Second Guessing

For the last few weeks, people have been going crazy. It seems as though everyone around me and and around the country is in a state - Armageddon is knocking on our door and is not taking "we're not in" as an excuse. Armageddon is bringing a visiting gift - Ebola. Yep. Over here, in the USA, we are worked up and, for good reason. Officially, just about 5,000 have died, though that may be a huge underestimate. More than twice that many have been sick. There is no cure and the spread is rampant, out of control even.

Oh, those numbers aren't just in the United States? In fact only one person has died in the United States and the part of the world that is being ravaged by Ebola is thousands of miles away, over an ocean and a lot of Americans couldn't find it on a map? But the TV reporter sounds frantic! So I should be afraid, right? I shouldn't pay the scientists any mind when they tell me how difficult it is to spread the disease. I know they say a person has to be symptomatic and that I have to get their bodily fluids on me but who believes in science? That person who just sneezed on the subway could kill me! Even if we have kids who come from a place in Africa thousands of miles away from the affected nations, we must quarantine them. I mean, one can't be too careful, right?

I wasn't really worried before. But then, the other day, I looked over at my husband and I said - I am beginning to think that I am the crazy person for being so relaxed about this. I turn on TV and the radio and I read the paper and I think - why am I not panicked. I should be losing it right now.

So I think I shall go some place and work on getting worked up...

Why? Convict, that's why.

Why did I go to the Department of Motor Vehicles? That is a very good question. All I needed to do was renew my driver's licence and change my address. These are tasks that I could have completed online. But I had to go into the DMV and do this in person.

Why in person, you may be wondering. Well, I shall tell you why. When I first moved to New York City, way back in 2000 (dogs probably had horns back then, my memory is hazy) I got a driver's licence and it was wonderful. I was actually sad that I didn't get to use it often because I looked quite lovely on my licence. I had spent the nineties with a series of unfortunate identification documents. On my first licence, I naively thought that hairstyles that were popular in the eighties would be timeless. I regretted that decision before I had turned 18 but I was stuck with that photo. Through college and beyond, I just could not find a camera that liked me. However, I took comfort in the knowledge that one was not meant to look decent in an ID photo - just kinda sorta like oneself.

Then I moved to New York and got my driver's licence. I could not believe my eyes; I looked great. It wasn't just me - I would present my licence as I entered bars and the bouncer would compliment me on my lovely photo. I would be all, "I know! I am so happy to be carded!" Those were glorious days.

Alas, all too soon, the days came to an end. I headed back into the DMV to renew my licence. The DMV was updating its operations then and switching to digital photography. I don't know if the man who helped me was intimidated by the new equipment or just did not know how to take a photo but the licence that arrived in the mail was the scariest piece of mail I have ever received. How bad? Well, if that photo had arrived with a ransom note, I would have told the kidnappers to do what they would as the monstrosity in the picture could not possibly want to live. Man, oh man, what a terrible picture. So my driver's licence was relegated to the depths of my wallet and is only brought out under extreme duress. I kept it away from friends and family and, mostly, me.

Despite my feelings about the DMV, I knew I had to go in and give this camera thing another try. I decided to try Brooklyn because I thought it could not possibly be as insane as Manhattan. As I have told you, I was quite mistaken. Did I mention that I ended up sitting next to a grown man who was sucking his thumb. I hesitated before I sat down as the thought flashed through my head, "if anything goes down in this place, what are the chances that it will start here?"

That photo better be worth it.

Faux Ne M'Inquiete Pas

The other day, as I made my way to work in my belted dress, I realised that I have changed quite a bit in 15 years, maybe longer.
15 years ago I would have steered clear of belts as they would merely highlight how high-waisted I am and I would be afraid of looking as though my belt was trying to help hold my boobs up. 15 years ago.
15 years ago, heck 5 years ago, I did not wear shorts. The reason for this was that I felt that shorts did not do my chicken legs any favours. Because they split my legs, people would be able to judge my legs separately and realise that they were not as substantial as they appeared in a skirt.
15 years ago, the plan, when getting dressed, was to minimise my flaws. Stay away from anything that makes me look like the short-waisted, skinny-legged, flat-butted (did I mention my dorky stick-like ankles?) person that I am. That was my strategy - a strategy supported by women's magazines that appear to be geared to make every body type a liability.

Now I find, more and more, I see something and I think - isn't that lovely, let me try it on. I put it on and think - to hell with the rules, I am going to make this work. It's great because I live for the day when I become someone who makes it into one of Dodo's blog posts.
Look out red lipstick, mismatched clothing and outrageous hair, here I come! And I'm loving it all!!

Yes, I mean No, I mean Yes!

during the wee one and my wednesday drive from virginia, hidef was at work, organising for life with a wee one.  wonderful and generous friends gave clothes, toys and advice.  he was tireless and supportive, checking up on us as the day went on.  his big project was to find emergency childcare services for the wee one.  i had to go back to work on thursday morning, as did hidef, and we decided that, at three years old, the wee one was not quite old enough to be left to his own devices for an entire work day.  this project turned out to be pretty challenging.  daycare centers, at least the ones near us, are not big on emergency care and some places needed us to have all kinds of paperwork that would prove that we were valid caregivers and not crazy kidnappers.  fortunately, hidef was able to organise a babysitter for the next morning.  she was due to arrive at 8am, so we could head out to work.  it was a relief to arrive, at close to midnight, to find a wonderful bed for the wee one and a plan for the next day.

because we live in a new york apartment, the wee one's bed was set up in the living room (where it would fit) and i slept on the couch, so i could be right there, in case the wee one needed anything.  who knew driving could be so exhausting?  the alarm went off at 7 am and i was still tired, but it was time to go.  i was barely stretching out my cramped muscles when hidef's phone rang.  he was in the bedroom so i could not make out what he was saying but a few seconds later he popped his head into the living room and said, "the babysitter just cancelled.  she says she had another commitment that she had forgotten about."

i am sure that real parents always have a plan b and maybe even plans c and d but we had the one emergency plan that we had been so proud of.  what to do now?  the wee one was very well-behaved but i get antsy at work, how would a 3 year old deal with being cooped up in a boring office all day?  i did not want to find out.  but what could we do?  who could we call?  hidef sent a text to one of his daddy friends and we waited for a response while trying to think of other people who might be able to help.  there had been some of my aunt's friends who had initially offered help but (i don't blame them) seemed overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of a child and had withdrawn their offers.  the 7 am woman called back and offered to send a friend but we no longer trusted her and, even though we did not yet have back up, declined.  i mean, how could we trust our wee one with someone who had started out so unreliable?  the phone beeped - a text from the daddy friend.  he sent us a number that his children's nanny had given him.  we called and a wonderfully friendly woman offered her daughter's services.  relieved, we accepted and waited for her to arrive.

i was already late for work but at least i knew i had a plan.  the wee one was awake by now so we got him cleaned up and ready for the day.  i had a talk with him, telling him that he was going to spend the day with a babysitter but that i would be back after work, i promise.  he had seen so many faces over the past couple of days, i wanted to assure him that my face was going to be a regular one.  hidef and he started playing with toy trains - the wee one LOVES trains - while we waited for the sitter to arrive.  finally she arrived i opened the front door and welcomed her in.  a second later, she was dodging the train that the wee one sent flying towards her head.  i was impressed by her reflexes, impressed by the wee one's strength and aim, a little afraid that we had just scared off the sitter and very surprised by the intensity of the wee one's reaction.  he had seemed so game about spending the day with a sitter.  to our relief, the sitter laughed it off, stating that having a little brother had taught her how to dodge missiles.  whew.

the sitter then started asking us questions that we had no answers to - was he potty trained? well he was wearing a diaper when i picked him up, so i assumed so.  did he nap and, if so, at what time?  i had no idea - he has slept most of the drive over but that may have been because we were driving.  did he have any allergies?  no clue.  was he on any medications?  you know, we only just picked him up yesterday so we were not sure but, since no one had given us any medications, we assumed not.  she took all of this in without showing any shock (she would make a great poker player) and told us that it was all not a problem. 

i bid the wee one goodbye for the day, let the sitter know to call me for anything at all, and rushed out to work.  it turns out the sitter had a great poker face - she told the daddy friend's nanny that hidef and i had no idea what we were doing.  she was pretty correct.  at least we had gotten the sitter (someone who had an idea) right?

It's a Wee One!

i clicked over to the Deputy Sheriff, my heart in my mouth.  he spoke too slowly for my racing mind, as he introduced himself and confirmed that i was family.  the trick question that he asked was - can you describe your cousin's (it was not the time to correct him on the relationship) son.  "he has these big eyes and cute cheeks and he's three. he is so small."  i write this down and i have no idea how the guy accepted this as a valid identification; i'm guessing that he heard something in my voice.  then, relief.  they had found my aunt and the wee one and both were safe.  however, he continued, my aunt was doing so well and he was thinking they may have to send her to the hospital.  he was just a policeman and so he was not going to make that decision but, he wanted to know, was there any family close by that the wee one could go to while his mother was being taken care of.  i thought of a friend, but he was too far away.  then i remembered another aunt (related on another side of the family) who had moved to virginia and, luckily for us all, she lived about an hour away from some spot in virginia.  i hung up and called her, and caught her just as she was getting up.  i hurriedly explained what was going on - could she take the wee one until i was able to show up and take over?  of course, she said, without hesitation.  she just had to find a friend to drive over with.  there was a back and forth of calls - deputy sheriff, me, my virginia aunt, verifications of arrangements and identifications.

at the same time, hi def woke up and found me pacing around the apartment - well it was more walking in tight circles because i live in a new york apartment.  but i was hectic.  i was putting my work bags together and talking and thinking i was thinking.  i got off a call and he asked what was going on.  i tried to talk and my voice broke.  ten seconds of tears later, i pulled myself together and told him what i knew so far.  "so, what are you going to do?"  "i told the policeman that i was coming to virginia to pick up the wee one."  "so what are you doing now?"  he was looking at me in my suit with my bags. "i don't know."  i was in auto mode, doing what was familiar.  "ok, let's talk about this and try to figure it out."  you see, it would have been easier if some idiot in a van hadn't decided to mess up our car.  the car was in the repair shop and everyone seemed to be taking their time about sorting that mess out.  i had to find an alternative.  i pulled out the computer to start looking for something.  the phone rang again.

the hospital people had shown up and decided that my aunt needed treatment - they were not yet sure what was going on but they needed to help her.  she was worried about the wee one, of course, so they needed to be sure i was coming - yes, i assured them, i was on my way.  the deputy sheriff was calling with his updates. i was calling car rental spots to see if they had anything for me that i could use immediately.  hi def was keeping me calm, helping find car rental prices and getting me to write lists (i am so bad at those). 

finally i was on my way - it was an 8 hour drive, according to the gps, but it took over an hour to just get out of the city - rush hour.  but, i had coffee and i was good to go.  the woman from the hospital called to let me know that my aunt was at the hospital and being assessed.  the deputy sheriff called to let me know the same.  during my drive, my virginia aunt called to let me know that she had picked up the wee one, taken him out to lunch and they were headed home to wait for me.  my aunt's friend called and i let her know that i was on my way out to virginia.  i passed a huge fire that had shut down the highway; thankfully it was the other side of the highway.  i drove on without delay. 

it was close to midnight when i got to my virginia aunt's place.  a day that seems so long sometimes can just rush by in an instant - dealing with the phone calls, the rentals, the rush hour traffic just swallowed up the day.  oh and it started raining, which slowed me down a little.  but i was there.  i hugged my aunt and she took me into her bedroom - the wee one was asleep.  so so cute.  and so so tiny.  it was time to go to bed - tomorrow promised to be a long day too.

Voices

On the morning of 28 June, I woke up at 5 am, as has become my very uncivilised habit, and set out for my morning run.  It was a pretty good run; it was cool and not too humid and I walked back into the house feeling very good about the day ahead.  I picked up my phone to check on the weather so I could make final decisions about my clothes for the day.  To my surprise, I had several missed calls and two voice messages on my phone.  I almost never check voicemail - I prefer to just call the person back so we can have a conversation - but the obscenely early hour made me curious.  Who was calling me at this time of day and why? 

I started out with a number I did not recognise.  I pressed play and I heard, "Good morning, Pandave, this is Deputy Sheriff from some spot in Virginia.  We are trying to locate some information on your cousin.  She is possibly missing from a location down here in Virginia and we're just trying to get some information on her.  Please give me a call back."

Whatever I may have been expecting when I pressed play, that was not on the list.  My cousin (who is actually my aunt) lives in New York, so I was really confused.  Why would she be in Virginia?  She has a three year-old son, why hadn't the Deputy Sheriff mentioned him?  Where was the son?  As my not-really-awake brain tried to process this, I dialed the phone number that the Deputy Sheriff had left me.  I got his voicemail.  Then I listened to the second message on my phone - it was my aunt's friend, asking me to call her back.  So I did.  I got her voicemail.  Panic.

I started pacing and trying to figure out what to do.  Well I thought I was trying to figure out what to do, but how can you figure when you know next to nothing.  It was so early in the morning and I couldn't even begin to try to imagine what was going on.  Should I try the Deputy Sheriff's number again?  Should I try to be patient and wait for him to return my call?  What was going on?

My phone rang.  It was my aunt's friend.  What she knew was that my aunt had gone out to Virginia to a summer camp that was run by a church.  The previous night, my aunt had been on the phone with her friend and sounding a little frantic and confused.  She was not clear, but my aunt believed that she was in danger.  At some point in the evening, the sequence of events was fuzzy, the police arrived at the camp and my aunt and her son were missing.  The police were searching for her and were trying to figure out what happened.  Before I could ask my aunt's friends any questions, my phone beeped.  It was the Deputy Sheriff calling me back.

No Cameras Please!

It happened.  Yesterday Congressman Weiner announced that he is going to resign because, with reckless abandon, he distributed photos of himself in all his natural glory (along with memos singing his glory's praises).  He found out the hard way that although it is par for the course for the world to see an emperor with no clothes on, those rules do not apply to a congressman.  That you are doing your job pretty well, which, when you are a congressman or senator, is as rare as spotting a dodo, is besides the point.  We don't need our leaders to represent us; we need our leaders to be dressed!  No matter if they work only for whomever gives them the most money, not their constituents, as long as they are the most puritan folks on the block, they can keep their salaries and we'll vote for them over and over again. 

So, if you are ever tempted to take a photo of yourself, consider instead handing out cheques from tobacco companies before a vote related to the dangers of tobacco - that could get you the cushy job of Speaker of the House.  Another alternative to the camera is taking on four rent-stabilised apartments in a city where the limit is supposed to be one per person, use one as an office (also against the rules) and then go all out by not paying taxes on a home you have near the sunny beaches of the Dominican Republic.  You know why all this behaviour is acceptable?  Because it doesn't matter what you do, how you dress, or rather don't dress is what matters.  As long as we don't know what naked you looks like, you're good.

I'm working on my slogan for the special election to fill the empty seat:  I WON'T WORK FOR YOU - GOD FORBID!  BUT I PROMISE I SHALL ALWAYS DRESS FOR YOU!!

Left Behind...

Once again, I have missed the boat.  Do you think that having a talent for writing and spending the time and energy sitting down to write a story and create a website is what it takes to get people to follow your work?  Well, think again!  You know what it takes?  Being a lesbian, that's what.  Who knew?  Well, I for one did not but consider me schooled!

First of all the wires were buzzing, and by wires I mean wireless, magic interwebs, because "A Gay Girl in Damascus" had been kidnapped by Syrian security forces.  It turned out that the Gay Girl had not realised just how important she would be to the international world because the world responded in full force, demanding her immediate release.  And when the Syrian forces claimed to not have this Gay Girl, the world was relentless - "We know you are lying so let her go and let her be!"  The Gay Girl would have been touched by all this support if indeed the Gay Girl had been a gay girl and not a Guy from Scotland.  I wonder how his/her girlfriend in Canada feels about this... I am a little surprised that the two were dating when they had not even met - that's taking a long distance relationship to a whole new level.  So maybe a Gay Girl had tired of her website and wanted a way out but we have now learnt that the way to get out of a blog is not by being kidnapped by Syrian security forces.

Some might sit around and think - who would even think to do this?  Well, this action is not out of the ordinary at all.  No, sir, it is not.  Before A Gay Girl, aka Amina, branched out and launched her own blog, she was writing on the website Lez Get Real - a lesbian news website.  When Amina went missing, the editor of Lez Get Real, Paula Brooks, reported the kidnap.  When Amina turned out to be Tom, reporters became curious about everything.  It turns out that Paula is actually Bill.  Bill wrote as Paula because he felt that he would not be taken seriously as a straight man (what a joke those folk are). 

So there you are, slaving away with your ideas and your words and your ethics that somehow include being yourself.  How dare you!  All these important stories that you are robbing the world of because you won't take the leap and be a lesbian.  Shame on you!

Quit Complaining!

You know what the big news story is today?  No, silly, it's not about how people are recovering from floods, tsunamis, earthquakes and tornadoes!  It has nothing to do with unemployment, the high cost of education or injustices against the poor.  I am sure some people you have come across mention things like this but, when they do, you can now tell them that those things can't possibly be important.  They can't be because they are not the big news story.  Let me tell you the big news story.

So there is this guy who works for the government.  Not just any government job; he has one of those cushy jobs that pays you almost $200,00 a year, gives you a pension and health insurance for life.  When I say health insurance, I don't mean the kind where they ask for your insurance card so they can see just how well they can treat. No siree bob, this kind of health insurance is the kind where the best specialists rush to your side and declare loudly the Hippocratic Oath as they pull all the stops to make you better than new.  So, this guy, whose job gives him 2 months of vacation time, compared to the whopping 10 days I and many others get from our jobs (15 if you stay for 7 years!), also gets to work Tuesday through Thursday.  Tuesday through Thursday because, technology being what it is, they require Monday and Friday to travel to the nation's capital for work... And here I am complaining about my daily commute that takes almost an hour each day.

He has this great job and actually championed some noble causes, like healthcare for all, and earned the respect of many for standing up to lobbyists.  It turns out that, for all the good things he does while working, from Tuesday through Thursday, he does not make such smart choices during his considerable free time.  Apparently, perhaps during that long long (like a day long) ride from New York to D.C., he seeks out young women online and is all like, "Hey, my name is Weiner, do you want to see my weiner, hehehe?"  And then he sends photos of things that go bump in his pants, as well as photos of his bare, rather scrawny, chest.

This is the news!  We are outraged!  We are betrayed!  This man is destroying our society with is chicken chest and grey undies and now we need therapy and a day off to try to come to terms with it all.  Bring out the pundits to tell us how terrible he is and how this will affect our lives, our nation, our world.  Perchance he is the reason for the floods, earthquakes, tsunamis and tornadoes.  If it weren't for him, there would be no poverty and we wouldn't need healthcare for we would all be well.  So, you see, this is why this is the top story.  We report and resolve this and everything else will be okay.

But I Don't Have A Thousand!!

i so wish i could draw, i really do.  because sometimes, something is in my head and it's not really a story one can tell as effectively as what i saw.  i know that just about 100% of the time, the movie is nowhere near as good as the book but sometimes an image can hit the spot just as well or better than the words.  enough with the waffle.  the moment.  the dream.

two nights ago i dreamt that noam chomsky was at the state of the union address, in disguise.  no one noticed him until the president introduced him.  and then all eyes were on him and there he was.  wearing his glasses and a huge fuzzy orange sweater.  he looked a little like the bear up there, but with noam chomsky in glasses in the middle.  apparently when wanting to go incognito, one should choose the most obnoxious piece of clothing one can find.  the audience began to boo (was it because of the sweater or because of noam?) and then security arrived to drag him off.  throughout the dream i kept thinking - why did he pick that sweater?

then i woke up and thought - what is going on inside my head??

Violated!

so this morning i mosied on over to go through the morning ritual that helps make my day faceable. i typed my blog address: amo-et-odi.blogspot.com and clicked enter. as the page loaded, i moved my mouse over to the right side of the page so i would be ready to clink on the links and instead i received a message. my blog had been disabled! Disabled! what was that about? there was a blurb about my perhaps violating the terms of service. what had i done? i know sometimes i go off on a rant or two but doesn't everyone? what was i to do?

my voyage of clicking on links led me back to my email account. i was prompted to enter my password and the response to my efforts was - your account has been disabled. Disabled? and after that was a little blurb on "suspicious activity" with respect to my account. i wasn't even using my account over the weekend so how could have been suspicious? briefly i wondered if i had indulged in any sleep-internet-surfing but i can barely surf when awake and so i doubt i would have the skills to do it in my sleep. so, this left only one thing... some nefarious somebody had broken into my account and was using it for their own evil deeds. how dare they? what kind of person does that? how do they live with themselves? they used my account to send out spam to friends who were probably now cursing me for filling their inboxes with nonsense. it was almost as though someone had walked into my apartment (without my permission) rifled through my drawers and left graffiti on my walls. and people coming over to visit would tsk tsk over the marred walls and would barely believe me when i said - i didn't do it! some stranger came in and did it! oh you hackers and spammers! shame on you.

shame on you even more for forcing me to have to prove that i am me, forcing me to reset my password and come up with something complicated enough that i'm bound to forget it at least once a month. but you haven't beaten me yet. and hopefully for the next couple of weeks, at least, the World Cup will keep you away from me. the next game is up soon...

Committed

i was slowing down and then i fell of a cliff. i keep asking myself what happened. what happened?



well, i have chosen to blame 2007. you remember, right? it started out with me not feeling so well and ended with surgery that had me asking a giant polar bear to step in for me. It slowed me down a little but six months later i decided it was time to make a comeback. how would i make i comeback, i wondered? not by trying to do the things i could do before my surgery. no, that would make too much sense. i decided to run a marathon. and, well, i did it. and i came out on the other side - invincible!

and so there i was, strutting to my check-up, three months after the run. i went in fully expecting them to tell me i didn't need to come back anymore - i was strong, i was back on my feet, hell, i was a runner. instead, two doctors walked into the room. lesson learned: if one doctor comes in to talk to you, all is well. if there is more than one, the news won't be good and they need protection, in case you lose it. so, first there was the standoff, and then there were more tests, then another doctor came into my life. so, i went through the process again, pretending i wasn't nervous, having doctors struggle to find a vein in my arm (at one point, there was a person standing at each arm, slapping them to try to scare one out of hiding) and then waking up to a voice saying - don't panic.

and so it began again. this time i was missing a piece of my stomach muscle and who knew that the stomach muscles control so much of everything we do? certainly not me. and why do allergies strike when sneezing is most painful? another unanswered question. but, no time to dwell, i needed to get back to it. more realistic about things this time, i signed up for a half marathon this time. granted it was in beyond-hilly-san francisco but, you know, it was a more reasonable challenge. and... i did it. more importantly i survived an inescapable gas chamber!

and with that, 2009 neared its end. and with 2010 coming, i decided that i needed to catch up on things that i had put on hold since 2007, when this all began. so i signed up to take intense preparation courses and then i signed up to take accounting exams soon after. i decided i had to commit or it would never happen. everything was signed up for in december. then i got into the new york marathon and so i declared 2010 my year of running (sorry knees). to make sure i kept running through the year, i signed up for a couple of half marathons and joined a team of women for a 180 mile, 24-ish hour relay. i shall be running a total of 19.5 miles.

so, you know what happened right? my busy season at work is from november through march, my first exam was in april and my second will in may. i ran a race in january, a race in february, a half marathon in march. in april, last weekend actually, i had a 3 hour exam on saturday and ran a half marathon in the cold rain on sunday morning. i have the relay in 3 weeks and a second exam in 4 weeks. i wake up at 5am and try to be in bed between 9 and 10pm so i can run, study and work. i shall have to share the tales of frostbite and other running-related dramas but the greatest tragedy?

brain death.

apparently being in a state of semi-wakefulness for months on end leads to auto-pilot brain activity which has killed the writing. and more than that, it seems to have killed the reading. i feel i am cheating myself and those who put so much into the fantastic posts that keep me going if i come to them less than whole. but maybe i should come to them so they can make me whole. i need to remind myself that, when my hope and energy are flagging, the pictures, the words, the music are like an oasis in a desert.

so now i must make another commitment. i committed to the running, i committed to the work, but now i must commit to pandave. before pandave herself is committed

That State of Denmark

so yesterday i pulled out my trusty notebook so that i could share, with you, the tale of my recent harrowing flight. i went through the notebook multiple times and came up empty. i mean, i clearly remember writing furiously in the notebook and, at most, was afraid i would not be able to read my scrawl. but now i have empty pages and a lingering fear that my trauma led to hallucinations. let me tell you (and hopefully this typing is no illusion).

it was when i was headed out to california for my run up many mountains. i decided to take a direct flight, so i could kick back, relax and maybe take a long nap. after a series of delays, we set out on our trip and the plane took off. all was well with the world until it hit me. out of nowhere. like a sucker punch to the chin. an awful rotten smell. someone had just farted. i willed myself to get through it, without making it too obvious that i had noticed - everyone has the right to release a little gas every now and then. but then, no sooner had that smell dispersed, than it returned again in full force. and again. and again. i was trying to fan the air around with my magazine, while not being too obvious but it was not helping. those next to me seemed unaffected but no one looked guilty. the stink, oh the stink. i leaned forward and the odor followed me. i whipped my head back and got no clues. i was trapped in the window seat, next to windows that don't open. what to do... what to do?

i toyed with the idea of pushing the call button for a flight attendant, but what was i to tell them? someone is farting around me, i don't know who it is but it's killing me! i considered asking to be moved but the flight was full. i was exhausted - the flight had taken off hours late and so it was getting to my bedtime but i couldn't sleep. heck, i couldn't breathe! once again, i jerked myself upright and scanned those around me. no signs of anything. i started having crazy thoughts related to farting. he who smelt it dealt it - i certainly smelt it but i knew i hadn't dealt it. instead i was the one who had been dealt a cruel hand. maybe that's what the rhyme should be - he who smelt it has been dealt it. then: ooh this is one silent but deadly gas attack. i wondered how this mystery person was able to control their farts so they made no sound. i wondered what they had eaten that disagreed with them this terribly. i was surprised that they were not running for the restroom to get it all out.

i grabbed my travel blanket and tried to bury my nose in it and oscillated between suffocating on the blanket and suffocating on the foul air, all while trying to get a little sleep. i would drift off and then be jerked back to wakefulness by another explosion of funk. it was a six hour flight and at least five were stinky. i started trying to relate this silent stench to the theory of the tree that falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it. does it make a sound? and if a fart is released in a plane and we are all there but no one hears it, does it make a stink? tragically and traumatically and resoundingly. yes. and creates a fear of flying like no one has ever known. and inspires an overwhelming desire to run off the plane. and brings about note-taking hallucinations.

Have Mercy On My Nose!

i have read about it. the wrath of the gods. they send floods and plagues and locusts and, heck, every once in a while slay a first born child or two. but who am i in the greater scheme of things? what do my thoughts or words matter, really? apparently more than i imagined.

there i was, late last week, taking my run in the park while planning the night ahead. i would take a shower and then sit down with my laptop to try to catch up on life a little. the run was a good one. i hit a great pace and, at the end of it all, the voice of tiger woods came up on my ipod, congratulating me on my excellent run. i was stoked. i picked up a bottle of milk from the store, ignoring the stares of those who, apparently, have never seen a sweaty female before, and headed down the block towards my home. then... a sneeze. another. another. and more. what was going on? the sneezing would not stop and my eyes were streaming and my nose would not stop tickling. now people on the street were staring at me for different reasons.

i rushed home and grabbed a box of tissues and blew my nose. no use; the sneezes kept on coming. this was starting to hurt. i warmed up some water and used the neti pot to try to rinse out my sinuses. the sneezes did not cease. i took a shower, sneezing all the way and then dug up my nasal spray. that helped for maybe half an hour and then i started up again. it was horrid. i was now congested on one side of my head and the other side hurt to breathe. why had the gods seen fit to punish me in this way? right then, i might have preferred a couple hundred locusts. instead i felt as though i was breathing in pepper and unable to escape the cloud. several days and many doses of antihistamine later, i was able to clear my head and figure it out.

me? i am ms summer - as soon as the month of june comes around, i am all smiles and positivity. it could be 100 degrees and humid out but i will tell you it's a wonderful day. we get a good three months of summer and i am summer's biggest cheerleader because i remember the misery that is winter. but this year was different. this june was wet and cold and it was all downhill from there. any sunny day was greeted with a bah humbug from a me, bitter because the days were few and far between. any beach day was taken grudgingly by me, as i would complain that tomorrow would probably be cold and wet. i was looking the gift horse in the mouth and counting cavities. and now i want to make amends.

i entreat the gods take mercy upon me and my sinuses. i did try to offer the animal sacrifice but couldn't even find a fly - may the gods forgive me. but i still solemnly swear to change my attitude. i pledge to keep my spirits up, at least until November (after that, as the cold, dark days come upon us, nothing can be promised). i tell ye gods that every morning i shall tell at least one gloomy soul that it is a beautiful day. for each day that i can breathe without sneezing and the itching inside my skull is the best day of my life. i heed the gods.

Food? Ick!!

So, while I was working on developing my body scars, I did a spot of reading. One book I read is called "The Eater's Manifesto", where we are instructed to "eat food. not too much. mostly vegetables." Despite the simplicity of the statement, it was a dense read which was both informative and a little unsettling.

A few days later, I received an email inviting me to a jazz performance by a friend. The invitation included a rebuke to "Monsanto". Recognising the name from the Manifesto, I queried 'What do you have so strongly against Big Food?' In response, the friend sent me a link to a "The World According to Monsanto", a documentary about Monsanto's control over the world's agricultural industry. All I can say is that, it is never a good thing when a chemical company is in charge of your food. After watching the documentary, I was afraid to enter my kitchen. What evil lurked in there? What had allowed into my home - genetically modified, growth-hormoned, maybe even cloned (industry doesn't want to have to label it because they are afraid we might not want it if we knew)?

I needed a break!

I stepped over to the TV and slipped in a DVD of a televised version of my favourite radio show, "This American Life". The theme of the episode was "Pandora's Box" and the crew went to a pig factory (at this point, it can no longer be called a farm). At this factory, the start with a super-ultra-hyper bred pig, give it steroids, disguised as nutrition and, presto!, six months later they have a 300 lb, incredibly nervous hulk of meat. 300 pounds. It sounds like a big number, but let me put it in perspective. One of the many things that my sister does on the farm is raise pigs. So, I gave her a call and asked her all sorts of questions, including, 'how big your pigs get?'
She responds, rather pleased that I am finally really fascinated by her work, 'A good size is about 60 kg." Now, my conversion skills are not the best, but I believe that 60kg is about 140lbs. Let's put those numbers next to each other. 300 pounds. 140 pounds.
And remember - Nervous.
Nervous? Why so, you may wonder. Well, turns out that the massive pigs spend their lives in little pens, being stuffed full of some grower mix that makes them a bit nervouse. Then, one day, six months into their tiny world lives, they are ushered out of their pens to take the longest walk of their lives - to the truck that will take them to slaughter. Though the farmers try to keep them calm, these pigs get worked up pretty easily and, sometimes, this maybe 50 metre walk is too much for the pig. Its muscles seize up and it dies on route to the abattoir.

Yeah, so much for that break.

But, I was on a roll. So, why stop now? I'm no quitter! So, last weekend I watched "Food, Inc." another documentary about Big Food that brought together the flora and fauna of the business. I learnt several things, three of these things being:

• There is corn in everything, even diapers
• Chicken is grown in half the time and to twice the size
• They feed animals the darndest things

Since watching all of this I have flashbacks, like - what? why would anyone use ammonia in the processing of meat? or, How does cookie dough end up with E.coli?

At the end of the day I wonder - why does it take so much effort to make sure that what you eat is actually food?

If It Lasts More Than Four Hours...

My mother came to town to take care of me as wonderful mothers do.  My mother loves CNN and live sport.  Therefore, I have been watching a lot of live television.  In my regular life, I live by the creed of the digital video recorder where, if it can be helped, no TV is to be watched live.  The great benefit of delayed television is the ability to fast forward through commercials.  

Instead I have spent the last month learning about how "I should ask my doctor" about all kinds of drugs.  Drugs for depression, mood and skin control via a birth control pill that is not really for birth control but actually to keep your skin clear and your moods light, erectile dysfunction drugs, oh and some medication to grow eyelashes!  Yes, I am supposed to ask my doctor about some medication that will, apparently, give me eyelashes like Brook Shields'.  

So how exactly am I to broach the subjects with my doctor, you know the one with all the medical degrees?  

"Um, Doctor?  Mr M.D.?  I was sitting at home watching my television and I know you are telling me that I'm just fine but I was watching my TeeVee and this guy with an awesome voice told me that I needed to be talking to you about this medication that will make my life awesome.  I see you shaking my head but the voice sent me to a website with amazing coupons, I'll be paying like half price for these drugs and, well Brooke Shields says my eyelashes can be so much more than what you see before you.  Yeah, yeah, okay so the risks are suicidal thoughts, loose stools and maybe death, but the voice sounded so happy as it rushed through these risks and, honestly, they can't be that serious.  If they were serious risks, would this drug be all over television, at at prime time to boot?  I don't think so.  I have learnt a lot when I thought I was just watching a tennis match and I think I know a little more than you give me credit for.  So what?  You have the degrees and the prescription pad but I have CABLE TV!  Don't keep me from the glorious air-brushed me; make me as cool as the people in the ads."

But please give me your personal number, you know, in the "rare case of side effects".

But Why Where I Walk?

I come across a lot of poop in my life.  Now, if I lived on the farm with my mother and my sister, that would make a lot of sense; in fact, it might even be a given.  But I don't.  I don't even, to the best of my knowledge, live near a farm.  I actually live in a city of many, many people and many bathrooms.  And yet I come across a lot of poop.  

I believe that the bulk of it is dog poop.  There are a lot of pets in my neighbourhood.  It fascinates me because New York apartments tend to be slightly larger than a walk-in closet and I have barely enough room for me, but some people find space for dogs that are the size of small ponies.  But, I say, if they are both happy, that is great.  However, if I have to come across your pooch's poop as I go about my life, then I am not happy and that is not good.  There are signs all over the place telling people to "Curb your dog" and threatening fines of $250 for those who break the law.  Now, curbing a dog means that a dog is supposed to do all its business in the in the gutter, off the pavement, so that the general public is not playing a game of avoid-the-animal-waste and those who live in ground floor apartments don't feel as though they live in a long-drop loo.  This is the law and yet everyday I see owners whistling away as their dogs go where they please and we end up feeling lucky when the owner takes time to scoop the poop (always leaving smudged remains on the pavement).  Let me also take time to state here, I have never seen anyone fined for not curbing their dog.  I mean, who do you report them to?  How are they identified?  I know the crazy lady next door (who lives on the ground floor) sits outside her building at times, yelling abuse at those who bring their dogs by to pee on the trees outsider her apartment.  She complains that she spends all kinds of money trying to remove the odours emanating from her garden and the dog-owners look at her as though she is wicked witch of the west.  To which she responds, "If you don't think it's a big deal, why don't you let them go outside your home?"

Let me add that I can't put all the blame on the dogs and their owners.  For, one night I dashed out to pick up something from the corner store and as I walked back home, I heard a sound to my left.  I looked over and found myself looking into the eyes of a man squatting, between two parked cards, with his pants around his ankles, holding a toilet roll.  I quickly looked away, stared ahead and hurried to my apartment.  I had two thoughts - if he tries to chase me, I have a head-start while he pulls up his pants and, hopefully, wipes his bum; and at least he curbed himself.  

So, when I walk through, I'm sure, my very scenic neighbourhood, I cannot take time to smell the roses - they tend to smell rather foul - I can't look around and take in the sights - for fear of stepping into an uncurbed surprise - and I can't walk as I please - I have to step around dogs doing their business.  I feel badly for the pets, as they are just trying to let it all out after being indoors for hours at a time, and now passersby are giving them dirty looks like it is their fault their owners are not disciplined and responsible.  But not badly enough.  I shouldn't have to negotiate an obstacle course every time I leave my home.

Yes, everybody poops, but do they have to do it everywhere?

Awful Camouflage, If You Ask Me

There is a fashion trend sweeping the city that is just a bit beyond me.  Fur.  I try to figure out what the aim is and I just don't get it.  All it does is trigger questions from me.

Without us even going into the issues of how people come about this fur and what animals have to go through.  We live in a world where people pluck and electrocute and laser pretty much all the hair off our bodies so we can steal the hair of another beast's back. 

First of all, if you are caught in a rain or snow storm and your fur coat gets wet, do you smell like wet dog?

And then, um, why?  I am seriously freaked out by the whole beast fur - you know where someone makes a scarf out of, say, a dead fox and the mouth is biting on the tail.  How is this attractive?  And who decided on a for versus your favourite deceased cat or dog?

Oh... and the coats.  Are they supposed to be some kind of camouflage?  So that when the vampires come hunting for the humans, they see massive expanses of fur and think, well what huge ferrets, they kinda look like they have human heads but they must just be mutants.  Let us seek humans elsewhere.  

I don't know.  All that fur around my face would just tickle my nose and get me sneezing all the time.  

Diversion

i am working on a post about what has been going on in my life and today i come across a piece in the paper that i heard about on the news yesterday. a three year old boy was beaten and died in the care of his godmother and her companion. she is 30 and he is 25 and the boy was 3. and there was something that he did that they felt he needed to be punished for. and what did they do to this three year old boy? they forced him to do push ups and march in place. i'm sure THEY don't do push ups themselves - i mean this country is not famous for its svelte population. but they took a boy who is not even ready for the first grade and doused him with cold water and sodomised him. it makes you wonder. the neighbours said they had seen some things that concerned them but they didn't want to butt in - like a freezing cold day where the godmother was bundled up but the baby was barely dressed. i hope they never saw this training for the marines-esque behaviour and thought it was okay.
and, wow, she is 30 and he is 25. they both should know better. but i must know i am wasting rational thought to a couple that sodomised anyone, let alone a 3 year old. i mean seriously, what do you do with folk like this?

well, while we're thinking, let's put them in a subway car with the classic unwashed crazy dude and broken a/c. temperatures are 96 in the shade. let's take our time.

Bad Medicine

my current default magazine is new york magazine. i like that the articles can be long, but not too long. i love that it tells me a lot about what is going on in new york. and it's great because i can sit on the train, get through it, and sound all finger on the pulsy about issues and, just like great icing, there's a crossword puzzle on the back page.

so a couple of weeks ago the mag does a piece on suicide tourism - it seems more people than normal (however normal is calculated) travel to new york to kill themselves. hmmm... interesting, but not as facsinating as the documentary film "the bridge" that kept me awake for two weeks. but then, continuing with the morbid subject matter, the next week there was a piece about death on the subway tracks.

58 people died on the subway tracks. 58!!! thats like more than one a week. and i heard about like maybe 4 of them. and i'm just saying that so i sound like i heard about something but, beyond the subway hero (who didn't die) i can't think of any adventures on the tracks i read about. i am already paranoid about those tracks. i watched those breakdance movies in the '80s and i don't know how people can tell which track is electrified, because i sure as heck can't. and what if something goes awry and the wrong track gets the current? i just have an image of a youth being zapped seared into my memory. apparently most of those deaths are suicides (no numbers given).

some were homeless or drunk people who wandered onto the tracks. those are some brave wanderers. have they not seen those tracks? the rats are as big as blooming cats! massive. and the tracks are vile, soggy dark places. i don't know how anyone went down there to breakdance or grafitti. brave.

others fell onto the tracks while urinating between cars or surfing on top of cars. and then a final lot fell or were pushed onto the tracks. and you see, that last category could be me. and so it's like new york magazine looked into a receded corner of my mind and pulled out a fear, told me it was completely rational and ran with it. and then made me work in places with narrow, crowded platforms.

so, if you are on that platform and you see someone clinging to the wall behind them for dear life or taking that extra step back when a train is approaching, just say hi pandave and wag a finger at the new york magazine. what happened to the "best places to eat" stories???