Whack, Whack, Whack

My heart has been shattered. You tell each other stories and make plans for the future. We were to be old ladies going on endless adventures and not giving a damn what anyone thought or did. We imagined ourselves on benches, wearing sun hats and bright colours.

Fate is a son of a bitch. Now it's just me and I never even had a chance to say goodbye.

So I won't.

Who's That Genius?

it is just about 7 PM and I just found out that today, Sunday, is National Ice Cream Day. I mean, really? On a Sunday? No one needs a National Ice Cream Day on a Sunday. You know when you need a National Ice Cream Day? On Monday. On a day when a long and bleak week lies ahead and it seems like nothing can lift your spirits. Can you imagine how you would feel if, on a day like that, someone said - Free Ice Cream! I know I would be beyond pleased. I know that that ice cream would give me hope that I could make it through the week. On Sunday, I wouldn't even think to check if it was National Ice Cream Day. What am I going to do now? I may just need ice cream to make me feel better.

Don't Worry, They're Okay

As I was waiting for my train today, I looked down and received the answer to a question that I posed a couple of weeks ago. Yes, the rats survived Sandy. Call it a hurricane or call it a super storm, either way the rats looked Sandy dead in the eye and declared - you don't scare us.

So, after Sandy mistook New York for Florida and wreaked unimaginable havoc on our region, what appears to have come through unscathed is our rat population. Everything else, however, has been chaotic. But the survival of the rats must count for something right? If the rats are going to continue to run this town, we must believe that the rest of us will be okay too, right?

Oh Say You Cannot See

It was last week Friday, the day the Olympics began. Having forgotten about the time difference, I was panicked when I received a news alert about the opening ceremony when I still had an hour at the office to go. A crazed google search yielded the information that the event would be time delayed but would be shown in its entirety. Whew.

I was ready with dinner and drinks when the Danny Boyle extravaganza began. It was lights, music and dance all the way. I have enjoyed Danny's films and so I was looking forward to seeing what he would do with this event that brings the world together. Yet, as I sat in front of my television, I found myself a touch confused. Why?

Well, you know how sometimes you go to the movies and there people sitting near you and they talk throughout the show. They give spoilers, explain the most self-explanatory moments, and make you miss things because they speak over dialogue. You know those people and how you just want to hit them and tell them to shut up? Well, that was the NBC TV staff. I didn't get it. Being that the Olympics were being held in the England, home of English, and being that the event had narrators, I don't know why NBC felt the overwhelming need to explain everything, often drowning out what was going on at the ceremony. And the "information" that the TV station people shared with us served only to rile me up. As the parade of nations happened, the American commentators felt it was their duty to share information on each announced nation. As Uganda came into the stadium the commentator remarked that Winston Churchill called Uganda the pearl of Africa. Then, "of course Churchill never met Idi Amin." WHAT? Put aside the fact that the Olympics are hardly the place for such negative talk, obviously this guy has never heard the saying, 'judge not lest ye be judged' or the thing in the bible about removing the log from ones eye before trying to get a speck out of someone else's. I mean, forget the UK, is the US the sinless beacon of sunshine and butterflies in the grand history of the world?

For all the things I did see, what I discovered the following morning about what we were not given the opportunity to see really got my goat. It turns out that NBC decided to cut an entire segment out of the opening ceremony. It was a segment dedicated to those who were no longer with us and included a photo memorial of people who had passed away (7/7 victims and others) and a dance routine. It was a touching segment and we did not get to see it. When asked NBC came up with many excuses, none of which passed muster. One was that they felt it was not relevant to the American viewing public. We had been promised ALL the Olympics, who were they to decide what we did or didn't want to watch? Another excuse was that the segment had been edited out for time. Turns out that was not true. For, during the time that the segment was on, we were subjected to a terrible interview of Michael Phelps that was a total non sequitur to everything else going on. Not only that but the interview was longer than the segment that we did not get to see.

So for all the promises that were made, I found myself wanting to throw things at my television. Instead of coming home to watch the opening ceremony as Danny Boyle intended it, I had worst Big Brother in the world showing me that this is not at all the Land of the Free.
GRRRR!!!!

Look Out Now

The Affordable Care Act or Obamacare (always said with a sneer in your voice) is making news all over the place. The issue even made its way to the Supreme Court and yet folk won't keep going on about how terrible it is - even though it has not happened. There are experts telling us that it will save money and other experts telling us that it will leave us broke. There are people declaring that almost every doctor in America will quit but this report is based on the nearly 700 (out of 36,000) doctors who actually responded to the fax. This in a nation of over half a million doctors. But I digress.

So when asked about what he was going to do, the senate minority leader who, if you ask me, looks a lot like Angela Lansbury (but is not) declared that their goal is not to ensure that 30 million uninsured people have health care coverage but instead, their goal is to improve the health care system. This health care system, he said, is already the best in the world but they want to make it even better. But not just make it better, make it better while reducing costs and increasing individual liberty. I had no idea that health care was about individual liberty, but there you go. Did I mention that this guy and his coworkers have access to some pretty awesome health care benefits? Nothing but the best for them!

My lesson continued. Word is that spreading the health care coverage is going to cost the currently insured even more because they are going to have to pay for the uninsured. And yet, I thought this was already the case because when the uninsured go to hospital emergency rooms, they can't be turned away and, when they can't pay, the hospital has to find someone who will. My money was always on the insured but it may have been a health fairy all along and this health fairy will go on strike if more people have more equitable access to health care.

And this is how it makes sense for how else can people know that they are special? So we must, we must make the best health care even better and make it so those 30 million uninsured feel even worse about themselves for not being able to afford it. It is obviously something they must have done to not be able to have access to the best (getting even better). They obviously don't deserve to live and, if they try to, they should just feel as crummy as possible about it.

Just the Two of Us

You would think that, as long as I have been alive, I should know that life is full of surprises. With all those surprises life is bursting out the seams with, I should know that a few are bound to come my way. All too often, I forget.

Last week my aunt called me to tell me that the wee one was heading to Zimbabwe to live for a while. Oh, and he was leaving in a week. From the way I felt about not being able to see or at least chat with him at least once a week, I knew that this was an unbelievably difficult and painful decision for her. The wee one is sunshine. I could say he is cute and charming and funny and fun and kind and well-behaved and sweet and clever and I would still have hundreds more words to describe him. Even after going through the list (if it ever came to an end) I may still not be able to properly convey how having him in my life, in our lives, affects us. He opens our eyes and our hearts in new and unimagined ways; he makes us want to go out and explore and imagine and enjoy the world; he never fails to surprise us. And now he was off to take his sunshine to our family in Zimbabwe. Lucky them.

So, last week, I got to see him and his mom quite often but Friday came way too soon for us. Off we were to the airport, with lots of bags and a heavy sadness to boot. As we were waiting for the airline attendant to check in all the luggage, the wee one and I decided to play around with the camera and silly faces. He really is just the best thing ever.

Is this what Shakespeare meant when he spoke of the "sweet sorrow" of parting? I knew that he will have an incredibly time in Zimbabwe - what with all the space he will have to run around and all the family he will have to play with - but I am sad that he had to go so far away.

No Friends

I came across the story related to the photo above and I still can't figure out who is the person with no friends - is it the model on the cover of the magazine or the editors who let this happen? They say "there's one born every minute" with respect to fools, but it was when I saw this that I realised that with all the fools that have been born, it is more and more likely that a bunch of them will end up in one room with not one thinking person to say  - STOP IT NOW!

Someone thought it would be a good idea to create and image with a pale-skinned model surrounded by dark-skinned models. That was a bit silly but could have been taken in many ways. However, the fools decided to take any ambiguity out of the equation by putting the caption at the bottom of the screen "Stepping Out of the Shadows". Oh, so that's what those dark things are... shadows. And when she was asked, the model insisted that this was merely about coming of age (because we have all stepped out from among dark shadow-women when coming of age) and that everything was okay because the models were not all black folk - some were Filipinas who had been painted black. So you see, it's all okay. And for those of you wanting to say otherwise, you tell me what your shadows looked like when you stepped out of them at your coming-of-age moment.

By Any Means Necessary?

We kick of the month of December with World AIDS Day. It's a day of reflection but it will, hopefully, become a day of celebration; a day when people break out the champagne or break into dance as they toast the eradication of AIDS.

To attain this goal, what are we willing to do? What sacrifice are we willing to make? Well, Kim Kardashian (and a few friends) is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. She is willing to die for the cause. DIE! Impressive, right? Makes you look a tad uncommitted to it all... Until you realise that the death is all very pretty and symbolic. Death, pretty? Well, look at that wonderfully airbrushed dramatic photo of Kim in her Coffin (Koffin?). How many more people would be eager to die if death were so becoming?

And the death? It's no stabby death. No, it's far more new millennium. It's digital and, maybe, very temporary. Temporary death? Who does Kim think she is - Jesus? No, not Jesus... Lazarus! That's it. For she needs help coming back to life. We get to play the role of Jesus - it's incredible. But not just any Jesus, but a 21st Century Jesus. New and improved for the modern age, with money as our tool of healing and resurrection. It's genius!!

So Kim (and friends) has died... you know, digitally. When you wake up on 1 December and come to the internet, she will be nowhere to be found and you will be bereft. Without tweets and tales (you know except the one about her being dead) your life will be empty. There will be a hole in your heart. And to fill this hole, you will give money. And give. And give. Until you (and friends) have given ONE MILLION DOLLARS! And, like magic, poof, she (and friends) will be back. And all will be wrong with the world again. Imbalance will be restored as we return to worshiping those who are famous for nothing and existing in braindead worlds.

Is it so terrible that I am hoping for you (and friends) to raise $999,999.99. I'm sure AIDS day will forgive you a penny in the name of digital death.

To Go Where... Well, ONE Other Man Has Gone Before

we're going to the moon! i'm so excited. i had almost given up on it, what with all the talk of mars travel, i thought the moon had been forgotten. i know neil armstrong and friends have been, but since when has anyone gone anywhere just once? of course, except maybe a dragon's lair and billings, montana... but we're going to the moon!

i sit and wonder about that man in the moon. are we going to make an effort to meet him this time? what will he be like? will he be really excited to finally be able to chat with us face to face, instead of just gazing upon us from distance? or will be he like a bitter miss havisham - tired of sitting around waiting and waiting, with the tea getting cold and moon spiders building webs around him? i had been getting tired of all the unmanned missions. can you imagine how disappointing it has been for the man in the moon to go running out to meet his guests, only to be confronted by soulless robots? the poor man. it may well end up being like the boy who cried wolf. we shall arrive on the moon and the man in the moon will stay in his house, in his pyjamas, slippered feet on an ottoman, refusing to be fooled by yet another empty rocket. i hope not.

but wait, what is this i hear? exploit? going to the moon to mine for titanium and seek helium? they are not interested in the man in the moon. it seems that folk have decided that we shouldn't limit our greedy digging and exploitation to just one place. what good is the moon if we can't profit from it? all these people yelling, but what about the consequences? money has no time for consequences! onward we go!!!

we're going to the moon.... uh-oh.

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...

Summer's In The Air

so, this is how it happens...

a train pulled up and, in pavlovian mode, you hopped in. maybe you came running down the stairs and barely made it through the doors or, perhaps, you were exhausted after a long day at work and didn't give stepping in a second thought. it was rush hour and yet the car was suprisingly empty - there were empty seats all over the place - in fact almost the entire car was empty. fantastic, you thought, you'll be getting a seat all the way home. and then a thought makes it way through the tired fog covering your brain - how can this be? how can you have so many seats during rush hour? a moment too late you realise that there is something wrong. something terribly wrong. you lurch towards the train doors but reach them just as they squeak shut. you are trapped. you try not to, but you have to inhale.

and nearly pass out. the stench seems to be an impossibility. what could have come together to create this toxic odour? you look around and spot the mass of garbage bags piled around a seat and, in the middle of it all, a grey form. it is always grey colour cannot live among such smells. it dies and leaves behind only its shadow - like ashes after a cremation. you see a few people huddled on the opposite end of the train car. they are they ones who have decided they are going to try to survive the ride, in the name of a seat. their feet hurt enough that they are willing to let some nose hairs get burnt away for a little bit of rest. and then, there are those like you, squeezed against the train doors, trying (without any luck) to take in wisps of air from the tunnel outside. others try to find a scarf, sweater or piece of tissue to breathe into, hoping that the material will filter the poison out of the air. you all just have to last until the next stop. then you can dash out and run to the next car.

you make it and as you make your escape, and breathe in the less poisonous air of the subway, you see others jump on, lunge towards the empty seats. you see that familiar look of relief turn into horror as the train doors close...

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.

Apocalypse When?

so, i'm sitting here, pretty much watching hidef watching american football. he tells me it's a good game, so it's a good game. the fans tell me that it is a most interesting game and that, when i understand it, i shall understand all the starting and stopping and high impact crashes.

then a commercial comes on, and it comes on again and again, because it is sponsored by the football league. guess what the commercial is about... play. yes, play. it is a commercial encouraging children to play. wait. that's not it. it is a commercial stating that it is recommended that a child get at least 60 minutes of play every day in order to stay healthy. i know, i know, a little mind-boggling but there it is. apparently children no longer do what children have done since children were invented. i mean, what are children for if not to play? if not to run around in the dirt while eating a little dirt, then what do they do? why are parents being told that children need to play? what evil lies over the land that children have ceased to play? does someone need to pay the piper?

heck, forget the children; what about the grownups? how are they to remain sane if they are not locking their children out of the house so the kids can tire themselves out and minimise the trouble that they get up to while in the house. i mean, how can you have a child with cabin fever and not lose your mind? perchance this may be why we live in a very medicated and completely nutty world.

so open the doors, tempt the kids outside with, i don't know, candy, and, while they are blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight, jump indoors, lock the door and tell them they need to run around and PLAY until it starts to get dark. Then they better come back indoors, or else...

Where's My Cape?

so i have been going at a manic pace the last few weeks. i have been taking on more than i can chew and swallowing without bothering to try to chew. i have been constantly exhausted, with a barely functioning brain, and marvelling at how well i am getting the impossible done.

then yesterday my superwoman cape was yanked off my shoulders without ceremony. around lunchtime i started to feel cold... really cold. like cold in my spine cold. i pulled on my sweater and wrapped a scarf around my shoulders. yet, i continued to shiver and shake at my desk (at work) and focused my energy on making it through to the end of the day. i tried tea, but my body still hurt and the cold would not go away.

by the time i got home, my body and face felt hot but my hands were frozen - doesn't it suck that apparently nothing can stop my cold hands from being cold? i crawled onto the couch, under two blankets with a hot mug of honey-water and some vitamin c. hi def came home and took my temperature - 101 F (which apparently confirmed that i had a fever). he forced me to drink even more water and take some ibuprofen for the aches. feeling very sorry for myself, and whining all the way, i dragged my creaking bones into bed and fell asleep. i woke up in the dead of night, soaked in sweat and feeling quite yuck.

this morning, the sun woke me and i stretched. no pain, no creaks! well no more than the usual. i felt human again and ready to face the world. now the challenge is to resist the temptation to reach for the cape.

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?

No Dessert for You!

There's been a coup!  In my state.  So why aren't there riots in the street?  Or curfews?  Why are we all calmly going about our lives as though nothing has happened?  There's been a coup!

And yet it all just feels like a bunch of petulant children squabbling at the expense of the state's residents - literally and metaphorically.  People are switching sides while others are claiming that they won't talk to one guy because he spends all his time on his Blackberry.  And then the main players leave us wondering what we were thinking when we voted them in; and by we I mean not me.  One has been accused of slashing his girlfriend's face and another may or may not have stolen campaign funds and may not even live where he says he lives.  My, oh my, it makes you just want to throw your hands up in the air and give up.

But we can't give up because there are bills out there that are due to expire and who knows what happens in the world when bills expire.  The state senate is supposed to make some kind of decision about who controls the schools in the city of New York.  The state is supposed to make a ruling about what our sales tax is going to be.  The senators is supposed to determine how much our rents can go up by.  Everyday, the state is losing money due to some snafus that can only be resolved by the state's senators going back to work.  Instead each side is claiming victory, posturing in front of TV screens while doing absolutely none of the work they were elected to do.

There's been a coup?  Why doesn't it feel revolutionary?

Keep The Nightlight On, Please

There was no sport on the TV this afternoon but I needed a break from NPR's Planet Money so I went channel surfing and happened upon BBCAmerica on Demand.  Hmm, "Super Botox Me".  Well, I did watch Supersize Me and that was interesting so let me see what this is about.  There is a journalist, Kate Spicer, who is talking about how she has decided to enter the world of, I don't know, let's call it 'extreme beauty'.  I'm thinking, it's 4pm on a Thursday, I can't do much worse than this.

First she goes to a celebrity photographer and has him take untouched photos of her, sans makeup.  Post photos, they sit a sixteen year old girl next to Kate and three beauty professionals, who have been sitting in the audience, come forward to answer the journalist's question, "What does she have that I don't?"

Oooh, let me take a stab in the dark and say, well, she is young enough to be your daughter, but apparently that is not it.  I hear talk about necks and lips and small faces, which is odd to me because a lot of celebrities have huge heads (ahem, Larry King).  But, moving on.

Ms Spicer decides then to travel to America, cosmetic surgery Mecca, and makes an appointment with, and I'm not making this up, a "Knife Coach."  People pay this coach $500 to get advice on plastic surgery.  Honestly, she is the plastic surgery of a hair dresser with a bad perm that is falling out - I would not trust her with my face (a thought that recurs throughout the show).  She talks casually about starting off by injecting toxins in ones face.  Toxins?  Do we no longer know what the word toxin means?  I'm horrified because her face doesn't move even though she claims that she's raising her eyebrows.  I'm horrified because she is pleased.  I'm horrified because we are only ten minutes into this programme.

Well, this show is not called Super Botox Me for nothing.  While an allegedly conflicted is chatting happily with a consultant about Botoxing her toes and I am wondering why she doesn't just wear more comfortable shoes, a surgeon slips into the room to talk to her about the wonders Botox can do for her face.  He has a sense of humour and that's all it takes to convince her to have multiple shots of poison in her face.  Holy hell!  People do this willingly?  Just to make the face lifeless. 

Before I can take a calming breath, she is off to meet with the doctor who does Madonna's face.  It's like I'm watching a horror movie - I am terrified yet I can't look away.  The doctor is talking about looking the best he can and he looks scary.  I am not sure I could look him in the face while having a conversation with him.  He doesn't look human and yet he is proudly stating that he does his own face.  

And I can't help thinking through all of this that these doctors are the devil's minions.  They really know how to break a person.  After talking to them, one really needs Dodo's ego pump.  Only one doctor in this whole thing that she is beautiful and still he found lots of things he could do to "improve" her.  So Kate ends up being injected in the face, with poison, over 75 times, having the skin around her eyes lasered off and still not feeling much better yet needing more, more, more.

Finally, with a frozen face, filled out cheekbones and substantially less skin protecting her eyes, she returns to have her photo taken and her ego picked apart.  Did I mention that one of these beauty experts has obviously had a plastic surgeon work on her face.  She is the one to rave about how Kate looks as though she just took a fortnight off at a spa and now looks naturally rested.  The male beauty pro says Kate looks great but feels she went a little overboard with the Botox - her face from the cheeks up just doesn't move anymore.  But plastic-surgeoned expert disagrees vehemently.  "you look natural."  As though she even knows what natural looks like anymore.  Could she know a furrowed brow if it kicked her in her toxined behind?  

I fear soon that none of us will.  

They Saw, He'll Saw, I'll Soar!

Well, the doctor was wrong, kinda, but she was also right, kinda.  She was wrong, so she doesn't get the pleasure of cutting me open.  But she was kinda right so another doctor gets the pleasure.  Now he is intent of pushing me to start a new fashion trend - I'll have to learn to love my new scar.  It will be a symbol of strength, surivival and the power of the MRI.  I'm thinking that after all the jabbing and blood-taking and mumbled discussions that I have had to endure, a trend-worthy, don't-mess-with-me-in-prison scar is the least the medical profession can do for me.  The bonus?  I get to take a couple of weeks off work.  So I'm out for a couple of days but then, like a bad Terminator movie - I'll be back.

Cease & Desist

Dear Weather:

I have long understood your power and acknowledge that you are way stronger than I could ever hope to be. You can break the will of entire nations, what hope does little old me have? I believe that I give you the deference you deserve but, if you feel I disrespect you, I apologise. I do try.

I am therefore writing to respectfully ask you to cease and desist your current actions. It was a punch to the stomach when I turned to the window, during yoga class, and saw snow but yesterday was out of order. I mean, it was the 8th of April. We are well into spring and I am trying to deal with the fact that it is still too cold to put away my winter coat. Getting out of bed in the morning to come to work has been difficult enough under grey skies. I have tried to be zen about the splashes of sunlight and decent weather followed by day upon endless day of rain, cold and gloom. I have tried to remain upbeat about it all, and I have tried to convince myself that this is just the normal path to the warmth of the summer months.

But yesterday was clearly a malicious act that not even the weather people had the heart to warn us about (or maybe their crystal balls are defective). We came to work, sans coats and umbrellas and some had even uncovered their pools. And then... SNOW. Weather, how could you. SNOW? You drive us to the edge of sanity. I'm about to fall over the edge. I want to stop talking about you; I want us to live in harmony.

Right now, all I am is demoralised. I have no morals left.

Yours sincerely,
Pandave

Do You Dare Look?

i always have too much and for that i blame my mother. i can say that because i also speak of how organised my mother is and wonder i inherited absolutely none of that. but yeah, i always have too much. my mom, she can never throw anything away - she is always convinced that you can squeeze a little more out of anything. i have a pot in the house that barely has a bottom. i mean, seriously, what can one do with a bottomless cooking pot? and yet it is still in my house. so, i can't throw stuff away and, in glorious addition tot hat, i am the queen of just-in-case. to show you, let's take a trip through my handbag.

• I have a small magic wallet that holds my driver's licence, metro card (for the subway), bank cards and a little bit of cash for small things like a snack, water and gum.
• I have a large wallet, in which I keep my health insurance card, my doctors' business cards, receipts, change (magic wallet only holds bills), cheque book, extra cash, just in case I run out of cash in my magic wallet, my New York Roadrunners membership card, my dental benefits card and my eyecare benefits card.
• I have two ChicoBags. One is blue and the other is purple. This is just in case I stop some place for some groceries. Then I can tell them - No plastic bags, thanks, I brought my own.
• I have a litte mini note pad. Just in case I need to write a little mini note.
• I have a mini tub of Vaseline, a lip tube of Vaseline and several lip glosses. Apparently I have a subconcious fear of dry lips.
• I have a mini pouch that I originally got for my change. But that was before I got my current large wallet. Now this pouch holds my AAA membership card (even though I don't have a car), my airline miles club cards and my Prospect Park membership card. Oh and a piece of stone that broke off a necklace about two years ago.
• Sunglasses - just in case it gets sunny.
• Hand cream, for when my hands get dry
• Several different typs of pens and a pencil - for taking notes, and doing puzzles while I travel.
• My Ipod for listenign to music and podcasts
• Allergy pills and eyedrops and a nasal spray. To keep the allergies in check. I almost never use the eyedrops because I hate waiting to be able to see again after I have put the drops in.
• Tissues - just in case I need to blow my nose or offer tissues to a kid with a runny nose on the subway.
• I mini-case holding my business cards. Whenever I go to a meeting at work when I actually need to give someone my business cards, I leave my handbag behind in my office. So this case is quite full and unused.
• A case that has clear pockets that holds my Zipcard for when I rent a Zipcar. The zipcar has these awesome cards that unlock the doors just by holding the card up to the sensor on the windscreen. This case also has a tip table, more airline membership cards, and an expired Costco membership card.
• A clock/calculator that Time Magazine sent me. It is rather unwieldy but sometimes I need a calculator or maybe just to know the time in Moscow.
• A book of matches - I have no idea why that is in my bag.
• Rice paper - apparently for when my face gets shiny. My face gets shiny every day and yet I use the rice paper, maybe, once every three months.
• My work ID - the one that gives me first access to the building, before I start entering pass codes et al.
• My very super old cellphone that works only half the time.
• Sore joint rub, compliments of medicine of the people. It is my Navajo approach to the pain in my knees.
• Nail files for smoothing and shaping my nails - whenever they aren't just breaking.
• A mini torch, aka flashlight, just in case the lights go out.
• Herbal tea bags.
• A book to read (I try to listen to a podcast on my way to work and read on my way home)
• EMERGENCY CHOCOLATE.

So, I don't have a makeup bag because I have not figured out where to find the space without breaking my shoulders. But I do have my other bag for lunch, sports gear (if I'm going to the gym), extra shoes for work (even though I already have about six pairs under my desk, that I sometimes cycle during the day if my feet get sore), a sweater - just in case it gets cold, and any other extras I need to take in to the office.

I also have a drawer at work where I keep an umbrella, just in case it starts raining while I'm at work, another sweater, a spare charger for my barely working phone, more tea, dental floss and brown sugar.

Now, on the weekend, I try to stop and unpack the bag and seriously ask myself - Pandave, do you really need this? And the answer is always - well, just in case.