A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Hypochondria

For What Ails Me (Day two hundred twenty), originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

I have tried to explain it to myself, but there is some corner of my brain that refuses to understand.
To understand that other people feel differently; to somehow absorb the simple fact that while I obsess about every ache and pain and bother as if they were magnified, others can't hear the screaming of their bodies.

Colds are not magnified and built up to biblical-flood proportions-- they just are, and then they go.

Needles going into others' skins don't push their way in, brutally and coldly, leaving a hole around which your every nerve pulsates and throbs.

Rashes don't make their skins tingle-- the evil presence that crawls and makes me feel like a live wire is nothing but a just small itch to scratch.

Bacteria are not as feared by others, are they? Not everyone has nightmares involving superbacteria taking over bodies.

Then again, not everyone feels compelled to sit through horrible descriptions of people's heinous encounters with flesh-eating bacteria, only to replay them over and over in the middle of the sleepless night.

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I'd like to believe it's not all bad.

I'd like to believe it's not all just my neuroses running away with me-- this sick need to document and diagnose everything that could possibly be wrong with my body.

I would like to believe that I am my own body's whisperer; that I can hear my cells shrieking in pain, or in gratitude when I take good care of them.

They mostly scream and complain, however, because why rock the boat when things are well?

I would like to think that it's not illness that moves me; but rather, my quest to continue on the path of wellness.

Sometimes I think I am batshit crazy.

Cherry-Mandering

There are few things as gorgeous as cherry trees blooming.

It's a gross platitude, but I don't mind indulging: in all their varietals (not just the iconic Yoshino Sakuras that have become a symbol of DC in the spring), cherry trees are majestic and simple; delicate and strong; feminine and masculine in one.

(And yeah-- I totally went there and pretty much hinted that men are stronger than women.  Smite me now.)

The aroma of flowering cherries in bloom is like an illusion: you know it's there but can't really capture it or describe it.  It's not like, say, the trickery and weirdness of the sweet violet's ionones that numb your nose so you can't smell the same violet twice (or at least not for an hour or so).

The irony of this beautiful process is many-fold to my deranged mind:

1. Every year, the trees will bloom and we will all be amazed.  They usually bloom between the end of March and the beginning of April, but we always seek to pin down the exact date, so we can make grandiose plans about which we'll grumble because we get to share "our" moment with 10,000 others.
2. The obsession causes many not to notice the earlier-flowering varieties (as in, not like the Yoshino we got from the Japanese), which are usually just as gorgeous lining boulevards and gracing backyards.  It also causes them not to recognize the later-flowering double cherries as, well, cherries.
3. Craploads of teenagers are forced to confront what winning at adolescence is like-- spring being the tender and messy adolescence of many flowering plants.  These young'uns --many sporting massively bored-looking pizza faces-- get to walk around looking surly and aimless in the streets of DC, wondering why anyone would care about trees.
4. Kits for growing cherry blossom trees can be obtained from the Smithsonian Institution gift shops for around $10.  They are marketed toward children.  Newsflash: most kids would not have an easy time growing their own cherry tree because the first direction involves BOILING WATER.
5. We are all in love with tree genitals.  This is perhaps the most glorious bit of irony: while we as a nation are transfixed in horror that Janet Jackson's nipple and tacky nipple shield would be visible for 3 seconds on national television during half-time/potty break, we track obsessively flower vaginas and flower penises for the entire month of March and half of April.  
6. And then there is tree jizz of all kinds in the air, and you're sneezing it out if you're allergic, but that's a topic that may have been covered (har, har, "covered") before.

So there you are.  Enjoy the blossoms, avoid the tourists, and cherish the little forgotten trees doing their thing on the streets.  And please, when you see teenagers, point and laugh: it's the polite thing to do.

16 ~ The Tower

So when I was first recovering --you know, post-possible H1N1 and all-- and I read the description for The Tower, I was a little uneasy. 

There is one card that is just no good: it is an allegory to the Tower of Babel, with naked people falling off a tall tower that's in flames because it got struck by lightning. 

Overkill, anyone? 

I mean, is there any way that this card could possibly be worse?  Of course, it symbolizes hard times and a total overhaul.  In the same vein, things cannot possibly get worse, so surely they will eventually be on the up and up.

And then I started thinking that, in a weird way, we were stuck in the Tower when we were all sick.  Literally, we were trapped in the top floor of the house, isolated from everyone and doing little more than coughing, wheezing, hacking, throwing up, going to the bathroom, eating little and feeling sorry for ourselves.

And when we thought we were on the mend, another one of us would get sick again.

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So I have to start this post anew because this tower thing TOTALLY applies to Tiger Woods!

Because, see, when you've successfully separated yourself from anything that keeps you grounded and live up in a tower of your own making, you've lost your compass.  And when you've lost that perspective, all you have ahead of you is a long, hard, deadly fall.

And if your wife snaps; gets your clubs out; beats the shit out of you; makes you lose your cool; and the media welcomes heartily the (thong) throng of nasty skanks eager to talk about how you like to be doped up when you're playing Hide The Seven-Iron-In-The-Nineteeth-Hole; then you're pretty much the embodiment of The Tower.

Dear Tiger: Next time, keep the freaky ladies off your sand wedge, and keep yourself grounded.

This Is NOT a Good Thing

I have loved Martha Stewart for a long time.  Mine has been a restrained, platonic, high-thread-count kind of tenderness toward her and, mostly, toward what she represents.  She is one nation, under her massive ego, with linens and good things for all.

I love her magazine, most of all.  I remember coveting a copy that my then-25-going-on-40 step-sister acquired while visiting during Christmas vacation.  As with most of Marthas' covers, it was suffused with color, radiance, and that detached feeling that you get from someone who has a lot of money and knows how to spend it elegantly-- the way their hair hangs just so, gathered in the delicate tortoiseshell clip, while they wallow in their crisp clothing as if their molecules were held together by a light breeze.  I think of Audrey Hepburn and her cigarette pants, and I smile/covet/gape.

But my love for Martha may not be able to survive Twitter.  Twitter: shatterer of illusion.

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The problem with instant publishing is just that: it is instant.  There are no edits and no anxious PR people standing around, spray-tanning flaws and shrieking nervously for the geeks to move it with the damned Photoshop because time is money, bitches. 

There are no handlers and no managers and no image consultants.

And there is no grammarian.

So when Martha-- connected minx that she is-- decided to cross over to the cool side and join Twitter, she did so all on her own.

And my vision of perfection has forever been marred by her irresponsible run-on sentence use.

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I realize nowadays no one cares about grammar.  This is plenty obvious because I still remember our collective groans and protestations back in AP English when our beloved/behated English teacher made us check out these ancient little books from her private collection and zoom in on such arcane, draconian details such as whether the colons are missing from the time stamp; when do you use 'it's' and 'its'; why it's important to make your subject and your verb agree; or whether "would of" is ever correct (no).

And we AP kids sucked at grammar.  We didn't know what a split infinitive was, or why it's important not to separate its components (<--oh snap!  she illustrates with a non-split infinitive!).  And we didn't know the horror of fragments and run-ons.

Fragments are fun.  The Internets?  Fragment. Abuse. City. Teh awezum.  Really: a sentence may look odiously incomplete to some without a verb, but most people do the fragment thing for emphasis' sake. 

Although I admit, I have seen some pretty bad fragments. Which just want to make me cry.

But run-ons have this choked, harried, mismanaged-mother-of-six quality: they are trying to do too much and the content just snowballs and the bottom line is that you sound like you really need Adderall. Or, alternately, you sound like you're just not very smart.

Sorry.  It's true.  When you don't even know how to parse your thoughts with a period, let alone colons, semicolons or at least a freaking dash or a comma (A COMMA!), for the love of something holy, you don't sound like you know how to write and that speaks volumes about who you are (i.e. not someone who shines with his/her use of language).

So you see, when I read Martha Stewart Living and especially when I read her monthly essay, I assume my paragon of perfection actually writes THAT WELL (if, really, dreadfully boringly).  Now I need to adjust and realize that there is a whole team of editors who make Martha NOT sound like this:

after five days with the "girls" on our road trip happy to be home and ready for bed buit not until i finish Genesis a novel about A.I.about 22 hours ago from web

still on maine rd trip in movies about to see bruno no idea what its about decorating? any info to share?7:47 PM Jul 18th from mobile web

it is raining in maine for the 31st day in a row the moss and woodland is thriving but the vegetables and flowers are suffering campers too7:35 AM Jul 18th from web

i am tweeting from the car on a blackberry odd things happen is this perfect technology?6:54 AM Jul 15th from mobile web

Dining at jean georges with the purina folks do your pets eat purina? tomorrow our blogs are about pet adoption9:00 PM Jul 14th from mobile web

the red camera is made by the red digital cinema co-very high resolution digital cinematography finally available at reasonable prices9:57 PM Jul 13th from web

So yes.  Martha sounds like a teenager, or possibly like a dotty doofus, even as she vacations in her gorgeous Maine bespoke getaway, watches hip movies, uses her BlackBerry and promotes herself and her products.

And now, after having written this, I feel oddly better about myself. 

Beware the Overachieving Monster

Although I'm not one for shout-outs --and, truth be told, no shout-outs are generally bad for the popularity business around these here Internet parts-- I would like to point out that Mary and Heather of MomsTown have been sending something very cool to their email subscribers.  It's a mini pep talk a day, for 21 days, which is reportedly how long it takes to break a habit or start a new one.

I've been loving the newsletters-- short and to the point and not much else.  Today's was especially poignant to me and so I'm sharing it with you faithful few whose eyeballs and synapses I hold in high esteem:

Let go of the idea that you have to be a great
multi-tasker. Multitasking is, in our opinion, a
big fat lie that we all tell each other.

It is true that as mothers we must often do
more than one thing at a time... but that doesn't
mean we are that great at it. Truth is, mom or
not, we all do something better when we do one
thing at a time. Don't let anyone pressure you
into trying to be fabulous at everything at once.

I find this advice true and conciliatory-- it speaks of being kind to yourself and to realizing that with our limited time and resources, sometimes it's best to do one thing at a time and do it well.

Which brings me to November.

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You may have heard of the collective insanities that are NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo.  And you may even have heard of NoBloShoeMo on Flickr as well.

And you stop to think about how November is a crazy month of Thanksgiving.

And then you remember you had your first-born in November and that means a birthday celebration of some sort.

And you start to factor in the whole "getting ready for Christmas" bit, and the whole pregnancy thing --which yes, apparently does not affect one's ability to write at one's little computer but still is kind of a distraction-- and the whole "living with people" thing and the whole "and also a toddler" bit and things start to get funny.

Funny-looking in just a general kind of way, if you should ask.

But you cannot help yourself: you saw a weird couple the other day at a local place and started thinking about them and their convoluted backstory and you heard that one annoying song from Caddyshack this morning and it stuck in your head and then you started involving yourself in your own story because doesn't every story need a character who's woefully aware of her own neuroses and is addicted to tea?

So there's a beginning for NaNoWriMo.  And NaBloPoMo is just sentimental stuff-- November IS Blog Posting Month too, because suddenly posting once a day doesn't sound nerve-wracking and annoying.

And then there's the shoes.  I may pass on the shoes (and yes, I switched persons during the course of this explanation), just because I don't own thirty pair anymore and it would just depress me a little to do it with fewer pairs. 

That last sentence was shameful.  Please pardon me for that hideous bit of excess.  I will not go to Zappos after I am done with this blog entry.

But so yes: point taken, Mary and Heather. I obviously need to work on this whole overachieving thing.

As soon as I start a document on character development, that is.

Thou Shalt Not Allot Attention to "Alot"

Of all the egregious mistakes made in the written English language, one of the dopiest and more puzzling could be the one where people "forget" to type in a space between the words "a" and "lot", also known as "alot".

I mean, the only word that could be the possible source of confusion for these sad souls is the word "allot"  which, while pronounced exactly the same, is not exactly a word that comes easily to most of the people who are making the mistake in the first place. 

It's an unexplainable mistake, in my eyes.  I mean, if people took three seconds to reread, they would realize that the pronunciation isn't even the same: "a lot" is "uh LAHT" and "alot" would be.... "AY-laht"?  "AAH-lit"?  I don't even know exactly, but surely THERE IS A DIFFERENCE!

Alot: It's more than just a careless mistake.  It's just plain evil.

It's a lot evil.

From the Great Lakes of the Butterland

Today as I was making a little something for lunch for Herr Meow and for myself, he became transfixed with the Land O'Lakes indian maiden. 

"What is she?" he demanded.

(We don't have the who/what subtlety down just yet.)

"She's an indian princess," I triumphantly cooed, and then hesitated.

Holy crap.  So many years of buying Land O'Lakes butter (Land O'Lakes PR, please take note: I like your unsalted butter and your spreadable butter), and it took having a two-year old asking for me to take notice of this girl in depth.

"Pincess," he mouths, processing this new information.  "What is she?"

Blank.  I stare at her jet-black braids and her Caucasian features and her pretty dress.  Beaded dress, feathers.  So very stereotypical, and yet I couldn't tell you anything else about her.

I turn to Google for answers.  One of the first hits?  How to make the "Land O'Lakes indian trick."  Are you familiar with this?  I wasn't.

Apparently, you must dismantle a1 lb. box of Land O'Lakes and make a precision cut around the box of butter the indian maiden is proffering and place the knees of another maiden you can find on said box so it can be seen when you lift the flap you've just carved out. And then you giggle nervously over and over as you lift the flap and the lovely maiden shows you her "beadwork". 

Maybe it's better if you click here and see for yourself.

I am endlessly amazed at the resourcefulness of the teenage boy.

Back to the Land O'Lakes girl:  if you go to the butter people website, you can read how she --with some "minor alterations" they say, which I take to mean that they've made her whiter, thinner, and prettier over the years-- comes from a 1928 painting inspired by the Longfellow poem "The Song of Hiawatha" .
Specifically, it was inspired by the hero and by his (most likely Sioux, possibly Dakota) lady love, Minnehaha, who were said to have lived in the Minnesota/Wisconsin area.  So one can infer from the information that perhaps the fair Minnehaha took some time from her busy schedule of being a romantic heroine to pose with some butter and inadvertently sparked small fires in the loins of future generations of pimply kids with X-acto knives.

Thank you, darling Herr Meow, for posing the question in the first place.  Because now, we know.

And now I won't fret when I find you've taken my box of butter some ten years in the future, either.

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By the by, I am guest blogging over at my pal Gunfighter's blog-- so please go visit!
Happy Monday, all!

No, Not "Hippo-Chondriacal"

Can I be completely honest with you?

I want to like public swimming pools, but they give me the creeps.

I want to be free and jauntily throw a towel and some flip flops and a warm change of clothes and zip off to the nearby swimming pool and just be happy and accept my pasty white skin and saddlebags and, sitting side-by-side with Herr Meow, kick my legs in the water and froth it up happily, as we both enjoy the water.

I want to squeal happily and jump into the fine, chlorinated water, and squee and splash and play Marco Polo and do headstands under the water so only my feet poke out.

But then I start to realize that one of the side effects of motherhood for me has been an acute awareness of just how insanely disgusting a swimming pool is.

No, not "can be."  Is.

_________

What you cannot catch in the pool:  HIV, most viruses, many kinds of bacteria, most fungi.

Sounds good so far, right?  I mean, that kind of covers the heebie-jeebie inducers.  But not so fast, buckeroo.

What you CAN catch in a pool: Giardia, Cryptosporidium, Mycobacterium marinum and in some cases, pseudomonas.  Mmm.... just what I love doing after swimming-- throwing up, possibly feeling like I'm peeing razorblades and scratching oozing pustules on my body!

Oh, and let us not forget what Rev. Mom ever so elegantly called corneal edema-- a.k.a that weird blurry vision you get when chlorine gets in your eyes.  Because, you know, chlorine is kind of not that good for your skin (not that possibly pus-filled pustules or granulomas are, either).  After all, if you're swimming in a chlorinated pool, you're swimming in low-grade bleach. 

Do I want to stop and ponder for a second that you could also get a nasty pus-filled infection in your eye?

I'm cringing too much.  I have to count to five before I type some more.

_________

Thank goodness there are cheerful, happy folks like the ones at Water and Health Dot Org, who created a checklist of how to identify a clean pool.  Although when I read such helpful hints such as "do not swim when you have diarrhea" I feel the waves of nausea rising in my throat.

You mean that there are people who need to be told they should refrain from swimming when they have major mudbutt???

Shouldn't there be a basic common sense test administered to all those who frequent swimming pools?

_________

More info?  Click here:

iVillage
Medline
Aqua Culture Swim School FAQs

And please remember: if you read this but you happen to love swimming in pools, feel free to think I'm just a stupid hypochondriacal weenie who looks fat in her swimsuit.

But don't forget the Neosporin.

Sounds Like Whoosh, Does Not Promote Fresh Feeling

Ooh.  I think it's the right moment for that one blog post I talked about.  I just hope I haven't talked it up too much and ends up in disappointment.  If you didn't remember, then, hey!  The topic's new to you!

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From Answers.com:

douche (dūsh)
n.

1. 1. A stream of water, often containing medicinal or cleansing agents, that is applied to a body part or cavity for hygienic or therapeutic purposes.
   2. A stream of air applied in a similar way.
2. The application of a douche.
3. An instrument for applying a douche.

   

[French, shower, from Italian doccia, conduit, back-formation from doccione, pipe, from Latin ductiō, ductiōn-, act of leading, from ductus, past participle of dūcere, to lead.]
________

Ah.  The word "douche" is awesome, isn't it?

I don't think I know a better word to describe smug, self-centered, egotistical, vain, careless, blindly self-obsessed; did I already use smug?; and how about deluded?; and also rude; people.  *gasps for breath*

See?  That above is seven or nine words --depending on how you count-- to clumsily try to get the point across.

But if I say "douchebag" or the briefer and more to the point, "douche", you just get it.  And we can all have a laugh and then, twenty five minutes later, repeat the word with emphasis and start giggling and snorting all over again.

It is the perfect insult combined with a happily onomatopoeic pronunciation for maximum enjoyment.

Say it aloud: "douche."

________

For me, the best part of this particular insult is that it comes from the same word root as "duke", "duct" (as in the tape), and "deduce".  Yes, I know: nerdy and random.

But it IS significant:  because you see, it's definitely an American invention, just like Duke himself and duct tape-- it is a word whose very ethereal definition can be made what you want it to be, albeit still holding a particular essence of what it means (that last part would be the deduction part).  Douche:  It's the American Dream of insults, because YOU the American people make it what it is.

Therefore, the words "douche" and "douchebag" exist in the collective psyche of us all.  "Turd sandwich", while hilarious, is a distant second.

Do you think this is just some random bullshitting from someone who is enjoying way too much the way her fingers are ever so neatly falling on d-o-u-c-h-e a lot on this entry?  Perhaps.

But!

Just do me a favor: think of someone who is a complete and total douchebag. 

Thinking?  Good.

Chances are that you zeroed in on someone whose values are not like yours; who is probably enamored with him or herself; and who really could benefit from a change in perspective and a slap across the face for being such a....

.... douche.  That's right.  See?  It rolls trippingly off the tongue, with no effort whatsoever!

It doesn't matter that Urban Dictionary has over one hundred definitions of the term -- many of which feature another modifying word.  And it doesn't matter that the fellas over at Big Douchebag range from the old and pervy to the young and clueless to the sartorially incapable, for their doucheness unites them all.  A douche has become a deliciously universal word to describe a repellent human being.  One who also happens to be dense, and possibly vinegary.

_________

Maybe the term itself is some vestige from the feminist movement-- use as an insult that which was used to oppress and attack ladyparts. I still cannot believe that people actually irrigated (and still irrigate) their poor gentle vaginas with something that is meant to clean floors and disinfect counters.  Incidentally, if you have stumbled upon my blog honestly looking for information about douches,  I urge you to click here for information on what douches can do to your delicate lily blossom.

Ick.

A shrewd commentator from the last entry remarked that "douche" does seem to be a very 80s term.  I concur, but I must also point out that if footless tights are coming back, it was only a matter of time before we would see a reemergence of the word-- along with its far more dated cousin, "bitchin'".

But douche will forever live in our hearts and our minds as the foremost word to describe ... well, you know.

Long live the funniest insult on earth-- and one that is safe to write on mainstream media blogs, even!

And long live the slimy, sycophant, arrogant, lily-livered, popped-collared, no-game, frat-boy-at-33, preppy-jerk, cutting-me-off-by-riding-on-the-shoulder, ridiculously-large-bag-toting-skinny-women, elbowing-idiot-in-the-metro, perverted-mustachioed-freak, backward-baseball-cap-even-indoor-wearing DOUCHEBAGS of this world.

Amen.

Bloody Nerd/Day ONE!!!!

Oooh... day one of NaBloPoMo and I must confess I am very excited.  A whole host of possibilities to write about  and honestly--from Herr Meow's colossal sugar rush and party-hearty antics last night to the ABO diet to how when you're craving sweets you should really try reaching for a piece of fruit you like instead and watch your sugar craving go away-- I'm giddy with possibility.

Let's see... what else shall I blog about?  Here's a tip for the uninspired:  I've found that if you make a quick yet public jot of things that have popped into your mind, it makes it kind of easy to go back and, days later, read your own blog when you're stuck for idea.   Also, anytime you commit things to writing it makes it easier to remember without looking back at your notes.  True story-- I believe it has something to do with using different pathways in your brain to remember, such as your visual and kinesthetic areas when writing a list, as opposed to just one pathway (your inner monologue).   Which is why lists work, unless you forget where you put the list.

________

Back to the ABO types, though.
I guess that one thing lead to another and I found several interesting-for-different-reasons sites.

The first one is the Wikipedia explanation of the blood type diet.  If you've never heard of this, it was a theory that was popular a number of years ago and explained your diet preference and/or what you should eat as your ancient world preference thing or whatnot.  Wait.  That was confusing.

Well anyway, what struck me as funny is that this diet claims that type B blood people are the only people who can handle dairy products.  It struck my fancy for two reasons:

1. Maybe type B people were truly meant to be cows?
2. Doesn't that assertion kind of negate the prevalence of lactose intolerance in certain ethnic groups, notably Asians?

So to check this point, I found this site on blood type distribution across the world and I found it interesting that type B blood's prevalence is not very high across the world's populations --so I guess there aren't too many people who are meant to be cows-- but that for instance in Japan, a whole 22% of the population is type B-- if you look at the native Ainu, that number jumps to an amazing 32%!!!!!  So at least 22% of the population should be perfectly fine with eating dairy, but it could be as high as 32 percent-- and for people who consider it an insult to put cream cheese in sushi rolls, I find that chuckle-worthy. 

(Incidentally, Philly rolls are a disgusting concept to me.  Ew.)
(OMG!  I JUST FOUND OUT TODAY IS SUSHI DAY!!!!  DRAGON ROLL HERE I COME!)

By contrast, the Swiss --those devils of candy and dairy confectionery goodness, and fondue! fondue! (and raclette..... mmmm)-- have only 8% of their population as the dairyholic B type.  So, ha!

Of course,  I didn't need to go through this wormhole, considering that this theory is highly criticized, but wasn't it fun?  Well, at least I had fun.

The internet: a delicious waste of time.
Incidentally, I'm an O-type, and the ABO diet thingy says that we're meant to be carnivores.  And yes, I must admit, I do love meat.

But honestly, that's me and  75% of the world population or some ridiculous number like that.  One of us was bound to like meat, right?

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So anyway, back to the blood type stuff, a friend of mine had mentioned something about how in Japan horoscopes are nowhere near as popular as your lover's bloodtype.

And I hadn't really thought about it until I ran across this website  on the temperament descriptions of the four types. So of course here I am sharing with you and asking you to tell me in the comments (if you'd be so kind),

1. What's your sign blood type, baby? (this would make an excellent Halloween pick-up line)
2. Does the description fit? If so, a lot or a little?

I love impromptu social experiments!

I'm Thinking William of Ockham Didn't Like Housework, Either

The thought for today:

Whenever you find yourself in doubt about something and there could be several options or explanations but there is the one that is dead easy and simple and really not that complex but it bugs you and you're thinking to yourself that it would totally suck if it were THAT ONE... it's time to realize that it is.

Repeat after me:  "Ockham's Razor, bitch."

Or if you're not fond of cussing it up, you can always go for, "Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem."

I.e., "Things shouldn't go ahead and multiply themselves just because you need them to do so."

I.e., "The explanation is much simpler than you'd want it to believe so stop making up strange, fruity things up that are way too far-fetched to be true or even rationally possible."

I.e., "Stop whining about strange theories of dust and/or sinus problems and dust the house, dingbat."

It's a little annoying, but you'll seldom be wrong.

I might try to go for two posts today, but it is Monday-- day of endless fount of energy for me.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.
Hate me because I actually get things done on Mondays.

A Freudian (Sales) Slip

Yes, Canada: I was thinking of you during my post of yesterday-- I just didn't know it.  So I wish you a happy Thanksgiving day if you're north of the border!  Squee!

Today: a random assortment of thoughts because today is Columbus day and when Columbus sailed the ocean blue he was doing it so we would all have a three-day weekend five hundred years later. 

Oh, right, and because spices were expensive.  I bet there was no Safeway back in those days; no Safeway and no Trader Joe's.  Those poor deprived (depraved?) people.

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Speaking of Safeway, I've been meaning to share a very Freudian moment in the life of my local Safeway --one which has been very consistent and which has made us giggle.  Well, it made us giggle after we got over the shock and the fact that it was a very consistent and odd typo-- because we Meows like our beer and this is not the first time we see this particular item.  Let's see if you can spot what's.... different about this receipt:

Now, I realize that if you've never had the pleasure of drinking one of the fine brews made by Cervecería Modelo--a Mexican brewery-- you may not be aware of the fact that this is a receipt for beer.

So. 

This is a receipt for Mexican beer, purchased by me.

The name of the beer, however, is Negra Modelo.  "Negra", spelled with an "a" and not with an "o".

Not much to speak about, but at the same time, much.

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Let me explain a few things:
1. The word in Spanish for black is "negro"--which comes from the Latin "nigrum".  Also, as in English, it is also the word we use to address people who are dark-skinned.  It is directly where the words "Negro" and the pejorative "nigger" come from.

2. However, Spanish being an annoying language where there are gendered words, by modifying the word "beer" --"cerveza" in Spanish-- the word "negro" needs to take the feminine form.

3. Therefore, since the beer is a girl, the adjective is also a girl, and thus "Negra Modelo."

4. Incidentally, "Modelo" is just a last name.  It has nothing to do with models.

5. If you've never had a Negra Modelo, you're missing out on life.

So why am I even writing about something that could be attributed to a typo with no consequence?

Well, see, I don't think it is just a typo.  I believe I'm in the presence of greatness-- a cultural Freudian Slip.  A Freudian slip that has no consequence other than making me look twice at my receipt, but a slip nonetheless.  Because the word "negra" is just a word in Spanish, but the word "Negro" has a very definite meaning and history.  And seeing a Safeway slip asserting that I've purchased a "Negro" --albeit a delicious and gold-decked one (Tyrese? Purr.)-- makes me a little uneasy psychologically speaking.

__________

You see, in many ways it's all the fault of today that the word "negro" is even imprinted into our psyches.  If Christopher Columbus hadn't set hearts aflame about coming over to what he still stubbornly thought was India, and if these lands hadn't been so damned fertile and filled with treasure, then well....

... honestly, I have no idea what would have happened.  As I mentioned the other day, the one thing that seems to have set Columbus apart from prior explorers was his press secretary -- if he even had one.  Because it was the publicity and the feeling that a quick buck could be made that drove people by the millions over here.

And then when the indigenous people were exploited, sickened by the nasty diseases that the Europeans brought from their Eastern lands, robbed and worked to death, landowners had a very large problem in their hands: where to turn for cheap labor?

And the solution was written in blood, in the richest and most misunderstood continent of all. 

__________

So you see, when I see the receipt staring back at me, I can't help but feel a weird and unseen guilt.
A guilt associated with fearing that I am insulting someone or something, and at the same time a silliness because I feel I also have the immediate need to explain part of my culture -- the part that rolled her eyes when New York (yes, THAT New York) thought the Latin guy was offending her when he called her "mi negrita" while I sat there shaking my head and hoping that someone would pipe up and say something!  Like, "While it may be an allusion to the color of her skin, it's not racist because it's not spoken in hatred or with intention to debase or demean the person," perhaps? 

(I guess it's too much to ask from guys who want to get it on with New York, though.  She's so gross.)

[Oh yes.  Please click here if you need an explanation of the above paragraph.  I realize not all of you had the pleasure of losing brain cells watching a few episodes of the first season of I Love New York.  (thank you to M. Meow for pointing that out)]

__________

Looking around my dear Capitol Hill, I realize that there is still much painful history in this neighborhood.  I realize, for instance, that the stern but kind gentleman who lives around the corner from me and who always greets Herr Meow and me politely and asks about our day knew a city where he wouldn't have ever talked to someone who looked like me --because it simply wasn't done.

Although the Hill appears to be mostly relaxed and integrated in terms of racial attitudes --i.e. an eclectic mix of people from different ethnicities and skin colors and world backgrounds living together mostly in harmony-- there are still pockets within the neighborhood that, understandably, do not trust The Other, whatever that Other happens to be.  You can sense it from the way purses are clutched or people sit up just a little straighter in their porches and conversations fall to a distant murmur, that they are not happy to be together.  As we say in Spanish, "Juntos, pero no revueltos" -- that is to say, that they may be side-by-side, but certainly not mixed together.

It saddens me that there is this static.  It saddens me that I see a receipt for beer and I think not of how far we've come, but how little we still care for those who are different from us.

And yet, maybe we can all be grateful that Old and New Worlds came together all those years ago --despite the nastiness that lies within that union-- and raise a frosty Mexican pint to our differences and our similarities. 

We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

  Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, and Happy Columbus Day to all!

FeedBurn To The Head

So, holiday today, right? It's Labor Day today and all its banal and poetic implications of the working man and of how labor is what made this country big and strong, and yet how unions have become these horrible hydras that only look out for their own selfish interests and whatnot.

You know, just the usual thoughts for a very misunderstood and lovely federal holiday.

I feel Labor Day especially close to me, since it usually falls around my birthday.  I feel it's my birthright to protect it and discuss it and not let it fall by the wayside as just one more hot-dogs-and-burgers type of holiday.

This morning I sought to write about something deep.  However it being a holiday, I was also thinking about doing something light and airy.  And then I got stuck plodding through FeedBurner.

Holy crap, people.  FeedBurner.

______

I don't know why or how FeedBurner is important, but it's apparently super-important and it can make a difference in your blog traffic, bla bla bla.

So I, knowing that I'd created an account a while back, decided to start poking around some more.  Since the site is designed in such a chummy we're-totes-besties format, it kind of sucks you in.

And then you're set adrift in the FeedBurner sea, not understanding what is going on, and it's horrible.  You feel like someone with a pocket protector should emerge from the mists and come and save you, and your eyes glaze over.

Yes, it's written in English.  (Do I speak English?)
But this brand of English melts your brain and makes you feel really weird and... dumb.  Take this little example:

I know I'm supposed to understand.  In fact, I get words such as "title" and  "description" and even "sparkling"... but beyond that I feel that FeedBurner is speaking a weird dialect unknown to me and it's making me break into hives or something.

Please make sure you take a tour of FeedBurner sometime and tell me if this is just my personal beginning of feeling very passé and old --maybe that's what happens when you turn 31-- or if it is that those geeks from hell have finally managed to construct their own language and we're all doomed if we don't get ourselves a Pocahontas.

HALP!

Is "Manners Consulting" A Business Opportunity?

These days have passed by in a bubble and apart from observing never-was fashionistas and watching Herr Meow The Weed grow and amass an impressive vocabulary that is bilingual in its bilinguality (more on that later), I haven't had much of a chance to step into the DC streets and be bowled over with the curious mix of extreme politeness and utter rudeness and cheek that is our nation's capital.

Okay.  I haven't had much of a chance to tell you about it, really.  Until now.

________

I was reading OC Girl's blog on the common courtesy of yielding seats to those who need them being dead or just passé, and it made me think about all the things that seem to be dead all around us-- only to be replaced by awkward pauses and silence. 

For instance, yesterday I received the newest J. Crew catalog and I actually drooled on it from cover to cover. 

It's a sparkling piece of advertising, and it made me lust after sweaters and boots and coats all the more.  Let's face it: summer is slowly doing the second act dying swan dance and it goen' git cooooohd, y'all. Not that you need me to point out the obvious, but I bet you could use some creamy cashmere sweaters and a wool blend coat with Thinsulate, so you can be chic AND warm (nothing sadder than a well-dressed person with pneumonia).

Seeing all those cute and skinny models parading themselves around with chic and panache made me realize, though, that most people who do not have a personal assistant or a stylist (myself very much included) just do not try hard enough.  Whatever happened to the times of old where women wouldn't be caught dead without gloves, lipstick, and a pretty hat on, and when men always wore hats and knew the proper way to use them --as in, you remove the things before you enter a building, you eternally-baseball-capped morons!  We live in sad and frumpy times people.  I am not demanding that everyone shop above their means or wear impractical things like lace gloves or ascot ties, but can't we just try --as a city, perhaps?-- to get past wearing flip-flops with everything and rumpled jeans always?

(You don't have to iron your clothes to look unrumpled.  Justsmooth them out when they come out of the dryer, gents.  It makes a lovely difference!)

_________

I realize I'm in the whiny breeding camp when I bring this up, but I must debate this point of common courtesy cum common sense (would that be easier with a portmanteau like common sensery or something?) when walking down the street.

Do you see those ramps on sidewalks, ye people who are able-bodied and are not overburdened by a wheeled cart of some sort?

Those ramps are not designed to shave fifteen seconds off your mad dash to Eastern Market Metro.

I know.  Shocking.  The world doesn't revolve around you either-- and don't you shoot the messenger.

They are actually designed so people with wheelchairs, strollers, and those grandma-frumpy yet-oh-so-functional grocery carts can have an easier time getting around.  So when you see someone with a wheeled apparatus aiming to use a ramp, kindly step around them and use the sidewalk.  I know: it's really that simple, although it does take forethought and an extra 15 seconds.

You don't need a ramp.  Be grateful and keep walking.

_______

Dear indigent person who walks the alley at around two a.m.,

Kindly stop throwing empty bottles around and making so much noise, man.
These bottles make a disturbing noise and have awakened me twice this week already --and it's only Wednesday.
If you hang on to those bottles, you can make a fortune off the recycling redemption value.

Oh.  What's that?  We're not in a cool state that has redemption value for recyclables?  Hmm... go figure.
Still.  I'd appreciate it if you stopped, and I'm sure someone is willing to pay money for that stuff.

______

Yield ≠ merge
Left Turn Only lane ≠ your personal merging lane
No turn signal = No letting your rude-person butt in
Flashing RED light = Stop, then proceed with caution
Flashing RED light ≠ "Let's see who can get faster to the intersection!"
Flashing YELLOW light = Proceed with caution.
Flashing YELLOW light ≠ "The road is mine, bitches"
Flashing YELLOW light ≠ Stop.  Go.  Gooo....ssttttooopp!!! GO!
Pedestrians ≠ Bumper fodder (unless jaywalking in high-traffic area)
The bird = always a humbling experience coming from an elderly woman.

_______

I know that chivalry is dead these days, and that it is a silly double standard to expect the man always to open the door for the woman.

HOWEVER!

Opening doors for other people --especially those burdened by parcels, appliances, or a stroller and diaper bag-- is actually nice and civilized.  You are expected to be civilized when in civilization, so get with the program.  And FYI: the genital thing doesn't matter.  Doors aren't usually heavy:  you can hold them open for a few seconds.

I could have burst into tears when a host of nice Red line passengers made sure to hold the door open so my stroller and those of my two friends could make it without resorting to gymnastics.  Wherever you are, nice commuters, please know that you made me dare to trust in my fellow man (and woman) again.

_______

Speaking about the Metro, please remember that the people coming OUT are supposed to do so before the people come IN because otherwise the train becomes unnecessarily crowded and the "Ding-Ding-Ding-Dong" starts going crazy and then the "Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee" that tells you someone is blocking the doors becomes comically furious and people waste time and get upset and call Metro sucky and slow and refuse to ride and their revenue is lost and things go to pot.

So remember, kids: that's another politeness bit.

People coming OUT of a building/closet/enclosure/Metro car/elevator have the right of way (it's your chance, Senator Craig!!) and people coming IN should defer to them.

And, lest we forget, people going UP the stairs also have the right of way and those coming DOWN need to defer (since usually they can see where they are going and gravity is on their side).

_______

Go forth with a smile on your face and remember that while the world is still full of rude and self-important people who seem engaged in endless races to put you and everything about you down, you can still make a difference in one life by being kind and smiling.

Don't knock the cheesiness until you've tried it.

Therapy:Blogging as Lemons:Lemon Drop

I remembered something else I was going to mention the other day but had previously escaped my mind.

Last night in the middle of the night I woke up and composed a rather mean note in my mind.  I think it began something like,

"Dear Wannabe Fashionista, 

Wearing enormous sunglasses that dwarf your face and make you look like either one of the Olsen twins --or worse, Chloë Sevigny-- should not be anyone's idea of fashionable. 

I know... they are probably Wayfarers, and yes... they were cool once, circa 1983.  You know, back when Tom Cruise was the shizznit and no one ever even dreamed that he was 1)actually five-foot-two, or however tall he truly is, or b) insane.

You know.  Before you were born.

They aren't cool.  Not anymore.  And definitely not in white.  And definitely not with that kelly green terrycloth shirt you're wearing.  They are strangely hausfrau on you, missy.  And what's up with the hair, huh?  You should consider doing something with that lank brown hair, because it's not framing your face as much as it is just plain overwhelming it-- that is to say that you look more like the "before" in a shampoo commercial.

I'm thinking Selsun Blue."

Yeah I know.  I mean, what did that girl ever do to me, really, to deserve such a nasty little note?

Did she give me the evil eye while I was walking down the street with Herr Meow?  Um... a little, but it wasn't like holding-my-head-sobbing horrible staring.

Did she walk by in a devil-may-care attitude, looking overprivileged and mildly hungover, looking worry-free except for the procurement of her first caffeine shot of the day?

Yes.  And I'm having my own event, Discovery Channel.  I've always resented your super-successful Shark Week, with all its talk of cartilage and rows of teeth and leathery skin that cuts if you rub it against the grain.

It's Catty Week here at Zen Sarcasm.  I honestly don't know where this is all coming out, but out it must come.

________

Then again, I ran into this item sometime yesterday and I must admit it gave me pause.

Could it be possible that wallowing in problems --or non-problems, as the little unfashionista might be-- actually makes them worse?

________

Part of me wants to disagree loudly-- after all, problems are best off released into the world and expunged and exorcised out of your soul, right?  That's why we women have a longer life expectancy-- because we don't hold in all our anger and frustration and keel over from a heart attack from being as tight as a pressure cooker or whatnot.  But that kind of sounds like a sexist copout, because some men love nothing better than to whine in their own way.  And when confronted with their whining at a later date, they will vehemently deny it too.

Yeah you do.  Deny, deny, deny, men.  One of these days I'm going to invest in a Home Stenographer and then all bets are off.  Until then...

_______

Anyway.  I started thinking about a friendship that ended partially because the friend in question couldn't see that it was not exactly... um.... shall we say, kosher? copacetic? parent-approved? ... to gift someone a Hello Kitty-shaped vibrator for Christmas.

A Hello Kitty-shaped vibrator. 

For Christmas.

I can see giving a HK fan something HK-shaped.  That's fine.

I can see the potential for fun in giving something naughty-yet-HK-shaped something (underwear? riding crop?) for a bachelorette party or a stag-and-hen bit, you know?

I can see how you would give a very, very close friend a vibrator because you thought she could use one to, say, take the edge off or stop being such an uptight frigid cow, but, um.... only if they had specifically asked you about it, maybe? 

No, actually.  I can't see that last bit-- I'm thinking that vibrators are a bit on the intimate side of things-- something that you would buy for yourself, or as a couple.  But it's no one else's business, really-- kind of like how it would be a testament of love if your significant other buys you tampons, antifungal ointment or ass cream without putting on that "why, Lord?" face on when you ask. Am I wrong and prudish for thinking this?

So yes. Here I am whining about a problem that's dead and gone.  And I am asking you guys --you who come from different walks of life-- to shed some light on this issue (i.e. Am I a prude?).

And I can guarantee that this problem will not get any bigger by our extensive probing thereof, thus proving all that lovely research wrong.

Maybe.

_____

Pee Ess: A Lemon Drop recipe for you, for being such great sports!  Thank you Drinksmixer.com!

Lemon Drop
1/2 oz vodka

1/2 oz lemon juice
1 sugar cube

Add sugar to the rim of an old-fashioned glass, and drop a cube or packet of sugar into the bottom of the glass. Pour vodka and lemon juice into a stainless steel shaker over ice, and shake until completely cold. Pour into the prepared old-fashioned glass, and serve.

(pee-pee-ess: I usually see them served on martini glasses, but don't tell anyone.  Or, ok, do.)

Lesson: Don't Ever Ask "What's On Your Mind?"

Several things:

1. Acrylic nails are gross. 

If you can't grow your own, can't you embrace short nails? 
I realize that there is something fun and girly about having long nails with elaborate designs and outlandish colors.  There is actually a time and a place for fun, well-done fake nails: usually it's known as Halloween.  But utter cheekiness aside, if you must sport long nails for a wedding or a black-tie occasion I think it's okay to go for a set of acrylics.  And, certainly, if you take good care of them and get them filled regularly and you never have to scratch your face or your nose; handle raw meat; do any gardening whatsoever; deal with hygienic-related business that might be extra dirty and perilous (think about it) with fake talons; or hang around children, your acrylic nails will probably stay infection- and grossness-free.  But really, why do it? 

2. How can you ever confuse "your" and "you're" when writing?

I mean, they don't even sound the same: go ahead, pronounce them carefully and realize that "your" has a longer "o" sound, while the  "you're" sound is slightly shorter and higher.  Which really just confirms that --barring true neurological reasons such as dyslexia-- most bad spellers just cannot be bothered to do a little extra leg (or sound) work.  Incidentally, I was reading this piece in today's Post about how some teachers think there is NO benefit to the spelling Bee.  Some, not all, apparently, think that it's humiliating for some kids.  And some, but not all, think that it's not a very good teaching tool. 

So, correct me if indeed I am mistaken, but I thought that for the main part spelling bees were comepetitions, and not a regular and daily part of the curriculum?  I guess the true highlight of the article is not so much that bees are bad teaching tools or engender bad teaching habits, but that it is a sad fact that many teachers do not know how to teach using bees and spelling as a tool --and therefore foster a true love for language to their students-- BECAUSE THE DUMBASSES DO NOT KNOW HOW TO SPELL (probably because their own teachers were deficient in that area).  I remember IMing once with a teacher friend of mine who confused her "your" with her "you're" more than once.  This was very, very shocking to me-- to think that someone who actively taught other people was walking about making such a big, crass mistake in everyday communications

Oh, okay.  Get it off your chest.  Tell me I'm a nerd, and I will tell you: I am not just a nerd, but a total language snob (who'd better proof the crap out of this entry before anyone points out that I've made a major AND stupid mistake and my reputation is shot before it's established).

3. Whoa.  Kelly Clarkson!  Damn, girl!  No wonder you've been hiding under mu'u mu'us!  Girlfriend is back to meat on her bones, and with a vengeance!

I'm not going to criticize Kelly for going back to her curvier self, but I do think it's a little bit sad that she even had to ditch it in the first place.  No one is telling Ruben Studdard to lose weight, but everyone is on Kelly's case for her yo-yo weight.  Double standards make me want to spit fire.

3. Promos for daytime soaps make me laugh. 

I know I'm no one to talk because I have had a serious telenovela addiction that was hard to beat in the past, but I can still laugh at the soap ads because they are sooooooooo corny and I don't watch those shows.  Although now that I'm typing this, I'm getting a really serious itching to linger around for just one episode of "Days of Our Lives."  Just one...  NO!  You said you'd garden!  But it's just a small episode.... please?  It's Monday!  They won't drop any bombs today, they do that on Fridays!  NO!  GARDENING!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

*ahem*

4. I seriously need to do something about my Martha Stewart fixation.

Although, I'm so totally in looooove with the magazine....  *swoon*  Plus, during her show today, I found out that tomorrow, May 15th, is NATIONAL CHOCOLATE CHIP DAY!!!!!!!!!!  I need to bake cookies and I need chocolate.  Hmm.  I'm hungry.  Enough for now. 

Oh yes!  Ear-tug for a special lady having a special day today! (you know who you are!)

Have a good week, everyones!

Haggis, Anyone?

Hey everyone!  I had blood pudding for lunch and it rocked!

______

Yup.  Blood pudding.  Morcilla, if you must know.  Also, it is called rellena, and it is made by finely mincing cooked rice and corn and then adding... blood.  And then encasing it in intestines, because it looks like a sausage.

Hm.  Blood.  Pudding.

You know, it's funny.  All of the years I ate it back in Colombia I had no idea what I was eating
or that I was eating swine offal (blood=offal=not awful, as it turns out=really).  But suddenly in English, under the first-world lights of the freezer case where Rev. Mom and I came across the delicacy a little while back, I read what it was and I got a little nauseated.  And no, "black pudding" doesn't sound any better.

But as I sit here thinking more and more about it and reading the accompanying little bit on Wikipedia, it almost sounds like it's Americans who are nuts for not eating it on a more regular basis.  Practically the whole world over breaks their fast with this thing, while here we get grossed out if the Cheerios look a little too toasted.

_______

Which is why it's hard to keep a dual culture in this place: it's easy to start ignoring the things you grew up with and dismiss them as corny, tacky, or downright uncivilized because now you live in America!  The place where the streets are lined with Big Macs and french fries, and where everyone gets to sit at the cool table of the world.

Never mind, of course, that you can't bleed your hamburger meat.  But you casually mention that you've eaten tongue or cow intestines or guinea pig and you become some sort of crunchy freak.  For the record, I have not eaten guinea pig, but I hear it's delicious. 

But enough.  It's far too beautiful out to dwell on the sociological implications of eating pig's blood.

It's gin and tonic time.

Lots of Wind, No Change

Kansas seems to have a magical tinge associated with it.  Or maybe not magical per se, but there is something there that seems to spark... well, something.

It could have something to do with Clark Kent growing up there after the meteor shower (mm... and by Clark Kent I specifically mean Tom Welling being extremely hot); or maybe it had to do with Dorothy taking flight into the magical land of Oz and leaving Kansas behind.  Or perhaps it's simpler and it has to do with the state being the belly button of the country-- smack-dab in the center, and far from the oceans, flat and extreme in weather and a place often associated with the frontier to my beloved and much-missed Wild West.

Maybe it's imagining the bison herds or the enormity of the sunflowers as they raise their heads up to the sky.
Maybe it's the discovery that Dennis the Menace --a tornado in his own right-- was supposed to be from Wichita (according to the omniscient Wikipedia). 

Or maybe, just maybe, it's all that damn wind.

_______

I've never been in stronger than, say, 20 mph wind.  I know that I could also insert a couple of tasteless jokes about wind here for comic relief, but it seems kinda tacky.  So my schoolmarm takes over and we go to Wikipedia.  So when I read up on  "F5 tornado" and realize not just the sheer power of the wind but its destruction capabilities, I don't even know how to quantify or qualify any of that information in my mind.  A tornado blows through Kansas and I guess I just don't get it. 

It didn't hit me until I saw a fellow blogger's pictures of the devastation.  The devastation of her own home, and her town, and her place of work... everything gone.

Everything.  Gone.

_______

I am not sure what else to say-- the stories and the photos are so much more compelling than any maudlin rendition I could ever deliver.  But in the midst of all this chaos and pain, it's strangely if eerily reassuring to read stories of looting and arrests. and of course, stories revealing that the aid might be slow in coming because most of the supplies are over in Iraq. I guess that even if the roof has blown off your house and your roof is lying quietly on what used to be your front yard, you're still human.  A great big wind cannot change human nature, though it would be nice to be able to blow away cowardice, avarice and sheer incompetence along with a strong gust.

_______

France has a new president.
President Bush makes another misstep and the press have a field day.
We lose more of our boys in yet another deadly day in Iraq.
Paris Hilton is going to jail!!!
And Lindsay Lohan fails to live up to my expectations of her (boo hoo)

Another day, another tragedy.   And a few joys, too. 

Especially the Paris one.