I will never do again. Every time I get into a “do it yourself” frame of mind, I remind myself why people are willing to pay other people to do these things in the first place. The first three things people do when they come into money is hire a maid, hire a nanny, and hire a landscaper. Possibly they also hire a cook. This is because housekeeping and taking care of small children and mowing grass and touching raw meat are the most tedious and time-consuming and deeply irritating things in life. The fact that people can actually make a living running a professional carpet cleaning service should have told me something.

When the moving guys show up, I almost weep with gratitude. I am awed as they easily lift three of the heavy boxes at a time—I struggled to lift even one. Maybe I was a little too grateful and impressed, because one of them gives me his phone number.

Naturally a man hits on me when I am unwashed, with no makeup, wearing sweatpants, and utterly beaten down, exhausted, and deranged from stress. I used to think this meant men found unkempt women somehow less intimidating, more approachable. Now I think the moral is never to underestimate the attractiveness of weakness. This in itself is demoralizing. A professional-mover boyfriend would have been more useful to me two weeks earlier, but never mind--if I'm ever back in Philly I can give Frank a call.

Finally it's over. I am moved. I collapse. There is only one thing left to do if I am going to survive this ordeal.

I find a pizza place. All is right with the world.

On My Worst Enemy

2008-03-09T19:48:00.008-04:00

Finally, I've found something to wish upon my worst enemy. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have finally filled this gap on my emotional resume. I like to know where I stand on things (political issues, favorite ice cream flavors), and not having a specific, socially acceptable torment to wish upon people I can't stand has been a source of unease.

I don't know when I learned to say "You know, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." This may grant a smug sense of moral superiority to some, but not me. I don't think it's enlightened empathy, but rather ancient superstition, the fear that the Irony Gods will hear your plea and turn around and curse YOU instead, that makes us say these things.

I say it, but deep down I don't believe it. I feel cheated. I am the misanthropic Olympic gold medalist in Grudge-Holding, and it irks me to always have to be so nice, all the time. Why can't I wish testicular cancer on that bigoted jerk? It's not like I have omniscient powers. Saying it won't make it so. Why can't I hope her tits rot off and she dies alone? She's evil! She deserves it! She'd do the same to me in a heartbeat! In fact I know she has! Haven't I done enough good and kind acts in my life to make up for just one or two evil thoughts? Mere thoughts?

It's not like I'd actually follow through even if I did have God-like powers over life and death. And if I can't wish revolting diseases upon my worst enemies, then what? Suppose I'm slapped on the cheek, so I turn the other cheek, and then they slap that cheek, too? So I'm all out of cheeks, and I can't even wish plagues on both their houses?

Unfortunately for me and my social life, this attitude is seen as evil and, worse, petty. I realized I needed to reform my views during a party where someone mentioned Paris Hilton and I said without thinking, "My God, hasn't she overdosed YET? How much longer do we have to put up with her? Someone tell me when it's safe to turn the TV on again." I could tell from the awkward silence that wishing death on anyone, even Paris the Useless, was simply not a nice thing to say. I can't imagine why, but it actually made people not want to talk to me.

As an added twist, then a talented celebrity I actually liked went and OD'd. It just seemed so unfair. Maybe the Irony Gods had struck and punished me for my cruel and thoughtless death wish upon a girl who is, after all, someone's daughter and probably loved in some fashion by someone.

So I needed another weapon of hate. Three weeks ago, I found it.

Moving. Moving on short notice. Moving out-of-state on short notice. Make that moving out-of-state on short notice and ON A BUDGET.

It's physically, emotionally, financially, and psychologically traumatizing, debilitating, and draining. It's painful in every way. It's perfect. It leaves hardly any visible scars, and you can go to a party and say a little too gleefully, "You know, I hope she gets that job in Tallahassee and has to relocate TOMORROW! Even though her husband just spent their life savings buying a mid-life crisis boat! Heck, it's no big deal, just get some cardboard boxes and pack up and go. It will be a worthy experience! And think of the money you'll save doing it yourself."

No one will know that you are really the Devil and what you are really saying is, "I consign you to six weeks in the 40th circle of hell. That's right, there is no 40th circle of hell, because I just made it up right now just for you because it is the hell of MOVING ON A BUDGET and you deserve it."

I know because I've been there, and now I feel comfortable wishing it on my worst enemy.

The last time I moved I was in my twenties. I didn't own a single piece of furniture, unless you count the milk crate which I turned upside down and used as a table and a chair and a desk and a step stool. I had more boxes of books than clothes. Moving myself took one day, two car trips. Maybe three.

Needless to say, moving in my thirties has been a somewhat different experience. Almost a month later, I'm still traumatized. I'll have to talk about it some other time. The memories are still too fresh. It's hard for me to describe without using words like "hell," "torture," "never again," and "wouldn't wish it on my wors--no, actually, that's perfect." It's the perfect torment, and no one needs to know you're really doing the Devil's work.

Deductible Stupidity

2008-02-01T14:03:00.000-05:00

From the Liberty tax service website. One of these things is not like the others--can you guess which one?

DEDUCTIONS/ADJUSTMENTS:
Medical Expenses
Real Estate or Personal Property Taxes
Mortgage Interest
Charitable Contributions
Employee Business Expenses
Gambling Losses
Moving Expenses
Traditional IRA Contributions
Higher Education Expenses
Educator Expenses
Student Loan Interest

Um, GAMBLING LOSSES are tax-deductible? What the hell?

Well then, why can't I deduct the expenses for all of my rash and irrational decisions? Those sixty-dollar shoes I only wore twice? Hey, I took a gamble, I thought I'd actually wear silver metallic sandals with a three-inch heel on a regular basis. Can I count that stupid decision as a deduction?

Stereotypical New York Apartment-Hunting Experience

2008-01-30T23:22:00.000-05:00

Here is the saga of today's apartment hunt Brooklyn.

11:30am: First appointment

Me: "Hello, I'm calling to confirm I have a 12 o'clock appointment to see the apartment."
Agent: "I rented it yesterday."
Me: "But I had an appointment."
Agent: "Well, I was showing it yesterday. Someone took it on the spot."
Me: "No one called me to tell me. I drove all the way in from Philadelphia."
Agent: "I might have something else on Friday. Call back."

12:30pm. Second appointment

Henry, quirky, kind, 55, says my inability to judge a person's character within 3 seconds or less is why I'm "35 and not married but want to be." I'm like, Hey, I'm only 34! I have a boyfriend, at least for the next two weeks until I move out-of-state! What does this have to do with renting an apartment?!

The apartment is a large studio, way out on Flatbush Ave near Brooklyn College, on the 16th floor of a high-rise w/laundry in the basement & 24-hr security guard in lobby. The view: all the way to the airport. There's a membership-only pool. Parking is easy, none of that moving-the-car-on-opposite-sides-of-the-street-every-day stuff. It's across the street from a brand-new Target--convenient. There's an express train to Manhattan, and we're the very first stop so I'd always have a seat.

And yet. I don't know why but I can't sell myself on this place. I think it's the high-rise. It feels so impersonal.

And yet, it's probably really safe, and I did fall for Henry and his crazy character judgments and offhand personal revelations. "I've been married to the same woman 25 years!" "I can tell you are a kind person. Kind people attract other kind people. I could tell about you on the phone. I wouldn't like you, if you weren't kind." "In my heart, I already know who I want to rent this apartment to. It's you."

2pm. Third time, no charm

The agent had me confused with another Catherine and therefore forgot about my appointment. He was apologetic and asked to reschedule to Friday. I am cursed.

3:30pm. Fourth appointment

When I arrived, the apartment I was scheduled to see at 3:30pm was in the process of being rented by Ian, a skinny hipster from Chicago whose dad was there co-signing his lease application. The agent confides that Ian does not make enough money to qualify to rent a one-bedroom apartment. Here I dressed I up to impress potential landlords, and I lose my future home to a boy with a Beatles haircut and cuffed jeans.

Me: "But how could it be rented? I had an appointment."
Agent: "He was here early. He came this morning, went to look at 7 other places, then came back to this one."

BUT, he had another apartment that was almost done being renovated, which lead to the...

Fifth Non-Appointment

This is a smaller building on the wrong side of Prospect Park, in the Prospect/Lefferts Garden neighborhood. There is no security guard, but it has a separate bedroom and kitchen and is nice inside, if a bit run-down--that is, it has "pre-war charm." It's 2 blocks from the subway and 3 blocks from the Park.

BUT, I'm not sure about the neighborhood at night. Frankly, I'm not sure about the neighborhood during the day, or the subway stop, ever. As I drove away around 6pm, I saw three boys fighting, one trying to push the other into the street into oncoming traffic. It didn't look like they were joking. Or am I overreacting? I have a feeling I'll rush home by 6pm, triple-bolt the door, and never, ever leave.

The neighborhood seems like West Philly, sort of..."in transition." But am I really a gentrifier? Can I deal with the constant fear that someone is going to enter via the fire escape and kill me? Or is that just life in the big city? A cop was shot in a Dunkin Donuts about a five-minute drive from my current apartment. Is anywhere really safe?

Agent: "You can buy bars for the window, if you're worried. Like those people over there."

I could maybe handle it. But if there was ever a power outage in this building, I think I'd die of terror.

I tentatively reserved the apartment. Now I am fighting the urge to withdraw and cancel my application. There aren't enough closets! What if there are cockroaches? What about the rapist climbing up the fire escape? What about taking the subway at midnight? No wonder all New Yorkers are in therapy.

I could look at a few more places, but I don't know if I have the energy to trek all the way to NY for apartments that are perpetually rented before I get there, or where the landlord may reject my application (but take my $40-60 "application fee").

If nothing else, I now know I cannot afford to live in a safe neighborhood that is even marginally interesting, and am probably better off moving to my ancestral homeland of Staten Island, the most uninteresting (but probably safest) borough of all.

What! No Slipper Socks?!

2007-12-26T15:37:00.000-05:00

Just another Christmas: the futon gave me a backache, my car got stuck in a muddy driveway, and a spiteful dachshund pissed on my suitcase. (Pit bulls have more charm than my mother's dogs.) At least the Chinese buffet was pleasantly crowded with other sane people enjoying General Tso's chicken on Christmas Day.

Well, perhaps it wasn't just another Christmas: for the first time in three years, no slipper socks! Which one of you tipped off my mom?!

Mostly I lay around and watched Christmas movies. Christmas may be the only time when this pessimist can suspend disbelief long enough to enjoy clichéd happy endings--because only something as completely unrealistic as "Christmas magic" could account for such a thing. Harry Potter rides a broomstick, faith in Santa cures cancer--as long as we're accepting that these things are PURE FANTASY, I'm okay.

Much like Christmas music, Christmas movies are really not all that cheerful. Just ignore the treacly endings, and they're chock-full of bitterness and despair. The best has to be Jimmy Stewart's attempted suicide in It's A Wonderful Life. He's got a pack of kids he can barely support; he builds nice homes for others but himself lives in a dump; he wanted to go to college and become an architect, and instead sits at the same desk day after day. The role of thankless martyr is usually dominated by women, but in the true spirit of the holiday, it's a man who sacrifices himself, thinking of everyone's happiness but his own. How refreshing!

It's such an uplifting film. Every time I see Donna Reed in that houseful of kids, I think: thank God for The Pill!

I also find it alarming that when the angel shows George what would have happened to Mary had he not married her--pretty, intelligent, vivacious Mary--it shows that she became not a housewife but--gasp!--A WOMAN WHO WEARS GLASSES!

Yes, marrying George Bailey made her a svelte housewife with 20/20 vision. Had George never been born, her fate was to become a dumpy librarian in black spectacles. Now wasn't this worth sacrificing your college dream for, George? To save this poor girl from glasses and a fate worse than death?

This is so unfair. I've had to wear corrective lenses since 5th grade! I guess that means my George Bailey fell through the ice and drowned when he was nine. Damn it!

Still, I'd rather be a bespectacled bluestocking than stuck in that house with all those kids. My favorite part is when George flips out and screams, "Why'd we have all these kids for anyway?!"

You'd never find that kind of honest rage directed towards children in a movie made today. Instead, Mommy would gently explain that "while Daddy loves you very very much, he needs some time to find himself" and "sometimes even grown-ups make mistakes and say things they don't mean" or some such horseshit. Even with the sappy ending, at least Frank Capra had the balls to show that, at least sometimes, people regret having kids.

I'm probably getting the wrong message out of this movie, but so what? I also like watching Clark Griswold delusionally believe he's getting a big cash bonus for Christmas, only to find his employer enrolled him in the Jelly of the Month Club.

I can't help it, I enjoy a little schadenfreude around the holidays. That's the kind of thing that would only happen to me--probably right before the dachshund pisses on my suitcase.

Jingle Bell Rock

2007-12-17T15:51:00.000-05:00

I love that so many classic Christmas songs have dark, depressing undertones. In all the happy hype surrounding this holiday, it's easy not to notice that many Christmas songs are not about love and good cheer, but loneliness and despair:

Barely Hangin' On: "Someday soon, we all will be together--if the fates allow. Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow."

Delusions of Happiness: "I'll be home for Christmas--if only in my dreams."

God, I'm Old and Depressed: "Yes, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute...For I've grown a little colder, grown a little sadder, grown a little older, And I need a little angel, sitting on my shoulder, Need a little Christmas now!"

She Regifted My Heart: "Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. The very next day, you gave it away." (Oh, George Michael. Will you never learn?)

The Low Self-Esteem Holiday Song: "Maybe I'm crazy to suppose, I'd ever be the one you chose, Out of the thousand invitations you receive. But in case I have one little chance, Here comes the jackpot question in advance: What are you doing New Year's Eve?"

Poverty and Shame: "Baby Jesus, I am a poor boy too. I have no gift to bring that's fit to give our king."

And Your Point Is? "Your soul is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of rubbish imaginable, mangled up in tangled up knots!"

Alas, many of us can't make it home for Christmas, have no gift to bring, no one to kiss on New Year's Eve, and no money to buy imported clementines. Loneliness is here and scurvy is right around the corner. But at least George Michael feels our pain.

Despite the recent resurrection of my Christmas cheer, I still reserve a special hatred for at least 70% of the Christmas songs out there, including:

Greedy Motherfucker Songs: Songs by celebrities whose voices are not appropriate to the song, but who nonetheless need to pad out their greed-induced Christmas album by butchering the classics, such as Jessica Simpson's version of "What Child Is This" or Madonna's "Santa Baby," which makes me want to throw up.

Cutesy-poo Animal Songs: "Dominick the Christmas Donkey," "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas," "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." For some reason the Murder, She Wrote crowd eats this shit up.

You Think You're Making Me Cry, But You're Just Making Me Angry: I hate that song "The Christmas Shoes," about the little boy whose mother is dying and he saved up his pennies to buy her new shoes so she'll look pretty when she meets Jesus. I hate that song so much it's irrational. I can't even explain it. I just hate it and want it to die. I become violent even thinking about it. I want the person who wrote the song to die, and the person who sings the song to die, and anyone associated with producing the song and airing it on the radio to die. My hatred is second only to my hatred of "Muskrat Love." I would be willing to buy all of them shoes to go meet Jesus in. That's how much I hate it.

Otherwise, I enjoy many classic Christmas carols, even the ones that aren't gloomy and despairing. I have nothing against Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald, and have fond memories of my mom's Bing Crosby album. How else would I have learned that "Mele Kalikimake" is the Hawaiian way of saying Merry Christmas to you? You just never know when that may come in handy.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Christmas Crap

2007-12-14T13:50:00.000-05:00

It's a Christmas miracle: I finally got tired of bitching! (About the holidays, anyway. Let's not be too hasty.)

I'm such the Ebenezer. I am now able to enjoy hideously tacky Christmas decorations. Or maybe I'm just tired, the winter gloom finally beating the fight out of me.

It's cold, it's dark by 5pm, even when it's daylight it's grey and depressing. But hark! An escaped mental patient has gone batshit crazy, robbed a Kmart, and dumped a truckload of loot all over the lawn! Is that SpiderMan in a Santa suit? Baby Jesus, Winnie-the-Pooh AND the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, together at last? Yes, it is!

I used to hate all this gaudy shit. Now I'm thinking, why the hell not? It's dark and cold! The world is entirely in shades of black, grey, and white! We need some color. We need some sparkling lights. We need a giant inflatable Spongebob Squarepants lighting up the night like a beacon of hope that sunny days will soon be here. Nothing says, "Hail the birth of my savior" like a lifesize animatronic Santa waving from the back of his sleigh in front of an army of plastic elves and an inflatable Pooh bear snowglobe.

Christmas has at last crossed the line from merely tacky to downright surreal. It's like David Lynch, Pat Robertson, and Walt Disney all got together over a nice hot cup of crack. All that's missing is the dancing dwarf. Wait--what's that over in the shrubbery? Never mind.

Are these displays in good taste? Heavens no. But I've come to accept that bad taste is way more fun. Imagine Halloween: you could dress up as sober feminist heroine Madame Curie, or you could go as a buxom Renaissance beer wench. Now who do you think has more fun? For me, "elegance" and "Christmas" go together like broccoli and chocolate.

The only way to get over the assault to your eyes and aesthetic sensibility is to embrace it (because God knows this time of year, you can't avoid it). For example, a coworker once invented Christmas Bingo where you drive around town and score points for spotting offenses such as Baby Jesus next to Scooby Doo, or three Santas in various sizes, or more than one inflatable superhero. That's the spirit!

I've always secretly wanted to live in a culture with a colorful polytheistic religion, complete with flying monkey gods and jealous goddesses who turn people into spiders. I hope the apocalypse comes on Christmas, so that future anthropologists will unearth the remains of our Christmas displays and theorize that our dominant religion somehow involved the myth of a giant yellow teddy bear who, with his army of flying reindeer and same-sex gingerbread consort, arrived to battle a carpenter and a magical neon-blue virgin to free the enslaved elf nation and gain supremacy over our lush fields of power-generating candy canes.

Until then, merry bitchmas to all.

Grow Your Own Claus

2007-12-13T13:21:00.000-05:00

Speaking of made-in-China Christmas crud (hi, Aj), I received a Grow Your Own Santa Claus toy from a Secret Santa this year, as well as a Grow Your Own Elf. Submerge in water, and watch as, over the course of 10 days, it "transforms up to 600% its size!"

Santa is now growing in a pot of water on the stove. According to the package, "Santa Gets So Big--It's Way More Fun Than Mistletoe!" Ooh, I hope so!

"As your toy grows it may distort in shape. This is part of the fun and will correct when fully grown." Hmm. Well, I have seen that happen. It is kind of fun to watch.

"The slimy, icky texture is normal and harmless." Yeah, that's what they all say! Let's see a note from your doctor, Mr. Claus!

"As the toy grows the paint fades. Darker color will restore when toy is shrunk back to its original size." Whatever. I don't discriminate against Santas on the basis of color.

Finally, "Remove from water and it slowly shrinks as it dries. Your toy can be grown again and again." Sure, if you wait TEN DAYS! Who has the time? Listen, when I need a Santa toy, I need it now.

The writer of this toy description clearly enjoys his job. The one thing he left out though is what the hell are you supposed to do with this slimy, icky textured thing once it's fully grown? Or don't I want to know?

Oh, and I almost forgot: "Disclaimer: This toy is in no way intended to represent living people. Any resemblance is purely coincidental and not intended to harm anyone." Hmm. Is this disclaimer a preemptive measure, or did Tom Cruise actually notice that Grow Your Own Jingles the Elf was modeled on him?

Dear Santa: WTF?

2007-12-04T11:20:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa,

What the fuck?

That's all I have to say.

Believe you me I am:

Sincerely yours,

Catherine

I believe I was fourteen the Year I Ruined Christmas. This was the year my mother, who generally did all of Santa's shopping, gave me puffy white down ski pants, socks, gloves, a scarf, an exercise bicycle, a sweater or two, and many other things I honestly can't remember. It's not surprising that I can't remember them, because I returned every last gift. Every one. I broke my mother's heart, and ended up with a small amount of cash that I ultimately paid back to her when I totaled her car. It was a lose-lose-and-lose-again situation.

The spirit of Christmas passed over our house that year. "You even returned the socks!" my mother says, sad, confused, and not a little bitter. I felt a twinge of guilt, but had to stand firm. "What could be wrong with socks? How could even the socks be wrong?"

Believe me, when my mom is picking out articles of clothing for me, even the socks can be wrong. Right now, for instance, I am wearing furry acrylic slipper socks in contrasting stripes of kelly and lime green, with orange and hot pink felt diamond-shaped patches, and decorated with a frog face consisting of tiny white eyeballs and a pink embroidered smile. (They're actually not as bad as they sound.)

And every year, I get a few new pairs of slipper socks. Whimsical slipper socks. As a frequently housebound couch potato, I confess to liking slipper socks, yet never dared dream that I would someday own a complete collection, the highlights of which are the frog socks, black socks trimmed with thick, leopard-print fur, blue socks with white sequined sparkly snowflakes, and fuchsia socks with giant floppy knitted rosettes safety-pinned to the top--because everyone knows safety pins belong near your feet.

These socks beg the question: is it really the thought that counts? That expression implies that if someone is giving a gift, they are kindly and thoughtfully thinking of you, and thus you should be grateful no matter what they're handing you.

And I am, I really am. I honestly don't expect gifts from anyone, and am always surprised and pleased that anyone would make the effort, whether it's the holidays or my birthday. I don't expect anything more than a card or a phone call, maybe a margarita or a cupcake. Possibly because I grew up with so little in the way of luxuries, such as clothes from stores other than Kmart, that I'm not the most materialistic person. While I love receiving gifts--of course--I'd be just as happy going out to lunch with friends or seeing a movie.

Except. Except that I have to wonder sometimes if I am obligated to be grateful when the thought behind the gift seems to be:

"Catherine asked for gloves in black or grey, to match her black coat. But, all the black gloves are sold out at the one store where I shop. Therefore she'll have to make do with bright red gloves, despite the fact that I have known this person for all 33 years of her life and have never once seen her voluntarily adorn herself in bright red, which emphasizes the "deathly" aspect of her pasty-white complexion and causes people to wonder if she was just released from a long spell in the penitentiary. Plus, they will look fabulous with this bright red scarf covered in fluffy pom-poms, even though they aren't quite the same shade of red. Anyway, I don't feel like driving to another store, so she's stuck with red gloves that make her feel like a Disney character, one cursed by an evil fairy and doomed to Giant Red Monster Hands until a prince breaks the spell with a magic kiss and the story of Princess Monster Paws is known throughout the land!"

"Catherine asked for a bathrobe just like her sister's, your basic plain bathrobe that belts around the waist. Therefore, Catherine will like this "Golden Girls"- style velour dressing gown, with a long metal zipper from neck to knee especially designed to gouge deeply the delicate flesh of her breastly area, AND a giant, puffy, padded collar to immobilize her neck, PLUS lots of deep pockets for keeping medications and random loose antacid tablets and damp tissues!"

"Catherine asked for a CD. A DVD is almost the same as a CD. They look exactly the same, and share one of the same letters, and anyway, I can't find the CD at the one store where I shop, so the DVD will have to do. Anyway, if you like a movie soundtrack you must like the movie, so what's the difference?"

"Catherine said she likes slipper socks and she doesn't care what color. Ooh! Leopard-print fun fur! With sparkles!"

It only took 14 years of polite tolerance before I snapped. I don't believe I was openly ungracious or rude. I simply quietly gathered my puffy white down ski pants, acrylic reindeer sweaters, and the soundtrack to the movie Cocktail (I never much liked Tom Cruise or that particular movie, but wouldn't you know, my mom thought he was just so cute, and she loves that "Kokomo," it's one of her favorite Beach Boys songs!), and took them to my room. A few days later, when the Christmas ruckus had died down, I asked for the receipts and returned every last thing. (Except "Kokomo," which I believe my mother still has.)

Two changes resulted: One, my mother now automatically puts the receipt for every gift in the box, so if I need to return something, I can do it without having to ask, and thus spare her the knowledge that her gifts have once again failed to bring joy. Two, I stopped asking for anything in particular, knowing that no matter what I said or wrote, my words would be twisted so spectacularly as to make me wonder if my mother and I even spoke the same language. Who knows? Perhaps this is what ultimately drove me to major in English--the desire to learn to communicate clearly and tailor my message to a specific audience, all so I would stop getting crappy gifts.

Or perhaps this is why my expectations for Christmas gifts are so incredibly low. Gifts others regard as thoughtless and generic, like candles and bath gel and candy, I regard as the best gifts ever. When my other option is lace-up fleece booties that look like penguins, is it any surprise I am thrilled over a tube of hand cream?

None of this is to say that I am a superior gift-giver. I know I've given my share of dud gifts--those things that seemed perfect at the time, but, looking at the recipient's expression, you realize completely suck. No one's perfect, and if there is the possibility that a gift-giving gene exists and is passed from mother to daughter, well, I'm probably more impaired than others.

Still, in hopes of avoiding making many more of these mistakes, I have come up with a list of bad shopping habits and examples of the Bad Gifts that may result. Forget "What Not To Wear," this is "How Not to Shop." (Also known as, If You're Shopping for Catherine, Make Sure You Hit At Least TWO of These Categories!)

1. It's Practically Free. If it's on sale and less than $10, you HAVE to buy it, even if it suits no one's taste and ESPECIALLY if it's a brand-name. But come on, cows-in-elf-costume polyester LIZ CLAIBORNE trouser socks, for only ONE DOLLAR? Someone is getting this for Christmas, damn it--and it may as well be Catherine!

2. The Gift of Covet. If it's something you'd like but would never buy for yourself, such as a sixty-dollar "Golden Girls" bathrobe, you can justify buying it as long as it's for your child, even though your child is not yet a senior citizen.

3. The Simile Gift. If it's "almost like" what she wants. Thus, red mittens can be substituted for black gloves--they both cover the hands, after all! Or, a subscription to "Astrology" magazine, which sounds almost just like "Astronomy," and hey, they're both about stars, they're bound to be similar.

4. The Test Subject Gift. This is a new gadget or gizmo that you find intriguing, yet have no personal use for. Thus, I now own sunflower-shaped silicone muffin pans, because my mother finds the idea of flexible, rubbery pans that don't melt in the oven fascinating. However, my mother does not bake, and despite her many hints, I caused her much frustration by refusing to buy silicone pans myself, being content with my nonstick metal muffin tin and seeing no need to replace it when I only bake muffins maybe six times a year.

The double-edged sword that is the Test Subject Gift meant that not only do I now have an extraneous muffin pan taking up space in my apartment-sized kitchen, but was endlessly nagged until I broke down and baked frickin' muffins already just so I could report on the silicone pan and satisfy her curiosity.

Other TSGs include a star-shaped bread tube, in the event that I need to bake teensy star-shaped loaves of bread for cocktail sandwiches or volunteer to cook at a homeless shelter for fairies and leprechauns, and a 400-pound cast-iron non-non-stick cookie press pan (is there a word for the kind of pan that sticks?) for making Uncle Sam-shaped patriotic Fourth of July cookies, and for bludgeoning intruders.

5. The Gift That Kept on Giving, I Mean, It Gave and Gave and Gave. One year I received a CD that had been unwrapped and had copies burned for multiple other family members. The CD was then re-wrapped and presented to me as a new gift. Now, I am all for recycling and buying used, especially things like books or CDs or furniture, and would normally accept a gently used gift thankfully. (I'm not even super-offended at regifting, I mean, if you're not gonna eat that box of chocolates, please do pass it on to me.) But still. This isn't quite the same thing. You could have just asked first, you know?

6. The "Second-Tier Friend" Gift. My dad bought my brother a car for his 16th birthday. For my birthday I got a card and 50 bucks. On one hand, who am I to sniff at 50 dollars? On the other hand, what is the thought that counts here? "I don't love you as much?"

Be careful if you're giving siblings or close friends gifts that aren't of equal value; they will compare notes. Especially if they live in the same house.

7. My New Hobby is Your New Hobby. When my mom collected Boyd's Bears, I received a Boyd's teddy bear dressed in a knitted vest and wide-brimmed hat, when I was at least thirty years too old to receive a teddy bear as a gift. When my mom decided pink flamingoes were kitschy-cute and bought a flamingo T-shirt, a flamingo refrigerator magnet, and a flamingo lawn ornament, I received a Christmas ornament of a pink flamingo in a Santa hat. When my mom got tired of Santa and started collecting snowmen, I received a snowman ornament, decorative plate, plaster statuettes, etc. Also, I now own a monstrously large candleholder featuring an eight-inch plaster snowman bending over to warm his buns over the flame of a tiny votive candle.

Most of these items are destined to be dropped off at the Baptist thrift shop down the street, where I can never take my mom as 90% of the shelves are stocked with things she once gave me. Unless you hear the magic words, "I want one JUST LIKE IT FOR MYSELF," I would not risk sharing your new hobby or passion with loved ones.

8. The Gift from the Land of No Return. I live less than two hours from my family, but shopping-wise, they live on Mars and I live on, well, Planet Earth. Sears, Macy's, Penney's, Kohl's and other national chains are all within a 5-to-15 minute drive of my house, yet every year finds me trekking to some quaint regional chain like Bon-Ton, whose nearest locations are almost an hour away in Doylestown and Lancaster, to exchange, say, a pair of Isotoner gloves. I often suspect I spend more money on gas driving to exchange gifts than the gift actually cost.

9. The Half Gift. Once, I received "half a ticket." "Someone" wanted to go to the opera, and offered to pay for "half of my ticket" if I'd go with her. The ticket cost $100. So, for my birthday, I was expected to shell out $50 to attend an event I was not even interested in attending. Maybe it's just me, but I do not think the recipient should be required to chip in to pay for her own gift, unless it is discussed and agreed upon in advance. The birthday surprise of discovering I now owed someone $50 was not exactly a happy birthday to me.

Last but not least...

10. Avon, Tupperware, LiaSophia, Home Interiors, Mary Kay, PartyLite, Pampered Chef. (I'm sure I'm forgetting at least 5 or 10.) My mother is a tender-hearted sap whose so-called friends regularly drain her of cash at home sales party scams. I have come to feel as protective of my mom as, I imagine, a father might feel on hearing that his freshman daughter was invited to a Friday night "study group" at the frat house. My poor mom is lured to these so-called "parties," where she is plied with potato chips and ranch dip laced with the date-rape drug. Like Persephone and the fateful pomegranate seeds, the eating of snack food dooms her. Her resistance is weak; it is nonexistent. Now she is obligated to buy something from these snake oil saleswomen. She ate the chips; now she must pay! Repeat the mantra: "You can't go and not buy something!" Desperately, she tries to find something small and affordable...what's the cheapest thing she can buy without insulting her friend and being trapped on the wrong side of the River Styx forever, or waking up on the sidewalk with no memory and her blouse all buttoned up wrong?

The answer: I now own a wide assortment of gadgets you could buy at Target for half the price, such as a Pampered Chef garlic press, a Pampered Chef melon baller, even a Pampered Chef deluxe FLY SWATTER for God's sake. If it's under $30 and only sold in rural living rooms, I assure you, it's got my name all over it.

(A brief digression: I have no idea why these parties persist. We are an extremely mobile and strip-mall-suffocated society. Is there anyone who wants a scented candle, plastic bowl, silicone spatula, or lingerie who is really so incredibly distant from a Hallmark store, Walmart, Victoria's Secret or J.C. Penney's that they must get in the covered wagon and trek on over to Ma Ingalls's homestead, only two days' journey south, to huddle by the warmth of her fire and eat her French-onion-soup-mix dip while she demonstrates the stain-resistant qualities of silicone? Are candles and melon ballers so exotic and rare they can only be sold by appointment, to small groups of elite buyers with specialized knowledge, like rare art and antiques? And then you place your order and hopefully it will be in stock within two weeks and then you have to trek back to Ma Ingalls's, or she has to trek to your home, to deliver the goods and nag you for that check? Personally I do not consider shopping to be a fun party activity, I'd rather just get drunk and hog the cheese platter. Besides, the last thing I want to do in someone's living room is purchase sex toys and spatulas. End of digression.)

So there you have it. Even if you are shopping for a total stranger and have no idea what they like or dislike, by avoiding these ten simple shopping habits of the damned, the chances are good that you just may give someone a decent gift.

The Year I Ruined Christmas was not done out of spite. I just honestly hated every single thing I unwrapped, and felt it would be better to return or exchange them for items I would use instead of wasting my mother's money by throwing them in the closet and ignoring them, later sneaking into the Goodwill bag, where she always found them because she never brought anything to Goodwill without first scouring the bag and removing 85% of the items.

That is the worst part of the Bad Gift...knowing that someone thought long and hard about it, counted out their pennies, then decided that, knowing and loving you as much as they do, what you'd love most would be a candleholder shaped like a snowman bending over and aiming his ass at a votive candle, leering like a redneck teenager trying to light his farts in the 7-11 parking lot. It's not the Bad Gift itself, which is easy enough to dispose of even if you don't own a hammer. It's knowing that someone you love doesn't know you AT ALL.

For most of my adolescence, I hated about 90% of the gifts I received. Fortunately, things change. A few years ago, I opened my small pile of gifts from Mom and looked up and said, in shock, "I like everything."

"Really? Are you serious? You don't have to return anything? Because I have all the receipts! All the receipts are right there in the box, so if you need to return anything..."

"No, it's great. I like everything." I don't know which one of us was more surprised.

"Oh my God! She likes it!"

She was so proud. Heck, I was proud of her, too. It was like when you call a friend, and their two-year-old picks up the phone and yells, "I used the potty today! ALL BY MYSELF!” She began calling out to any family members in the house. "She likes everything I bought! Everyone! Oh my God! I can't wait to tell your sister! Well! I can't believe it!"

Later, I'd hear her on the telephone to her friends, "And Catherine liked EVERY SINGLE GIFT I gave her! Yep! She's not returning anything!" And again on the phone, "And I did so good this year with my shopping, even Catherine liked everything she got! I KNOW! Can you believe it?"

OK, so MAYBE I have a SLIGHT reputation for being a bit picky. But leopard-fur slipper socks don't lie.

It was true. I liked almost everything. At least, I liked them...enough. The slipper socks, well, no one has to see but me, so I can live with them. I'm not a total Scrooge. In the true spirit of Christmas, sometimes it is worth it to wear furry, lime-green, frog-faced acrylic slipper socks if it makes your mom happy.

Breaking Up with God: A Very Atheist Christmas

2007-12-03T14:53:00.000-05:00

Nothing happened. There was no dramatic conversion, no loss of faith, no moment when I shook my fist at the sky and turned my back on the church forever. I was never molested by a priest, never prayed in vain for a miracle cure.

I never believed in anything, much less God. One of my earliest memories is of staying up late one Christmas Eve, listening for Santa's reindeer on the roof. I couldn't have been more than three or four, and I was skeptical. I needed proof.

I asked my mother if I ever believed in Santa, and after a pause, she said, "I don't know. I don't think so. I think you pretended to believe." Then she added, cynically, "I think you were humoring me." That sounds about right.

It wasn't anything personal; at that age I was too young to have developed an aversion to religion or to Christianity in particular. I mean, it wasn't just God; I didn't believe in the Tooth Fairy, either.

I don’t question how I lost my faith. I do question why I never had faith to begin with, not even as a child, not even when I attended Mass every Sunday, not even when I prayed.

Because I didn't talk about it and did what I was told, my lack of faith never became an issue. I went to church. I sat in Sunday school, made my First Communion and confirmation. When I told my mother I didn't believe in God, she said, "Don't say that. Don't be ridiculous.” Nothing more needed to be said: atheism was not an option. I may as well have asked for a pony.

I was taught that I should feel the need for God, that I was an empty space only God could fill. So I tried, both to need God and to feel a divine presence. Others prayed so sincerely, I couldn’t help but wonder what I lacked. For me, faith was an emotion, not a belief, discipline, or habit, and I felt nothing.

It didn’t help that I grew up next to a person who took faith for granted. There was never a moment in my sister's life when she didn't believe. Belief was in her bones. She took God for granted, without a great deal of training or indoctrination. It struck me as unfair: she inherited skinny legs and faith in her DNA, I got thighs and skepticism. She cannot always explain or understand God, yet does not struggle with her faith.

Her easy faith made my struggle seem all the more pointless. Why was it so hard for me?

Eventually I began to feel that if God wanted me to believe, I would. It was that simple. God was omniscient, after all. If God existed and had a plan that included me for a believer, I would be. Look at my sister--clearly belief was her destiny. Whereas I, despite dutifully jumping through religion’s hoops, still felt nothing. Maybe God had a special reason for making me an atheist!

I needed more than a sign. A burning bush or a pancake shaped like the Virgin Mary could be explained by science and coincidence. Schizophrenia explained away voices; visions were merely hallucinations. For a few years, I played the games children play to trick God into revealing himself--you know, "If the next car to turn the corner is blue, THEN I'll believe." But there was always a pat reply as to why these experiments didn't work, a simplistic and unsatisfying bumper-sticker theology to explain why I couldn't ask God for an unequivocal response. "God answers all prayers, but sometimes the answer is no.” "When there is only one set of footprints in the sand, that is when I carried you.” "God works in mysterious ways.” “Our job is not to question, but to obey.”

By the time I was in high school, I was searching for some god, any god, Mr. Goodgod. Maybe I'd been born into the wrong religion. I read up on Buddhism, Judaism, Hinduism, but none captured me. I didn't feel Buddhist, Jewish, or Hindu any more than I felt like a Christian.

Was I trying too hard? Taking too intellectual an approach? Perhaps God was not to be found in a book or a church. Maybe if I let go and relaxed, it would happen.

My lack of belief bothered me, because, being a pessimist, I feared the possibility of hell, and then only because I was afraid of going there because I didn't believe in God. (Even as a kid this didn’t make sense to me.) Even a child knows that unbelievers are damned for eternity. In the back of my mind haunted the specter of "What if ...?” For most of my adolescence this possibility kept me calling myself agnostic. God could forgive an agnostic, I thought -- who didn't have doubts on occasion? But an atheist was surely doomed.

In the back of my mind I believed that somehow, someday, I'd believe. It would come to me, like the desire to have children or own a home. That's the common wisdom: "Oh, you'll feel differently when you're older. People change." I expected to change. Emotions I couldn’t imagine as a teenager would evolve naturally as I grew older. Someday I'd cry out in pain, and God would be there to comfort me. In my darkest hour, in despair, when all hope was lost -- surely faith would find me, during times of selfish need, at least then, if never again.

Then a friend died unexpectedly. She was barely twenty-four years old. And even as I grieved, a part of me waited for faith, for something, some kind of comfort--expecting it to come, now, at last. If ever I was ready to receive a sign, to feel God in my heart, it was now. Didn't I need it now most of all?

Instead, alone and powerless, I realized that I did not feel weak. It was almost exhilarating, in a painful way, to stand so overwhelmed by the vastness of death, grief, the universe and its awesome disregard for our individual lives. I faced the universe like I'd stand before the ocean--all that water, all that power, and it is not capable of caring if I swim or drown in its waves. The indifference that frightened others comforted me. The randomness that others feared and tried to control with prayers and rituals was soothing: I liked knowing that we are all equal and equally doomed, that when it comes to cancer and car crashes, none of us are chosen or special. We just are, and some day we won't be.

Nor was my grief alleviated by thoughts of an afterlife. I don't want another world; this one pleases me well enough. (If the world has a creator, he or she should, I think, be flattered.) Finally I accepted that I’d never have faith: I just couldn't, no matter how I tried.

I may be the odd man out in my family, but it helps to know that I am not alone. The authors of Atheists: A Groundbreaking Study of America's Nonbelievers quote a survey of over 4,000 students who "gave up their faith because they could not make themselves believe what they had been taught. Often they indicated they truly wished they could believe. Often they had paid a huge price in terms of ruptured family ties and lost friends for giving up their religion ...But when asked ....(why not go back) they answered, ‘that they simply could not make themselves believe what was unbelievable.'”

The authors conclude that religious training itself disposed the students to abandoning religion. They had been raised to value truth and integrity, thus, when faced with contradictions, they felt forced to abandon a tradition they could not reconcile with truth. How can you accept a faith that forces you to tell what you know to be lies? (I'm thinking of someone like Galileo, put under house arrest for observing that the earth revolved around the sun, while the Church insisted the opposite.)

That's it -- I'm not a godless atheist, I'm a dedicated seeker of Truth!

When I reached my mid-twenties, I gave up trying. I was spiritually exhausted. Can an atheist use the word spiritual? That is another problem, that I still use words like "soul” and "spirit” even though I obviously don't believe in them. This is the time of year I wonder about these things, when I bake cookies shaped like angels and listen to carols and hymns I think are pretty, even moving, but which I don't believe are based on anything other than perhaps a psychological or emotional truth.

When I say "soul” I think of that which is the essence of myself, my core beliefs, my individual personality. I don't think it is eternal and will continue existing when I die. When I say "spirit,” I think of empathy, sensitivity, a feeling of connection to other living things. Spirituality is energy, "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower”--but not a Holy Ghost. Oddly, some of the most religious people I've met are also the most lacking in what I think of as spirit, being intensely materialistic and lacking empathy or Christian charity. I have no evidence, but I sometimes wonder if the most spiritual people are those who are actually the least likely to be attracted to organized religions.

When I finally gave up on faith, I was surprised by feeling intense relief. A weight lifted from my shriveled little atheist soul, expanding like the Grinch's heart on Christmas Day. I compare it to leaving a bad relationship: After years of trying to make it work, talking, praying, seeking counseling, and learning to communicate, I was done. Enough! It was time to just let it go. A clean break is best. As an atheist, I'm a minority in a country where 85% of people believe in a higher power, and I was tired of feeling like a second-class citizen, an outsider in my own culture. I was tired of trying to force my square-peg mind into the round hole of religion. God and I were simply not a good fit.

Ultimately, trying to have a relationship with God felt way too much like trying to force myself to fall in love. My heart wasn't in it. I will always see faith not as a choice, or a belief, or a discipline, but simply as a feeling, an emotion akin to love or anger. And I hadn't lost that loving feeling -- I'd never even heard of it. It was time to break up with God.

Dear God,

It's not you, it's me. It’s nothing personal, but I'm not getting anything out of this relationship. The time has come for me to move on. I'm sorry, but I just don't feel the same way about you anymore. The truth is, I never did. My parents liked you, and my friends thought you were cool, and it was really sweet of you to promise me the Kingdom of Heaven and all. But those aren't good reasons to stay together. You're a great guy and deserve someone who really believes in you, someone who can give you the love you need and who deserves all you have to offer. That person isn't me.

Best of luck,
Catherine

P.S. This doesn't mean I won't get all teary-eyed when Jimmy Stewart realizes what a wonderful life it really is, and the angel gets his wings. It's still a good story, you know.

Need A New Thanksgiving

2007-11-25T00:05:00.000-05:00

The traditional Thanksgiving celebration has kicked the bucket as far as I'm concerned. Our family holidays have become so boring, I can't take it anymore. I need a new Thanksgiving.

I'm sure I'm partly to blame. Possibly I am the clichéd victim of too much advertising and the resulting high expectations, having absorbed too many commercials where families with more children than anyone I know gather 'round candle-lit tables, wearing matching velvet skirts and embroidered sweaters. Possibly I have seen too many movies where dysfunctional drunks reveal family secrets, bring up ancient grudges, and wind up with a turkey thrown at their head. It's probably not a good thing that I look forward to the holidays as a time of heightened emotion and excitement.

I can't fault my family. We like each other, even love each other. We cook the turkey. We show up, we eat. But it's just another day, just another dinner. We cook, we sit, we eat, and in about a half-hour it's all over. I had more fun delivering meals to terminally ill strangers on Thanksgiving morning than I did sitting down to dinner with my own family, where there is no sense of community or ritual that makes the holiday different from any other day. (I think volunteering in some way is definitely going to play a part in whatever new Thanksgiving I end up making.) I just want a holiday to mean something more than eating turkey instead of hamburgers, pumpkin pie instead of brownies. Is that too much to ask?

I've tried to introduce small changes, such as asking everyone to share what they are thankful for. If only for three seconds, I tried to be the kind of person who counts her blessings instead of constantly harping on the negative. But no one plays along. I guess it is too hokey in a "think of the reason for the season!!!" kind of way (even though I'm not religious and many of my family members are). The only one who answered was my oldest niece: "I'm thankful for this pie," she said, chewing.

I need a new holiday tradition, if "new" and "tradition" can even be used in the same phrase. I even started reading a book on the importance that ritual plays in family life and how to create new rituals by Meg Cox, a former Wall Street Journal reporter who now writes about family issues. While interesting, it's geared towards people with kids, not childless spinsters with small apartments. This made me wonder: is "childfree family" an oxymoron? Are the holidays really just "for the sake of the children?" Is it ridiculous that I even bother trying to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas as a single, childfree woman?

It feels that way sometimes, as if I'm not an essential part of the family, just that random extra relative who shows up with a suitcase during the cold months. When I was growing up, the role belonged to my uncle, a Navy lifer who married late in life and never had children. If only I'd known when I was eight that I was destined to become the new "Uncle Larry" of the family--I would have been much nicer to him.

Part of me thinks I should I give up and start spending the holidays backpacking in warm places, mailing packages home and thankful that I don't have to spend the twelve days of Giftmas shopping at the mall. Another part of me thinks that the holidays would be more meaningful, even fun, if we could just change the way we celebrate them in a way that reflects the reality of our family, instead of trying to keep up with old traditions that don't work anymore.

I certainly enjoy the benefits of being childless and would not want to run out and breed simply to make holidays more fun. For me, having kids would make the holidays more stressful, especially financially. And I certainly didn't enjoy Thanksgiving any more when my nieces were younger and couldn't sit still at the table for more than two minutes, or would whine that they hated turkey and wanted hot dogs. (I love this comment I read on the Purple Women blog recently: "And they say Jesus loved the little children, but he never had to dine with one. He chose the lepers.") I didn't enjoy Christmas any more when they'd tear the wrapping paper off a gift, then throw it on the floor without a second glance or a word of thanks before tearing into the next gift. If anything, watching kids go through the motions makes the holidays feel even more hollow. I'm not a religious person, but nor am I terribly materialistic. If it's not about God, kids, toys, or food, what is it about?

I haven't been able to come up with any fresh ideas for the holidays. My ideal holiday would involve all of my siblings and their kids and some cousins and uncles and aunts, gathering under one roof and sharing a meal, and hanging out talking for hours over coffee and dessert while the kids play in the next room and are only occasionally heard to scream or cry. I actually like my siblings; there is no family drama here that keeps us apart, just geography and economics. Somehow our family dynamic only works when the four of us are together; when more than one sibling is absent, that "family" feeling just falls apart. A small family just doesn't feel like a real family to me. Barring this possibility, my second-best ideal holiday would involve volunteering in some way, then a potluck dinner with friends, family, and lots of food and drink.

Otherwise, the idea of planning a long trip away from home simply to avoid the holidays seems a little drastic, but I'm all out of ideas. What is your ideal holiday? Maybe I can co-opt another family's traditions...although if it involves hunting wild turkeys or hanging out at Moe's Tavern, I'll stick with what I have. There are lots of things I still like about the holiday season. I just have to figure out how to build a whole new ritual out of colored lights, cookies, parties, food, and eggnog. (I have a feeling I'll be alone on the eggnog element though.)