Always Eat Dessert

I ran into my building’s caretaker on the steps a couple of days ago as I headed to the basement to retrieve the cold wash I’d just done; it’s his girlfriend—my across-the-hall neighbor—who has Leiomyosarcoma, the rare cancer that she’s just begun to battle. They went to Boston last weekend and met with an energetic and passionate doctor who spent 3 hours with them discussing options—“The difference between Midwestern Protestant and East-Coast Jewish,” as my neighbor said—and in about a week and a half, she’ll begin a course of chemotherapy.

It’s true, in an odd, guilt-producing sort of way, that someone else’s adversity (in this case, my neighbor’s discovery of her cancer) can help put one’s own life and neuroses into sharp perspective; I thought of this as I enjoyed a cookie in a meeting at work.



It's not (and I do feel it necessary to qualify this) that my neighbor's cancer is a grim-yet-convenient excuse for me to compare circumstances and how "lucky" I am to not be coping with it myself, but rather, a dire just-across-the-hall reminder of how much menial bitching I've done--and still do--about truly inconsequential things. I used to have neuroses about sweets, about eating too many of them and what they might do to me: diabetes, cellulite, rotten teeth, pimples. Sweets were “dangerous” and “powerful” and could affect my body negatively and the pleasure of indulging in them was always superseded by the weird, unhappy, nearly obsessive bout of negative self-talk that invariably ensued.

I’d left my neighbors some chunks of homemade gingerbread; I was caring for their cat while they were in Boston, and I like to cook (and bake), and I personally adore gingerbread. But I don’t need a whole pan, and I wanted to share it. The caretaker mentioned this as we spoke, in passing, how much they’d liked it. I thought it might be nice for them, after that, after the flight and the news and the anxiety, to come home to their kitty and the familiarity and comfort of a plate of home-baked sweets.



And I thought, yeah. I think I get it after 41 years of "Oh, I shouldn't eat that" neuroses.

It goes without saying that a preventative mindset is a good thing; it makes sound sense, therefore, to be conscious of where your food comes from and to make healthful choices and avoid trans-fats and eat your veggies and get plenty of fiber and don’t smoke and get plenty of sleep and pop a few vities and take your flaxseed oil and exercise regularly and drink in moderation and....yes, all of those things.

Of course, there are no guarantees.

And so, because of this, because there are no guarantees, the finest, most life-affirming, optimistic, glass-half-full thing you can do, without making excuses or offering apologies or attempting futile shows of "willpower" and absolutely without the merest smidgen of self-consciousness, is always eat dessert. Make room for it. Order it. Bake it yourself, and get drunk on the aroma. Lick the batter from the pan. Eat the cookie dough. Enjoy the hell out of it. Share it. Savor it.

Savor it.

Always. Because sweets are good. And life, I am learning, finally, is really, truly, laughably, ridiculously blink-and-you-miss-it short. And very unfair.

No guarantees. Even if you do everything right. But do everything right anyway, just in case. Cause it couldn't hurt.

And always eat dessert.

A Breed Unknown

Such is how my female pound-adopted pedigree-less tabby is described on Catster where, yes, she has her own page.

I feel that this latest turn of human-feline events is good to admit.

I also feel that it is quite possible I have now officially crossed that quaveringly delicate threshold from mere mellow cat owner to rapacious Kitty Stage Parent, vicariously living my life through and for my cat like a feline-owning Mama Rose ("Mew out, Abby!")

Is it possible that, sooner rather than later, I will, with no hint of shame or irony, start wearing sweatshirts bearing puffy cat appliques in public and join cat-chat groups and go to cat shows and collect pillows with playful embroidered cats on them and all manner of folksy, cutesy wood, ceramic & wind-chime-y cat-themed tchatchkes?

In my own weak defense, canine co-habitators can be just as whacked; all you need to do is go to a gathering of pugs & their owners where you will bear witness to some of the most frightening displays of gross and humiliating (for the pug) anthropomorphism known to man and beast alike. Pugs dressed like fairies and food and brides and Darth Vader and God-Knows-What-All...it's like something out of David Lynch, or maybe Fellini, though I've never actually seen a Fellini flick so I'm only assuming.



If Abby knew how to maintain her own site, I'd place that chore squarely in her paws. But not only does she not know how, she does not care. I'm sure of this.

Within 10 minutes of setting up her profile ("Pet-Peeves: nail clipping"), I had two requests from a gaggle of random cats asking if they could be added to her page as "friends." In a matter of hours, the cat had amassed quite an enviable social network. I found myself becoming quite a bit "J," as one of my friends might say, at the ease with which she made friends. I eagerly accepted them all, of course, on her behalf. My cat dwells indoors and needs a social life. Even a virtual one. Says me. Her semi-whacked mama.

I told her this. I told her her page was generating considerable buzz in the form of 4 legs and pointy ears and whiskers. I told her she was the feline equivalent of this year's "It" girl, that this was her 15 minutes of Warholian fame and suggested she get herself a publicist, a handler and possibly a lawyer to negotiate the contracts that would surely tumble forth for all those late-night talk show appearances.



I also told her that never, under any circumstances--no matter how her career might someday falter and nose-dive--should she flash her girl-parts accidentally-on-purpose in public; I said it was a cheap & desperate ploy utilized by Britney, Paris and Lindsay to stay sadly current, but that she had been raised better than that. She was a cat with class.

She just yawned and went back to bed.

She has a point. I mean, I AM only one of the gawking, plebeian, celebrity-obsessed public with no life of my own whatsoever. So, you know, thank God for Catster.



A star is born, indeed.

Randomness

I haven't posted for a while, and my blog-surfing public is getting restless.
Therefore, allow me to extract a vast array of random topics from the nether reaches of my brain and deposit them here for your schizophrenic reading pleasure.

I downloaded a Fergie song I really like--"Big Girls Don't Cry." Playing it on iTunes repeatedly, and the lyrics are bouncing around in my brain. I can relate to them:

I need some shelter of my own protection baby
To be with myself and center
Clarity, Peace, Serenity......

Those who know me, I believe, will understand.

I'm sick of 20-something women. I find them annoying and vacuous and just not very interesting. I'm surrounded by them at work. Moving on.

I have a bunion on my right foot and it's hereditary and I don't like it. Stuffing my feet into chic-yet-pointy shoes for work just exacerbates the issue; to that I say, screw this whole suffering-for-beauty thing. I don't want to have ugly feet.



My co-worker mentioned Foghat on Friday and I was like, shit, that totally dates you, but she just laughed. And then I realized I totally got her reference to them and thus dated myself, too. Sigh.

I'm taking care of the neighbor's cat this weekend while they're in Boston researching cancer treatment options. He seems a little wistful. Hopefully he'll come around. And speaking of cats, I'm weaning (well, cold turkey is more like it) my cat off of wet chow, a holdover from when she had her teeth extracted in August of 2006. Her gums have long since healed and she adores her kibble....so we're done. And she stared at me this morning expectantly but there was no more wet chow and so she gave up and put herself to bed.


I hate this, but then, she'd be a 50-pound freak monster kitty if I kept feeding her. Oy.

I was called "Ma'am" this week; it's not the first time this has happened, but this time, it sorta hit me that I just don't FEEL like a "Ma'am" and I was mildly (though privately) indignant; when did "Miss" give way to "Ma'am," which sounds far less dainty and decidedly post-menopausal? I mean, really.

The thing I think I'll miss the most when I move back out west is my apartment. It's adorable and wonderful and full of cozy character and full of my spirit. I will have to thank it and bless it when I leave. It's been a good, good space.

I know I complained copiously about the below-zero weather when we had it, but there ARE drawbacks to warmer weather, too. The windows are open and I've heard someone in the neighboring building LOUDLY hawking up a loogie. Over and over. ALL DAY LONG. Dude!
Not to mention, I've heard people hurling in the wee hours, or fighting, or blabbing on their cell phones, or sitting in their cars listening to bass-heavy dance music at 3 AM. Ah, the joys of urban living!

Well, time to send the neighbor's cat home and hop in the shower, so that's about it for my apropos-of-nothing mental download.

Oh, and strawberries are back in season. Sweet and full of anti-oxidants, although I could do without the maddening teeny seeds getting wedged into my dental work. But still.

This makes me very happy.

On Giving

My neighbor knocked on my door tonight. She was passing off the key so that I could pop in over the next few days and check on her cat.

Her mom and boyfriend stood in the hallway, overnight bags waiting at their feet; the three of them were getting ready to leave for Rochester, MN. Her black cat and my striped tabby eyeballed each other warily, alternately touching noses and hissing. It was the first time I'd seen her since I'd heard, last Sunday, about the recurrence of her cancer.

Leiomyosarcoma. Super, super rare.

She laughed, ironically. "I won the fuckin' lottery as far as cancer goes," she said.

We talked a little, and I asked her questions. It was in her lungs, and in her liver. And on her shoulder.

They were headed to the Mayo Clinic to discuss treatment options. They might seek second, third, maybe fourth opinions in California, Boston, New York. I would watch her cat. That, and baking, I said, are things I could offer.

I listened to her talk, and then I broke down and cried, a little, and reached forward and hugged her for a few moments. I told her I was horribly sorry, and that it was so unfair. And I was glad I could say that; I don't mind crying. It's as honest as I can get. She said she'd been angry, too, and I told her it was justified. In these moments, I do not feel that God has a sense of humor.

She gave me the key, and I followed her into her apartment so she could show me a few things; there were flowers everywhere.

She pointed to a vase of tulips on her table; take them, she said. Put them in your apartment.

You might as well enjoy them, she said, while I'm gone.

Cosmic Shittiness

I never wanted this blog to be The Blog of Pain; there are numerous such blogs all over the place--just total downer blogs full of total downer entries, one after the other, full of constant bitching and moaning and perpetual oh-woe-is-me-ness.

And I don't want this blog to be that; I want this blog, mostly, to be irreverent, a little quirky, and wildly incongruous--kind of the way my brain works.

But this time, tonight, this entry is going to be about Cosmic Shittiness. Because that's what I'm thinking about, right now, this moment.

I got a call from my neighbors asking for off-and-on cat-sitting, on no real identifiable schedule; we do this for one another, and it's convenient. Living here, in this 8-plex in South Minneapolis has sort of been like a more-functional Peyton Place or Tales of the City, with a Midwestern twist.

Anyway.

My neighbor, who owns said cat, is 28 or so; her boyfriend, also the building's caretaker, is my age, or a bit older. He knocked on my door tonight to follow up on the cat-sitting request, and to explain why it's off-and-on.

My neighbor, the 28 year old, has cancer. All over her body. Her shoulder blade and some other places, but I can't remember what he said.

She'd had it before last Spring, in her sinus, and was operated on, successfully. They took it out, she recovered, life went on. Recently, they went to Mexico, to Ixtapa, and I cat-sat then. They came back tan.

I'll cat-sit again, as often as they need.

The caretaker stood in my doorway, filling me in, explaining it all in scientific details, the options, the chemo. They'd be going to Mayo and some other places. They need to be aggressive, he said. They need to act fast. She's young. It's a rare kind of cancer, and sometimes, those are the worst. She can live with it, for a while. But as usual, no one knows for how long.

No one knows.

And I listened and then he had to get back to his cooking and I closed the door and stood over my sink of unfinished dishes and just said, over and over, to no one, to the universe, to the consistently-unfair cosmos, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She's smart and laughs loud and is a great, thoughtful neighbor and an all-around kind person. And I'm so angry, because it's so...unfair. But then, I don't really know what would make something like this fair. Maybe if she were 60 years older than she is now and had already done the things she told me she'd planned for herself, for this life of hers, like having children.

I have been given this news, the reason for the cat-sitting, and I don't want to have to know. But I can't "un-know" this. Too late.

Now it's a fact. My neighbor, a young woman, with cancer. Unknowable.

And I will watch her cat.

Two Cute

This post is really just an excuse to share the cutest photo of these two French Bulldogs, sent to me by a co-worker who knows I adore flat-faced dogs (the pug, of course, being the family Dog of Choice since childhood, save for an occasional cur or two).

He sent a series of them, but this is the most charming. Just look at those brachiocephalic faces!



"Kola" is the one in the foreground, and "Montgomery" is the sweet/bashful looking guy peeping around behind him (who, sadly, trotted across the Rainbow Bridge some time ago and is, as his owner has said, "In a better place.")

Anyway, I just love this photo. Quite simply, I find it charming, and, as the British might say, it "gladdens" me. So I needed to preserve it--and share it--in this blog.

One Hot Mama

I did it.

I fired my hairdresser. It was simple, painless, fast and necessary. And it was time. I'd been seeing him for almost 4 years, and he was okay--just okay--while my hair was still and only a pixie cut; but in the past year, I began to want more; I needed some things to change, and for that, I suffered needlessly. Still, I was unwilling to let the relationship end, although it was merely a business agreement. I am not always good at such things, even when they prove without question to be detrimental; I hang in there. I make excuses for the other person. I tell myself patience is my finest virtue, when really, I am being passive. It is a character defect I am working on. Trust me.



My former hairdresser has seemed fairly checked out for the past year. I mean, pleasant and all (albeit spacey), but I was really, really consistently hating what he was doing to my head. I used pictures. I explained. He highlighted & cut. And I'd pay (plenty), leave, slink home, stand in front of the mirror, and think, well, it's still growing out and besides, there's always the next time. And the next time was invariably the same.



It all changed when I recently met someone with fine, straight hair just like my own, with the exact shaggy haircut I've been desiring. I asked for the name of her hairdresser and she happily obliged, saying "She'll make you feel like a Hot Mama!" Conveniently, she was located downtown, near where I work. I made an appointment (which in and of itself felt like a profound betrayal of my old hairdresser, but I quashed those feelings). I went. I explained. She wrinkled her brow, lifting clumps of my hair and saying, "There's a lot I need to correct." OUCH. But correct, she did. Expertly. Perfectly.

It is true; one's ego is often entirely wrapped up in one's hair. I know what I want; I know what I like. I do not have a hard time articulating things, not always. I have fine, unruly, cowlicky hair that needs a certain amount of coddling to look decent. She got that. She said, "I'm old enough to remember when shags were in the first time."

My former hairdresser was a mere sprout, somewhere in his 20's. He didn't truly know from the glory days of the Jane Fonda shag.



So all is now good. I've been liberated. And I've learned an important lesson: if you don't get what you want the first time from a hairdresser, chances are you won't get what you want the next time, or the next. Move on. Lots of people cut hair.

Rules for life. Rules for shags. Rules for my ongoing recovery.

And, yes, it's true. I finally feel, for all practical purposes, like one Hot Mama. :-)

Let the Sunshine In.....

Thank God.

Things are thawing in the Nation's Refrigerator. It's beginning to look a lot like....Spring.

The time changed (3 weeks early) this past Sunday morning, and we went from cold and dark to bright, warmer and sunny, pretty much overnight.

I'm not complaining. The seasons here literally butt up one against the other, with little to no transition time; it's just so sudden, it takes some getting used to. I'm still wearing Winter turtlenecks and drab earth tones. I suddenly have the urge to replace everything in my wardrobe with breezy florals and pastels.



Things are melt-y and slushy outside, and the last big snowstorm will soon be but a memory.

This just makes me want to return to the land of citrus trees, shaking ground, salt air and endless coastline that much more (yes, I'm talking about California).

Until that actually occurs, however, I can at least keep eyeballing this photo:

There's a word for it

"Navel-gazing" is a term I use for the perennially self-involved. You know, the type of person who goes through endless years of psychotherapy ("analysis," if you're from New York), encounter-grouping, and basically all manner of self-realization, usually peaking in this area around midlife, at which point the evaluation of one's navel becomes even more exquisitely profound, thanks to perhaps a failed relationship or two, the specter of death, the first few gray hairs, kids (if any) growing up and leaving home, and the (imminent) loss of one's parents.



I'm a little (okay, a LOT) that way. I grew up in Berkeley. Berkeleyans, in general, are all at least a little that way. We wrote the book on navel-gazing. We're really good at it. It's a West Coast thing. We use terms like, "You're not hearing me," and "I'm not okay with that," and "How are you around that?" When we're distressed, we tell one another that they're "pushing our buttons." We are encouraged to "get in touch with our anger." We even ask our Inner Children to come out and play from time to time.



Anyway. My friend in Portland, with whom I have discussed at length the concept of navel-gazing, and with whom I have copiously navel-gazed, came across this word and sent it to me:

Omphaloskepsis. Greek derivation. Definition: Contemplation of one's navel.

I wonder if this makes me an "Omphaloskepsist."

Blog on, Blog off

No, I haven't blogged for a while. I believe part of the reason why is the nearly back-to-back snow storms we've been having in these parts, leaving me feeling draggy, terribly unwitty, and badly in need of a stretch of hibernation.

We had a major storm last Saturday/Sunday, followed by another this past Thursday into Friday; bands of bad weather that came roaring in, only to dump copiously, leave a mess and flee--somewhat like a recent former friendship.



Ah, but I digress, however briefly. You get the drift, no pun intended.

Today, I made my way on foot to the grocery store, as I do many Saturday mornings. All was white and treacherous, and I do mean treacherous. After living here for 5 years, I no longer take the most quotidian functions for granted, such as stepping off the curb and crossing the street. After the city has plowed, great heaps of dirty snow are pushed into 4 or 5 foot mounds along the curb, and there they sit. Now, one does not merely step ever-so-daintily over these mounds, no; one must prepare to scale them, ascending, hitting the man-made summit, then descending, praying all the while that one does NOT slip on one's ass. The best one can hope for in such circumstances is that another has gone before, leaving deep foot impressions in the snow, thus creating a sort of helpful stair-step effect.



On the up side, we're getting closer to Easter (more chocolate!) and Passover (more macaroons!), both of which I love for the aforementioned foods. As a reward for my I-may-as-well-be-trucking-up-Everest-'cause-they-won't-find-my-
corpse-till-Spring-thaw outing today, I treated myself to one of those funky Manischewitz cans of Almond-flavored macaroons, the tiny, chewy ones that usually become part of a "Hello, Jewish Neighbors!" endcap display at this time of year.



So all is not utterly horrific. Just cold and white. But The macaroons are a reminder that Spring can't be too far off. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.



Though I can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect of slogging through slush. Ah, Portland! Rain never looked so good!

And baby makes three....or four....or five.....

Okay, enough starfucking. Let's get real for a moment.

I work in a very fertile office; perhaps I should amend that to read, a very fertile MIDWESTERN office. And I work with a bunch of designers, and designers, generally speaking, tend to be female (yes, there will be future posts on hysteria, hormones and thongs, all of which are painfully rampant in my place of employment, but not right now). Typically.



Now, I've been in this job for four years. And in that four years, we've had engagements, weddings and knockings-up. Lots of 'em. Surnames are changing faster than Britney's hair (or lack thereof). So what happens in an office when any of the aforementioned Life Events occurs? Showers are tossed and envelopes are passed, because I have nothing better to do with my laughably paltry salary than to go in with about 40 other people on a high-tech stroller that does everything but parallel park itself and brew espresso.



Yeah, I don't think so.

Now, I like having fun. I'm nice. I have the patience of Job (most of the time). I participate in quite a few office functions. But moreso and to the point, I am single. I have a cat. I have friends. But I do not have a husband, and who knows if one will be presenting himself to me in the foreseeable future. And I don't plan on having kids. But I AM adopting more pets. Someday.

So there won't be showers for me (unless I start throwing myself New Pet Showers, which wouldn't be a half-bad idea, but I'd have to get the pets first). No envelopes circulating with other people's cash stuffed into them for my giddy benefit. No pastel-sprinkled cupcakes to wreak havoc with the glycemic index of 40 sedentary cube-dwellers. No sitting around a conference room participating in tragically insipid shower-themed games, but in that, I feel I'm being truly merciful. Frankly, I should be thanked.



There is, in fact--surprise!--another baby shower this week, or early next week, but I declined it; I've decided enough is enough and put a personal kabash on all manner of Office Shower Involvement. A girl's gotta have some boundaries.

And as it so happens....I've discovered I'm not the only one.

8 ball in the corner pocket & 70's schlock

Was greeted this morning on my Earthlink homepage with the entertainment headline "Britney shaves head, gets tattoo," or something like that.

Of course, I took a closer look and, caffeine kicking in & curiosity piqued, I jumped over to the ever-reliable PerezHilton. Indeed, the girl has seriously gone around the bend and now resembles a startled, slightly-fuzzy billiard ball. Yeah, screams for help and all that. When you're a 20-something bazillionaire who didn't have a "normal" (and what IS that, anyway?) childhood and was thrust head-first into scrutinized pop-stardom adulthood, I think it makes you a little screwy.



I've never been a fan of her music; I did see a drag queen at a local club perform to "I'm a Slave 4 U" and I actually kinda dug that whole slick, sleek pop-ish, sexy and really quite hot (yes, yes, I REALLY want to be a drag queen, most people know this about me....) metaphor, but other than that, not really a fan of her flavor of over-produced musical bubblegum.

She's been acting out for a while, but this is pathetic. It's a nervous breakdown made public; it's also too bad she spawned kids at such a young age when it's obvious she's so NOT emotionally developed herself. She's sort of going through all the bizarre acting-out teenaged stages she missed by being in the biz and, as the theory goes, you must go through all stages in life--at some point--to grow up. For some people, they just come later....



Apparently depression and alcoholism run in her family, so I hope her ass lands in recovery (or there's an intervention on her behalf); if she's serious about it, it'll be here in MN at Hazelden, NOT some swanky "recovery" center in the Bahamas. Please.

Speaking of over-produced musical bubblegum, I Net Flix'd "Phantom of the Paradise" and I highly recommend it. It came out in '74, is horribly dated and terribly over-the-top, but it's GREAT! It's a tongue-in-cheek rock musical/fable with one of the (seriously) best scores ever, written by the bizarre but extraordinarily talented Paul Williams, who is the WEIRDEST little shag-haired, strawberry-blond aviator-glasses-wearing chipmunk-cheeked squeaky munchkin-like dude in the world of entertainment. But he penned such Carpenters faves as "We've Only Just Begun" and "Rainy Days and Mondays," and he wrote all the songs for the Muppet Movie, my fave being "The Rainbow Connection" (ah, Kermie!). And he's done many others. Lots of talent in a strange package.



Anyway, this flick is a kick, with touches of "Phantom of the Opera," "Faust" and "The Picture of Dorian Gray," not to mention overtones of pulpy, kinky 70's porn. I'm SO ordering the soundtrack. Oh, and I'm pilfering my brother's original poster to frame & hang right next to "Hedwig!"

Nip/Tuck

I am suddenly fascinated by bad plastic surgery. Sort of. And perhaps only fleetingly.

But there. I said it. I confessed. I know, I know. Your eyebrows have risen substantially, your lips are pursed and you've unconsciously cocked your head to the side. You're thinking, "God, really? Plastic surgery? You mean, cause you want it? Rhinoplasty? Sacks of saline in the chestal area? A butt lift?"

No. Not for me. Not ever. Not electively. I think it's creepy and gross and invasive and rampant and bizarre. And I really hadn't thought much about it until I was perusing another guilty pleasure last night, the Queeny gossip website PerezHilton.com, who occasionally posts links to other websites (I guess as a favor). There was one about plastic surgery, and it made me curious, but I'd surfed away from his site before clicking it, so I typed "Celebrity Plastic Surgery" into Google and found a "Bad Plastic Surgery" site. The site wasn't bad (well, it wasn't great, either), but the surgeries were.



And there I stayed, agog and idiotly fascinated for....a while. Now, what I don't get is why Christina Aguilera ever thought her perfectly decent and naturally-proportion Real Boobs were insufficient. Why do women buy into that? I guess it's all part of the biz, but that tiny, skinny chick pumped 'em right up. Why did Jennifer Aniston want a nose job? I like uniqueness in people. WASP-y button noses aren't all they're cranked up to be; I have one, courtesy of my dad, and it runs and gets clogged and needs the hairs plucked out of it like everyone else's. In the end, it's still just a nose.



And the lips! The lips were most fascinating of all! There is a tragic Drag Queen (is there any other kind, really?) called "Bree" although, actually, I think she might be transgendered, who has gone collagen-mad, and the outcome is horrid. She looks like she had a major allergic reaction to a plate of shrimp scampi. They're huge. They look like those fake wax lips I used to buy as a kid around Halloween. And then there's Meg Ryan, who's looking....not so cute anymore (why do white chicks with thin lips think fat lips will improve their looks? Fat lips are just fat lips. Are they hoping some adventurous lover will chew on their mouths while they're meshing? Is that the deal?). When lips are so fat they can't even close, I think it's kind of a problem. Clay Aiken? Really not a looker to begin with (I'm personally not a fan of redhaired men), and now he's even scarier with collagen lips and bonded teeth. NOT an improvement. Eww.



And what can be said about poor, misguided Mickey Rourke? So many face lifts, his ears are practically meeting at the nape of his neck. Gads. And then there's the increasingly evil-looking Katie Couric who has obviously moved on well past the "America's Little Sister" moniker; her forehead and browline are all botoxed-out, and she looks mad. In fact, she looks like she has permanent "Smelling Shit" face. Or really bad cramps.



Of course, there's that famous Manhattanite who has had so many surgeries, she's a strange, cat-like, implanted, pulled, pinched, puffy & tucked alien-looking thing at this point. And, much like an accident along the highway that compels you to stare and rubberneck, I couldn't look away.

Some of the others, we're already all too familiar with: Liz, Liza, Michael, Janet....

And then, of course, there's Courtney Love. And really, what more can be said? Except maybe, oy vey.

Body Rocks

So, I've been having pain and stiffness in 3 of my fingers (pinky on the left hand, middle & ring fingers on the right), located in the last knuckle joint closest to the fingertip, and it's worse upon waking, but tends to diminish as the morning wears on and my fingers get stretched a bit.



In researching this, I have concluded it is arthritis, which I've only noticed this year (and which is exacerbated by the cold weather here). This is the major reason I've begun to overhaul my diet and revisit vegetarian/veganism, actually. Besides, I'm an A- blood type and, according to the blood type diet, I'm a "natural vegetarian," so it could even be that what little meat I've allowed myelf to consume has had a negative effect on my body.

Anyway.

I was talking to my mother yesterday and she theorized, in addition to cold & diet, that perhaps I was "somaticizing" the pain in my fingers, the definition of which is: "To convert into physical symptoms," such as grief, anxiety, anger, etc.

So I said, "You mean, like, I want to choke He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Or bitch-slap the daylights out of him?"

And she said, "Well, you know...." in that way that means, Oh, hell YES, you do.

Now, I admit, I HAVE had daydreams of drafting & delivering the most profound and eloquent You're-an-Asshole monologue to this former friend of mine, and on a purely rational level, I know it would be highly detrimental to all aspects of my well-being to resume dealing with someone so damaged and toxic. On an emotional level, however, well, let's just say that daydream has not yet completely fizzled out. Hence, the Somatic Theory.



So, as tempting as that whole bitch-slapping scenario may be, I think it probably makes more sense to just go find a good Acupuncturist instead.

This is me, not relating

Okay, so, I semi-watched the Grammys last night, and I say "semi" because I was simultaneously engaged in a phone call with a friend of mine in Portland for whom the Grammys were not yet on.

She was anxious to see the Police and their much-hyped "reunion" performance, which was a fairly blink-and-you-miss-it affair. They were good, but it was a totally self-indulgent (well, when is it not?) version of "Roxanne," with the newly-shorn and middle-age-buff Sting bending the lyrics to please himself and the whole thing coming off like a much-improved garage-band jam session for the nostalgic. I was partial to last year's opener, the holographic Gorillaz and Madonna, which, together, was just totally far-out and futuristic and, well, way cool.



Later, they had some badly thought-out "tribute" to the Eagles with the prim Carrie Underwood, the bland, syrupy-sweet I'm-as-exciting-as-Velveeta country singin' American Idol winner from a few seasons ago doing embarassing covers of "Desperado" and "Life in the Fast Lane" (so, really? She's been "up and down this highway/haven't seen a Goddamn thing?" Can she even say "Goddamn?") and I simply had to mute it after a few moments to preserve the sanctity of the original versions. No, no, no. God, no. What tripped-out Grammy producer thought THAT one up?? She attempted to really "get down" to the lyrics by squeezing her frosty-shadowed eyes shut and tossing her teased blond locks and stomping her little stilettos once or twice onstage as only a pretty blond virgin can (I'm sorry, but she wouldn't be quite this dull if she got laid), but it didn't help. It was laughable.



"Faster, faster, the lights are turning red." Uh, yeah. Don't think so.

However, Shakira was shakin' all over for God and the Universe, and it was a total trip. It's like, she kind of warms up then gets going, and then all bodily hell breaks loose and I felt myself developing major whiplash from watching her. She's, like, quadrupally jointed or something. But then, if my abs looked that good, I might bare & shake them every chance I got, too.

There was a quick audience shot of Imogen Heap looking like a stoned Mother Nature, with a wild-assed hairdo. But I kinda liked that she was all weird looking.



And I was relieved to hear that Smokey Robinson still had decent pipes, though he's getting that surgically-enhanced look of permanent surprise around the eyes somewhat. Ah, well.

There was also this call-and-vote deal for three identical and not very exciting young Beyonce wannabes who sat in the front row, clutching hands and looking about as perky and hopeful as three Little Sisters during Rush Week. The idea was to phone in your vote and the "winner" would get the honor of a nationally televised Grammy Moment (in this case, a duet) with none other than Justin Timberlake. And this is where I know I'm 41 and not relating, cause I was like, who are they, why do I care, and why does everyone think Justin is all that? I know people do. I have friends that do. And I even like one or two of his earlier frothy pop tunes. But I'm just not wetting my panties over the man. No.

I was glad the Dixie Chicks got recognition. If you haven't seen "Shut Up and Sing," you need to. Period.

Anyway, I'd had enough and got into bed with the NY Times Arts & Leisure section, and there was a blurb about PBS' new "Bram Stoker's Dracula," which I'd considered watching instead of the Grammys. And I shoulda. But then I wouldn't've had the colorful phone coversation with my friend in Portland. Or this blog entry today.

Well, maybe next time.

To Veg or not to Veg

That is the question that I am currently mulling.

Something has hit me again in recent days, or weeks, about the prospect of returning to a vegetarian diet. I was a vegetarian for, I don't know, maybe a decade (I even inspired a few other people to adopt the diet, one of whom now considers me a sort of "traitor to the cause" because of my 180 after I got him to stop eating meat), and I did it for ethical reasons, primarily; I love animals, I grew up with a fairly motley assortment (the requisite dogs n' cats, a couple of goldfish, hamsters, pastel candy-colored budgies, even a salamander from our own backyard that escaped its "pen" and which I eventually found, dried up in a dust bunny in a corner of the living room; I also later learned their skin has a sort of poison in it, much like toads, but luckily I never actually touched it), and I was always rescuing them, like stray dogs and hurt Mockingbirds, all of it. So it stood to reason that consuming them was antithesis to this big-hearted Florence Nightengale-of-Animals thing I had going.



Not to mention, I was also pretty militant about not eating meat and proudly wore my PETA t-shirt everywhere.

That changed when I tried to give blood after 9/11 and watched the iron-poor blood droplet fall from my pricked fingertip and drift, weakly and lazily down to the bottom of a glass of water, while my friend's rich blood plummeted like an anchor. My blood was declined, so while my friend continued with her donation, I promptly left the bloodbank and crossed the street to the burger joint to chow down, a gesture which effectively positioned me in the world as a carnivore from that point on.



I still wore the PETA t-shirt, but only to sleep in.

Lately, though, it's been the growing awareness not just of global warming and the terrible, horrible impact cows have on the environment (read about it sometime, go on), and the fact we're a big, fat, sick nation with heart trouble and colon cancer and joint diseases and raging hormonal imbalances and gout, but the fact that, at 41, I've recently noticed a soreness in a couple of knuckles on my hands (ah, God, this "aging" thing!), which I'm assuming is the onset of arthritis, exacerbated by the cold, cold weather.

Now, the American Way is to say, "Aw, give me a shot o' cortisone or some pills or a smear of Ben-Gay," etc. in an effort to control the symptoms, but that's lazy. That's uninformed and really, terribly unenlightened. My first thought was, oh, shit. My DIET.



Even now, I don't eat that much meat, but I crave it and when I want it, I have it. Which is, I don't know, once every couple of weeks, I suppose, and probably in conjunction with the ebb and flow of my cycle.

I was sharing this renewed mindset with a Buddhist friend of mine today, a years-long vegetarian who listed the reasons to not eat meat:

"Ahimsa," which means non-violence;
Health;
Spirituality;
Environment.



Who can argue with that? I just think I'm "there" again, for whatever inspecific or specific reasons. I love cooking, and I'm no longer completely unconscious about food and what it does to your body (no, I haven't had a bowl of Cap'n Crunch for at least 20 years), I generally make much better choices now (although last Friday was a riot of Tater-Tots, gloppy pasteurized cheese dip, kosher hot dogs and hard cider at a happy hour with a friend of mine, for which I paid dearly the next morning), and I'm generally conscious of keeping my iron levels respectable. And I guess I do feel that part of "paying rent" on the planet means being conscious of my own impact on it.

There is a saying that goes, "Live simply, that others may simply live," and when I think about how ridiculously indulgent and overly-rich (in all ways) and self-centered and indifferent the Western Mindset generally is (and our meat-centric diet is part of that), I kind of shudder. I think it'll be a process for me, though, because having grown up in proximity to the Pacific Ocean, I do love seafood, and certain habits are ridiculously hard to break.

And I have a honkin' frozen turkey breast in the freezer. Sigh.

But the thinking, the renewed consciousness, is a beginning, again, and a great one. For me. And I'm excited about it, as if I'm slowly reawakening after a long, long snooze.



As they say in the program, One Day at a Time. Oh, and Live and Let Live. Which, I think, even applies to animals.

Ahimsa.

Gettin' jiggy wit it

So, there's this Sunday NY Times essay about "designer" dogs--some new cross-breeds, like "Puggles" (Pug/Beagle mix) and "Boggles" (Pug/Boston) and some other non-pug mixes, etc.

It really brought to light how over-bred pugs (pure pugs) in particular have become; so much so, in fact, that the poor, loaf-like dears can't even SCREW without human intervention, and it's really quite a bizarrely fascinating, amusing, involved and ultimately pathetic scenario.



They start by bringing the bitch into heat, whether it's her time or not (that, right there, is weird), and then they trot the stud over, who takes one whiff of the hot mama and, eyes buggin' and tongue lollin', attempts to mount her, and this is where the fun really begins. Since they've been bred to be totally blocky with stubby legs, they really can't, uh..."connect," as it were, so as the stud nears, um, "completion," he is helpfully finished off and the contents (paltry, from what I understand) are then collected in a baggie.



Seems to me we've hit a collective new low as a species when we have to jerk off a pug.

The rest, well, it's something along the lines of inserting the collected contents into the bitch and then, well, digitally stimulating her (I guess she has to get SOMETHING out of the experience), and then it's finally over (I'm not sure how the denoument is actually DETERMINED, if she has the pug version of The Big 'O' or if it's timed or what) and everyone--pugs and owners--all settle down into a happy, post-non-coital afterglow and smoke cigarettes. It wouldn't surprise me if the owners actually asked the pugs if it was good for them, and frankly, I'm not sure the pugs would know any different. Which is pretty sad.



It's too weird. As anyone who knows me knows, I adore the breed....but can I really support artificial pug f*cking?

Suck it Up

So here's the deal in these parts, as of today, Saturday, 2/3/07, and extending through some time on Monday:

It's butt-assed cold.



Now, being an expatriated Californian, "cold" used to mean something entirely different. It meant, oh, 50 degrees, a bit cloudy, and maybe a few gusts of wind to blow a little pollen around so my sinuses would get allergically clogged. And I thought that was the depths of sheer misery.

Oh, how wrong I was. So very, very wrong.

Feeling a need for "change," (perhaps this is more a personality flaw, as I am seeing it now--or at least this weekend--rather than a healthy exploration of boundaries and a need for growth and psychic expansion and coming into myself and all that shit), I willingly--and, if I remember correctly, completely CONSCIOUSLY, because there were no drugs involved, no downing of copious amounts of alcohol, no gun-to-the-temple type of coercion around this decision, nothing of the sort--picked up and left the "temperate" Pacific Northwest where I had previously been living (ah, that word is right up there with "tropical" in my mind!) for the FREEZING Midwest.



My mother is a permanently, happily, fixedly expatriated Chicagoan, living in California (since her teens), and when she got wind of my plan to escape to the nation's midsection, she was, frankly, agog.

"You've never felt a winter like THAT," she assured me. "I remember the wind from Lake Michigan. It was bitterly cold. You've never really experienced weather like that before."

Now, I am known for stubbornness and, since she is a parent, I, of course, thought she was merely raining on my parade and decided she was merely embellishing things in a last-ditch attempt to keep me from moving so far away, so naturally I ignored her warning and split. I mean, millions of people live here and stay here and work here and gobble hot dish here. Even other expatriated Californians. How bad could it be?

"Okay," she'd say, one eyebrow arched skeptically, her voice rising markedly on the second syllable to denote my utter foolishness, "but I think you'll be sorry."



Of course, on THIS end of things, most of the natives I encounter--when I begin to bitch and moan about the weather--fold their arms and turn away from me ever so slightly, cheeks tinged pink with the flush of some flavor of Scandinavian heritage and, eyes squinting suspiciously at this sputtering, fuming West Coast Creature-Like Thing in front them, ask, "How long have you been here?" When I reply, "Five years," they throw up their arms and smirk and say, "Oh, well. WEEELLLL. YOU haven't experienced a 'REAL' winter at ALL. This is nothing."

Nothing? I'd say the mercury plummeting to below zero is not "nothing." It's past "nothing," as a matter of fact, slipping right down there into the negative digits.

So I've discovered it's best to simply shut up about it, because there is no mercy here among the natives when it comes to winter weather.

I somewhat recently heard the phrase, "Suck it up, candy-ass," (however NOT directed at me) and that's pretty much the inference when I begin to groan. So I am doing the only thing I can, faced with three days of howlingly freezing winter weather: I am attempting to put a positive spin on things. I'm making pancakes. I'm drinking a strong, dark mug of Peet's (probably the West Coast's finest, dark coffee); I'm sitting in my flannel robe; I'm going to read, watch my netflix DVD, and tap around on the laptop. And I'm telling myself this whole thing, the sound of the wind occasionally throwing a burst of ice against my window, the plummeted mercury, the flannel-wearing, is "cozy."



And I am trying--trying very hard--to suck it up.

Got that right

So, according to the weatherman on the 5 o'clock news, we're heading into 60-70 STRAIGHT hours of below-zero weather, the coldest stretch in 3 years. Biggie blast of arctic air comin' our way.

Oh, joy.



He then cheerfully added that, although the winters here were "trending milder" (they are??) the "upside," such as it may be, is that this bitter stretch would surely help thin the population here. In other words, wimpy Californians like me would finally throw up our hands and leave the natives to their ice.

Yes. Oh, yes, indeed.

Equine Sadness; Weirdness, parts I & II

Equine Sadness: I just heard they had to put Barbaro down, the sleek, too-young racehorse who broke his right leg at the start of a race about 8 months ago (the footage of the break is horrible, actually). There was hope at first....but things went from bad to worse, and it was ultimately the most merciful thing.



He gave his life for human pleasure, and of course, I have enormous, enormous issues with that, but I won't climb on a soap box here. Let's just say I'm not a fan of horse racing (or greyhound racing, for that matter, but let's move on).

Weirdness, part I: I'm watching the 5 o'clock news, which is where I heard the news about Barbaro. Being a local broadcast, they're live from the Winter Carnival in St. Paul, where the newscaster was about to repair to the "hotdish tent." I honestly don't know how many "varieties" of hotdish exist--they're all similar, with cream soup and sour cream and some sort of frozen veggies and some sort of starch, either tater-tots or noodles, and ground meat.



And that's basically it.

Weirdness, part II: Some guy--owner of a sports bar in WI--"accidentally" hurtled himself 17 stories out of a Hyatt in downtown Minneapolis (he's fine, amazingly). Said it was an accident. Just not really comprehending how one "accidentally" overshoots one's own hotel room door and keeps going to the end of the hall with enough velocity to break through a glass window, but I have my theory....

Let me just say, they like their hotdish a LOT here. And their liquor.



Now, I'm not a teetotaler by any means, but honestly. What else is there to do during the long, gray winter?

Hazelden, anyone?