What would you do...

...if you found proof that you were secretly on the inside the most cheesy romantic ever in the form the most romantic sentiment you had seen ever and yet had no one to send it to? Well, if you were me, you'd share it with all y'all.


(from xkcd.com)

So Many Reasons to Love Craig from Craig's List

Really. I am a fan.



It all started when Craig from Craig's List invited me to dinner.

Someone who said her name too fast called my cell from a blocked number during my prep period.

Hello!

Hello, am I speaking to (insert my name here)?

Yeeeeeeeeeeees? (My suspicious mind.)

Craig would like you to be a guest at his table for Celebrity Waiter.

Huh? Who? (My confusion.)

Craig Newmark.

(OK, actually, at the time I didn't get the name. I was calling him Newmeyersomething for a long time. But I have been corrected.)
And who is that?

You know… Craig Newmark?

(My silence.)

You know… Craig? (Her exasperation.) From Craig’s List Craig? (Distinct sound of her rolling eyes through the phone.)

Oh. Huh. Whacky! Fer shure... (Sound of my synapses catching up with the rest of my body, linking together all the information I clearly do not know.) ...Wait, what's a Celebrity Waiter?

Craig would pay for you to sit at his table. He would pay for a whole table of teachers. He would be your celebrity waiter. He would give you money to tip him. You would use this money to tip him. He will compete with the other celebrity waiters to see who can raise the most tip money from their tables, which all goes to a non-profit that this is a fundraiser for. You would tip him every time he does something outrageous, helpful, or extraordinary. All the money would go to charity. (My unasked question about pocketing the money answered. Check. Just kidding.)

Um, like I would tip him his own money for bringing me soup? Or more like I would have to tip him for a lap dance? Because I don’t actually really want a lap dance.

I assure you, this is not that kind of event. (Sound of her huffy feathers ruffling. Sound of my belief that the need for clarification usually trumps the danger of irritating others.)

So I tip him for bringing me vegetables?

Sure. Right. Fine. Whatever. (Sound of her regret at having to call me.)

And Craig is totally paying for me. I do nothing. (Sound of my genetic lawyer mind at work on overtime.)

Right. For your whole table. A table of teachers and Craig would like you all to be his guests. (Sound of her fingers tapping on her desk.)

(Sound of my synapses falling into place enough for me to understand that though a table of teachers is clearly a charity case here, we are not the actual charity for which Craig is fundraising and so I say:) Well fer shure. Sign me up.

In all this it did not occur to me to ask how this woman got my cell phone number. Details, details, details.

Weirder still is that when I put the word on the street to get some of those details, all the usual suspects denied any knowledge of how I got invited. Actually, many of them expressed surprise – like my boss, who I found out would also be there, but as a minion in the back room, counting money that comes in, because she works for the beneficiary of this particular fundraiser. Which means that I do, too. And yet I am a paid-for guest.

So even weirder still is that another one of the celebrity waiters there is the local head of AT&T (or something like that). So of course I take the occasion to ask him WTF is wrong with AT&T for donating the maximum amount allowed to the Republican Party, thereby causing me to refuse to pay AT&T any more money. He does not have a good answer for me, and I am still waiting. Bad celebrity waiter. He is apparently generous, but for the wrong team. And he is certainly not generous with information.

And even weirder still is that another of the celebrity waiters is MC Hammer, who auctions off both a very fluffy white coat and a private dance lesson (with him, duh) and who allows me to politely address as “Mr. Hammer, no one will believe me, so can I take a picture with you?” Which makes him the most generous Celebrity Waiter so far, but in a good way, not like the bad AT&T man. Because Mr. Hammer dances on stage, sells the coat off his back, and generously agrees to a photo op, even though he cannot figure out who will be taking our picture, since I did not have any enterage in tow. I try to ease his worries by shoving our faces together and holding my arm and camera out in classic chin-enhancing self-portrait taking pose. I mean… I am a self-portrait pro! He STILL looks worried but I do it.
Which apparently is yet more evidence that I am a complete sin verguenza, for it turns out to be common knowledge that you just don’t self-portrait with celebs. (I don’t know how everyone but me knows this, yet everyone groans audibly when I mention this part of the story.) And my point? MC Hammer? Very generous celebrity waiter. In a good way.

And meanwhile back at our own table: Weirder still was how much drunker our celebrity waiter was than our table of mooching teachers. One glass of wine for us, one swig from the bottle for him. Aw. Having said that, Craig still wins my prize for the most generous funny and kind celebrity waiter. Not only did he pay for all of us ragamuffin teachers to invade this shin-dig, he paid us to tip him, let us take whack-ass pictures of him, AND he even bought me an Elmo Doll. Very generous.


And it totally wasn't his fault that Elmo now officially scares the poop outa me. Craig couldn't have known. I mean, Elmo seemed innocent enough at first. I was a bit worse for wear as I stumbled from Union Square onto MUNI towards home. It was frigid out so I wedged Elmo under my armpit. I didn’t understand why I kept hearing voices. But it is MUNI, so not a big surprise there. And it was even colder and more desolate on my street, so with Elmo tucked under my elbow, I clutched my wrap tighter around my flimsy cotton dress. And heard more voices. I spun wobbily around in my 5 inch spiked heels. Saw no one. Clutched and walked. Heard more voices. Really one voice. Teasing. Nasally.

Made it into my apartment, hearing that weird voice as I turned the key to open my door. Hmmm. I detached Elmo from under my armpit and looked him face to face. Placed him on the couch. And he SPOKE. God knows what he was going on about – his annunciation sucks. Turns out Craig gave me a Talking Elmo. Creepy shit. But Craig didn't mean to terrorize me with this addition to my home and really, I am now a die-hard Craig fan. It is possible the feeling is not mutual, but I am a loyal girl, so I dare you to bad mouth my new favorite rich person. Maybe I will even MC him from the event.

On other good news fronts, this event also allows me to check off my “I will say yes to one random thing per week” resolution. For this week anyways.

Friday is Buy Nothing Day

And I hope everyone will participate in this international day created through Adbusters Magazine. If not by doing a Whirl-Mart, then at least by dressing up as sheep and cheerfully baaaaaaaing at shoppers downtown, or at lesser least in buying nothing, or at the very least nothing material, or at the super very least buying only local organic sustainable materials.

Since July, I have been pretty good about buying nothing material anyways, with a couple glitches. Glitch #1: Since I am buying nothing, sometimes others still feel compelled to try and figure out what I secretly am dying to have someone else buy for me. Like I cannot buy crap myself. Which I can. It's not like I signed a binding contract in the blood of my students (euw) with myself, people. It's that I am choosing to acquire no more things unless major peer pressure dictates I must (like toilet paper for guests - sigh). Anyways, for the "those still unclear on the concept" glitch, I try to help them out. Like when they ask me, "Don't you LOVE that shirt? You don't have it, do you?" while glancing at me sideways, I say, "Well, it'd look so cute on you. For myself, I think if I got it this year, it'd be a great regifting shirt!" which serves to turn the sly sideways glance into a squinty nose wrinkly glare, which I believe ends the conversation and the very thought on the person's mind.

I don't know why people are so against the mention of regifting. It is environmental, thoughtful, and resourceful. I support it almost completely fully. Which reminds me of the other glitch - the very rare rescinding of my own I-don't-have-some-bloody-binding-contract-with-myself glitch to buy a 'nonessential' material item. The rare case? My brother's birthday present. He wanted an Ipod Nano. He could care less that I am trying not to buy anything material. That interferes with one of his major life goals: the acquiring of expensive toys, and a lot of them. My brother, being as subtle as a camel standing on a freeway entrance in Boston, hinted, prodded, requested, asked, and downright told me that is what he wanted. Maybe 50 times in a 5 day period.

Check.

So I thought a lot about it. And I got him one. Told him I had gotten his present. And I was bringing it with me when I came for a visit. I ordered the Red one so at least a penny would be deposited in the fight to minimize AIDS deaths in Africa. I had it engraved on the back with the words: "My sister loves me." I wrapped it. I brought it. I handed it to him.

He replied:

Oh my god! Thanks! You know what's funny? I just got myself an Ipod Nano yesterday at Costco! I haven't even taken it out of the box. Hmmm, I guess I could return it. But it has more memory than the one you bought! Maybe I could return yours. Hey, you engraved the back! My wife needs one - she breaks them all the time. Hey, J, look - a present for you!

And hands her the red one. And this is how much a fan of regifting I am: 98.8% of me laughed and felt resigned relief. Because it was funny. And because luckily, I do also love my recent-sister.

So anyways, I hope this Friday, post the Day Turkeys Dread, you will buy nothing, so no one you are related to regifts your hella thoughtful present within seconds, right before your eyes. Believe me, it is better that way.

Ear Hustling a San Francisco Moment

A gal on a fixed gear bike perched herself against a parking meter on 16th Street in front of the old Café Macondo to tell her friend on the other side of her iPhone:

“I was inside all day today. Woke up. Went to Zeitgeist. From there I went to the gym. Which was definitely not the right order.”

This will only make sense to you if you know SF, in which case you'll understand my uncontrollable mutter as I walked by, "No comment (#47)."

Today's Lead Article in Teacher Magazine

Title?

"Plans Delayed for Bully-Free School"

I don't even know what to say about that. Perhaps you do?

Don't Ever Tell Me That Latex Won't Fit

Halloween is not for another week and yet I am totally ready: My role at the all day sex training. Human condom. If my mother were fundamentally someone else, my mother would be so proud of the lengths I will go to teach youth really anything useful.

A Pebble in Palin's Shoe

Not that I want to be anywhere near Palin's feet, but if I had to be, I would like to act as a mild irritant.

So when I first heard Palin’s GOP speech, I thought the chanters were chanting, "Kill, baby, kill," at the VP nominee. Which both reminded me of some horror movie moment and confused me, considering she is so anti-choice and therefore theoretically sooooooooo not an embryo killer, unless you happen to be an embryonic baby polar bear or wolflette, which luckily I am not, or any embryo happening to be conceived in a country she wants to keep bombing. But then I realized that they were chanting, “Drill, baby, drill,” which kinda cleared things up for me, although I am not sure took away the horror genre feeling for me.

Now, I am not even going to bother waxing poetic on the scariness that is Palin and the surrounding US media coverage - I will leave that the brilliance of the The Onion Daily Show Steven Colbert et al (and may I say they their writers/researchers have found their apex with this figure) and besides we've all gotten 7 million blasts about her and this - but I do want to point out that, if Palin gets elected, we will, of course, trip even more quickly into a world in which, at least within the US, Burners are the best prepared people to survive. And that in and of itself should scare everyone in this country I live in.

However, I was excited that I could enact my own little act of resistance, which I did shortly after the horrifying moment in which I realized that people like her... like they like her the way they think GWB is an "affable" guy even though they "don't agree with all his policies" and therefore would somehow continue to vote for his holistically destructive political existence... that kind of like her.

No, I did not donate to some "Pentathol for Palin" cure-for-lying fund (a fantasy fund offered to me from the mind of a Mr. R. Gordon, thanks). Instead I got online and clicked a fatty donation to Planned Parenthood (or you could send it as a memorial donation, which might feel better... I mean the crowd maybe was saying 'kill baby kill,' right?). And then, because I don't have her home addy, I put in some version of the following address:


Failin/McLame Campaign HQ
1235 S. Clark Street
1st Floor
Arlington , VA 22202

And they sent her a nice thank you card on my behalf. Pebbles - 1, Palin - 0.

Today on Freecycle I saw:

"WANTED: Baby YODA costume (0-6 or 6-12mos)"

Maybe I could just lend them my nephew? He seems to be draped in a permanent yoda costume, which apparently also means he looks like my dad.

My Neighbor Will No Longer Be Sending Butter Through The Mail

The word "normal" is not a useful term. I mean it is seriously lacking in a reliable control group. Because my neighbor's "normal" has in the past included seasonally replanting and watering a garden's worth of FAKE indoor and outdoor plants and flowers. And "normal" for the last ten years has included exercising in a velour track suit by walking laps around inside the sealed garage with headphones on that are attached to a cassette player that is NOT on. And taking out her earbuds when she sees you talking to her and saying, "What?" It has included catching her after she'd used her keys to get into one of our apartments and was digging through the bedroom drawers. It has included being married for a total of one day in her 89 years. It has included complete social snarkiness and awkwardness resulting in her being a social pariah in many ways. It has included her rarely having visitors and in even my patient neighbors of our tiny building who have lived with her for forty years only ever meeting or hearing about one relative - her brother, who died five years ago. That's all I'm saying.

So when asked, was she acting "normal" the last time I saw her? It's not an easy question to answer. She had acted even stranger than "usual" the last time I saw her. I knew that much. And she looked even more blue than usual; that much seemed true. And when no one saw her for several days but we could hear her TV on nonstop 24/7 (more unusual) for that time and so we tried to call her, she mumbled incoherently and paranoidly into the phone more bizarrely than usual before hanging up and refusing to answer. And when we tried to get her to come to the door, to get in, to break into the chained, triple locked door, and finally got the fire department and a stranger who says he is her nephew, a current minister and former guard at San Quentin, to kick down the door today to find her, not quite dead, but disintegrating into her easy chair, where she'd been planted apparently for around four days, babbling and distant and unable to understand who we were or what we wanted, surrounded by the crumbs of partially eaten cookies and chocolates which she had apparently been living off for several days, that was definitely unusual, even for her. But that she was carried out, bewildered, on a stretcher and the doctors and "family," what she has of them, tell us she will never come back to her home of forty years? Is that normal? That's all I'm saying. That, and that it is deeply painfully scary to grow old so very alone.

UPDATE (a week later): R.I.P. Ms. M.S.

What's In a Name?

Psychology, Judiasm, Numerology, Runic systems, the Harmonic Vibrations peeps, a kerjillion cultures across the world who give divergent private and public names to their wee ones all agree.... that your name? It is your destiny.

My brother the mohel

My dad, who is very generous with everything, including the term “favorites,” has many favorite jokes. One that always makes him laugh (this is in his accent, not mine) is:

A guy walks by a shop with watches hanging in the window. The guy walks in to havehis watch repaired. The man behind the counter waves him away.
“We have no dealings in vhatches,” he says.
“You’re not a watchmaker? So what are you?” asks the customer.
“I’m a mohel,” replies the man.
Customer: “So why should you advertise with all these watches in the window?”
Mohel (pronounced 'moyle'basically): “Nu? Vhat would you think I should hang instead?”

My brother was for a long time trying to become a mohel. Turns out that mohalim need to be trained by… mohalim. My mom got annoyed because a potential Mohel Master would not take on my brother, who is a completely anal, OCD (i.e. excellent) student, and not just in my mother’s eyes. (Of course he is also, in her eyes, the perfect son, but that is an entirely different post.) The mohel’s apparent concern? My brother is not religious enough.

My mother’s reaction (she really should have donned her Christmas sweater ensemble for this statement): I mean, he is a Reformed Jew! Of course he is religious! He just doesn’t necessarily go to shul (temple) or believe in God. So nu? (A.k.a. So what?!)

But it turns out that actually, she was half right, in that (even though my brother swears he is now - away from our very religiously confused household and alongside his newly converted, very sincere wife - is quite religious and does believe in God), a lack of god-believing cred turned out to matter to no one. Much in the spirit of a terrible ethnic stereotype, the fellow wouldn’t take him on because they could not settle on a price, since my brother refused to shell out the exhorbitant per day fees of this mohel's training. Sigh. And my mother was very disappointed. Turns out she was eager to have a t-shirt made about the whole thing.

Luckily, several thousands of my brother's dollars later, my mom's dream was realized. The mohel flew out to my brother's place, intensively trained my brother for some probably reassuring amount of hours. [On a side note: The mohel even brought my brother a gift, a Shabbos bread board with an embedded 9" serrated knife. The mohel took this on the PLANE. As a CARRY ON. No problem. God love the no-we-don't-profile ways of airport security, eh?]
And my brother performed his first brit (religious circumcision) as a mohel at 8,000 feet, at his own kitchen table, in front of their rabbi, Elijah, my parents and I, the kvatter and kvatterin (kinda like godparents), and several of their friends, in August … on his OWN son.
In the words of my friend Mister Hogan (cue visual of depressing finger on imaginary intercom system button),“Paging Doctor Freud. Dr. Freud? Paging Dr. Freud.”

Baby Max, my sister-in-law, her friends? All wept with various volumes of accompanying noise. My mother took off her glasses to remain near-sighted, stood in the back and stared at the ground. My dad, who got to play the Sandek, put on his hearing aids for the occasion, concentrated on minimizing his flappiness as he soothed the squirming infant, and declared the cranberry juice to be the most tasty wine he’d had in a while.

I took commemorative pictures - only above the waist, of course. The dog, Jezzie the Hooch, remained locked outside. After the snip-snip and the naming ceremony, everyone did what we Jews do, whether an occasion is sad, stressful, or cautiously joyous.... we all ate.


Meanwhile, my brother left the foreskin in a clamp on the kitchen table for the next five days of our visit so the dog couldn’t eat it before they got around to burying it. After all, he’s a very traditional guy, my brother. Oh and my parents? They got to wear the t-shirts my mom had made:

Our Son the Mohel.

The Talent of Manifesting Material Goods

Everyone can manifest something – and my friend A of A’n’Aa? She is no exception. I can weirdly manifest musical instruments and really almost anything else I truly consider wanting. But A? That girl can manifest kick-ass furnishings like there is no tomorrow. And then convince neighbors she doesn't even know to lend her dollies to stroll down the street with said furniture to her house. She rocks!

Another Reason to Love Craig's List MCs

But first, this year's CLMC Best Title as Visual Award goes to:

N Judah This Afternoon Holding Starbucks with Right Nose Ring

Huh?

So what was the left nose ring doing?

And now, my-nother reason for loving this section (dedicated this week to T and P):

In M4W, titled: Guy in swing downstairs at Power Exchange

MC: Hi, I was the naked guy in the swing downstairs, you were the pretty woman with someone else. You said hi. Send me an email or be sure and come by Friday nite between 10PM and 2AM to say Hi!

Hope to see you again!

LOL. God bless the lovers, the dreamers, and Kermit the Frog.

Despite the G.reat W.eenie, DC Teems With Activist Spirit

But they are a little clumpy in the summer.

So I was informed by reliable PD sources that for ten hours a day, seven days a week, any sick person can experience the true blue jubilation of being subjected to the workings of a full-scale police station without actually getting beat down and then booked for (blink) “resisting arrest.” Yep, DC’s got a Museum of Crime and Punishment, which apparently includes all sundry items from a lie detector you can try to pass to the “artifacts" of "criminal consequences": guillotine, gas chamber, electric chair, lethal injection machine, self-created devices for injury and escape [eh? now that is a criminal consequence? you have to fashion your own weapons? nice], and Al Capone’s jail cell.” Wait a sec – aren’t some of these things certain states still like to use at 12:01 a.m? And are things “artifacts” if they are still in use? I know, details, details.

The museum, it turns out, belongs to the school of Realism. You pay hella dough to get into and out of the system, and, with seemingly no irony, the museum charges 12-59 year olds as adults. Huh. Couldn’t have predicted that. It is almost like this museum is guiding national policy.

Getting ready to move to (or from) DC yet? If that doesn’t get you to turn on your printing press and crack open your Realities of the Prison Industrialist Complex Statistics Manual, it turns out the museum employs (?) black men in orange jumpsuits to desiccate as they pound the muggy summer sidewalk, "inviting" folks in. Now, that shit is just plain ol' FUCKED UP. Unbelievably, no locals are becoming summer sweat puddles next to these fellas fliering AGAINST the museum or contents thereof – or at least handing out accurate pro-dignified-life literature. I mean, where the hell ARE the skinny white anarchist crews when ya need ‘em? Is there a Franti show somewhere I don’t know about? Shit, if folks were down to organize I’d crank out the fliers. Shit, I’ll make the MyFace group. Send me word.

However, lest you believe that G. Whiz’s DC has become apolitical cesspool waiting for salvation from the beautiful Obama, right close to this museic atrocity, I caught up with the sign waving “Stop Bird Pornography: Save Our Feathered Friends” contingent. This is one passionate group who are probably perfectly normal pervy folks and perhaps not even vegetarians. But they are definitely down to yuck the yum of Birdy Porn watchers everywhere. Feel free to read more here:



I, for one, ask: Wait, are these people for or against it? Let the elderly and binocular-toting have some fun! And, fer realz, the problem is that there are sexy birds to be peered at everywhere. I, for one, have a lifetime goal of trying to avoid too much eye-feather contact, especially after one pooped on my head and then another (one minute later) pooped on my self-righteously-upturned-in-horrified-mid-gesticulation palm (ruuuuuuuuuude) on 16th Street back in the day.

But in DC, Bird Blindness simply wasn't possible. Birds are EVERYWHERE. Some are quite fetching, too. There, I admit it. Now, I am no virgin bird watcher but I am a fully awful bird identifier, and even as I type here in DCA's airport boarding area, there are chickadees of some sort looking at me cock headed and flying around the room. Seriously. In the airport. Now, I don’t wanna sound like a victim blamer, but these DC birds? Believe me, they WANT to be looked at. I'm just sayin'.

Mordechai the Jew

August 5th. Well, it's official. I am now a real live auntie (I know - it seems against nature, but too friggin bad) to a real live left-in-the-tub-too-long-looking pink wrinkly old man baby.

I keep getting congratulated, which I appreciate, since of course I didn't do squat. This is a great position.

So here's what I know. He, the stubborn uteral bump he was, refused to be forcibly induced last week, causing his frustrated mother to endure 24 hours of labor, only to go home empty handed (shaaaaaaady). Of course, he didn't seem to realize that causing such mama drama would affect him -- he too got hard-core pulsed for 24 hours, which I am sure could not have been pleasant.

This week he refused induction again, though he moved enough that his mama's water broke. One c-section later, he arrived, still a week ahead of predictions, weighing in at (let's just quote my brother here) "37 weeks, 5lbs 10oz of pure He-flesh" pounds, most of which could be credited to his Yoda-chihuahua eyes (see below).

So his punishment is that he is being named for some long gone old school Jews: my mom's paternal grandfather (Morde(c)hai), followed by her dad (Osc(k)ar). Yes, two very modern and therefore not at all torture-me-on-the-playground-screaming names, right? So don't worry -- the first one got anglicized to the Russian

Maxim (pronounced MaXEHM, sorta)

which results in his final monograms for all future preppy sweaters and luggage being: M.O.B. Now, discounting (1) Tupac's use to mean "$$ of b*%&#es" and (2) the previous "$$ over b%$#*es" and more classic (3) "Member of Bloods" and the more related (4) Medical Office Building and the unfortunate (5) Mail-Order Bride, M.O.B. could be really a great help to his rep as a tough guy or for cute phrases when he is in trouble, like:

"Listen, MOB Boss, you are gonna have a time out if you keep putting marbles in the dog's ear."

And somehow this all passed the kindergarten playground test. How that is possible, I don't know. I tried to warn them. I already cannot help calling him The Max-i-pad. I don't know why, apart from my emotional maturity apparently being stuck at 6 years old. But since it is all relative, I am seen as comparatively staid once you know that the local Hogan left me a message asking after little "Gluteus," which (un)fortunately might stick.

And while I appreciate for my new nephew's sake that Mordechai was l'chaimed right out of the running, isn't everyone gonna say, "Um, isn't Maxim a men's "fashion" magazine?" or "Hey, you know that is the name of a condom, right?" like I did when I first got wind of such ideas.

And now let's envision this name-as-destiny superimposed over the picture that my brother sent me on my phone. Aaaaw, the first view of the baby post those airbrushed black and whites they take with that darned ultrasound. And just to make sure you understand how not "every baby = automatically cute" I am, here's a transcript from the conversation with my parents.

Me: Hey, Will sent a picture to my phone.

Mom: Why did you get a picture and I didn't?!!

Me: Let's ignore the 'all about you' aspect for one minute, shall we?

Dad: I wanna see. What does he look like?

Me: He looks like a pink squishy gelatinous eggplant. Ya know, like a litter of mice, or a newborn white baby. Oh, but he does have serious marbles for eyes. That makes him look especially alien and creepy.

Mom and dad (collective moan, which is weird because it indicates that they both 1. are shocked I would say such a thing about a baby AND 2. actually heard anything I said -- despite being deaf in one ear and super hard of hearing in both ears respectively)

Dad: Will says he looks a lot like me. Jamie calls him 'a baby L' [that's Flappy to you].

Me: I would say that really sells you short. You are definitely pink and squishy, but you are much cuter. And you are a little taller.

Me: (internally) Weirdly, I DO see the resemblance, especially in their hands, which makes me think differently about my dad's features. And not in a good way, though I still think of Flappy is cute as a button.

Me (show them the picture)


Dad: Oh he is so beautiful! He is so cute! (Background noise ratchets up as my mom, between her puh-puh-puh spitting into the Evil EYE so it cannot HEAR my dad's comments, is yelling at my dad to quit cursing the kid.)

Mom: Look how alert he is! He DOES look like dad! (Somehow, that is apparently not seen as a compliment, because she doesn't puh-puh her own words. And on a side-note, I would like to point out that my dad, while many things, would never be accurately described as 'alert' looking.)

Mom (again): He is clearly a genius, a scholar, a thinker, a puzzler; look at that wrist pose (her own puh-puh-puh round ensues... in a frenzy, she has cursed her own grandchild and tempted the Evil Eye to come down on wee Mordechai the Jew and take him because he sounds so appealing. Greeeaaat. I am just glad we are not repeatedly spitting on any upholstery of mine.)

Mom and Dad (collective sighs, a tear slides down my dad's cheek - literally - because, it turns out, my dad starts to cry every time he even THINKS about this little ball of squish, which is of course every third second.)

Dad: I get get teary even thinking of him (cue quiver lip). Every time. It is just such an emotional thing for me. He does look like me, does he? (Flappy smile and flapping)

Me: Again, alien gelatinous old-man blob versus cute squishy dad who just got his haircut short enough that he can see through it. Yes, he is your spittin image, sweetie. Now give it a rest or I will send the M.O.B. after ya.

(NOTE: OK, I admit that, despite 2/3rds of his weight coming from his eyeballs, I understand that I am gonna inevitably love every ounce of him nonetheless. Sigh.)

And lest you indiscriminate baby lovers out there think my assessment of this nephew of mine is unkind, allow me to leave you with his visage.... bemoaning the historic persecution of our tribe? Trying out for The Sopranos? Proving that he is reincarnated from the model for David Alfaro Siqueiros' 1937 "Echo of a Scream"? Practicing his first cuss words? You decide.

It's around this time that dating takes a nose-dive

If that were further possible in my life, which I am pretty positive it is not. Or rather, I was pretty positive, until I was confronted with the likes my interaction with a certain Mister Yawny Potato-Head (is that a hyphenated name?). But first, I must take some responsibility.

Point A. I am apparently hella pissed off at dating situations and all those related to dating... to the point of being uncharacteristically unself-aware and more uncharacteristically flat out grumpy. And mean to complete strangers to boot.

Point B. My on-line profile? Sounds exactly, and I mean exactly, like me. Which means that it includes the following information: 1. I always have a song going on in my head -- sometimes recorded, sometimes made up on the spot and 2. I like oh so many things in the world (some of which I list), but I do not like the word MOIST. Are we all clear here? I dislike, as in don't like, as in using-this-word-will-make-me-squirm-and-potentially-dislike-you, the word moist. Are we all crystal clear so far?

So Mr. P.H. saw my rather extensive and informative (i.e. wordy) profile and decided to write. He decided, perhaps not his finest hour, to start with the following title:

MOIST

Greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat.

Followed by the following "first impression" note:

MOISTure! MOISTness! MOISTer! MOISTest! BWAH HA HA HA HA HA!
Actually, though I don't *hate* the word, exactly, I get what you mean. It's the sound. Something about the lispy "st" coming after the whiny "oi."

Which cut of your internal soundtrack is playing right now?

Hmm. Now, can we assume that he doesn't really get what I mean? But before you read my response, please recall my aforementioned "Point A" as well as Point B, and how much I truly dislike both this word and anyone who would use something I dislike against me.

Ok? Lastly, take a deep breath and try to remember I have a lot of good qualities:

My Title: So, lessee what I currently know about you

My return note: You hide your profile, have neither picture nor age and all that, and you open conversations with strangers by using ad nauseum one of the few words they say they dislike.

So right now my soundtrack is playing, "If you don't know me by now, you will never ever ever know me..."

Happy searching, Mister Yawny Potato-Head.

There was a mutual mea culpa exchange after that one, but let's just say it was not a match. And finally my screaming subconscious has gotten it through my thick head that I should take a break from dating and just talk to a certain whomever about a certain whatever I am hella pissed off about. So nose-dives aren't all bad.

Since when is May like.... 67 days long?

I wailed during school: OMG will May never end?!!

Causing one very kind person to clear their throat and politely respond: Um, it is April.

Me: Really? Huh. Well, ok, yeah, but it is the END of April.

Very Kind (and now concerned) Person: Um, actually, it is like... um... April 14th.



Well, hmmm, that's not good. Not good at all.

Harvey Milk Milks My Freedom Decade

Well, if it were ever my life long dream to wave an American Flag as the first “Gay Day” Pride March of San Francisco passed by, I would now be able to check that off my list. Pheuw.

I strolled into the Civic Center wearing clothing that I've been known to wear since 6th grade, clothing that belonged to others a decade before me. Corduroy vest, stunner shades, platform clogs, Levi’s… Every six weeks during the school year I love going back to 1978 or so, not because of my latent hippy ways, but because at that time I was a kindergartener, not a teacher, which means that as long as I stay in that era, I couldn’t possibly have homework or grading to do. So rather than work this particular day, I transformed myself into the picture perfect unpaid crowd extra for Van Sant’s Sean-Penn-as-Harvey-Milk movie - not to be famous, but because my grading avoidance is really leading to all new heights.



A stage hand elevator eyes me two blocks out and says, "Hey, um, could you do us a favor? Could you be an extra in a '70s film, because you could pass." So... lemme get this right; you cannot tell if I am dressed up? OK, that's cool; this is San Francisco after all. Actually, on the set it was ridiculously really hard to tell who is dressed up and who is just around, because people have not changed much. Particularly the gay boys and the cops (imagine overlapping Venn Diagram here). Without the cars to clue me in, I wouldn’t have been able to tell Pride 70s from Pride 00s.


And I got to watch two strutting bare chested gay boys do a push up contest. Yawn. Testosterone. It never changes.

In Keeping With My Love of All Whisperers

I did appreciate the v-day post to Craig's List by the self-titled Dude Whisperer, who wrote in that he deeply understood "men," w(eva)tf that means. Judge for yourself:
The Dear Abby of Dude Whispering "explains" all here.

Sometimes Feeling Bonded with Others?

Not all it is cracked up to be.

It turns out that my mind-body connection is solid to the point of being unhelpful ... because my mind has a strong "collective response system," acting in response to things that happen not to me but to those I know. And my body? My body is hugely self-protective against extreme abstinence. Even others' abstinence.

So it was bad enough last year when D. and J. stopped drinking for the 40 days of Lent because my normally-sober-self? I drank every single day of it, and I drank a lot every one of those days. Like I was drinking for everyone. For every minute they were gonna miss. Seriously. I was as happy when Lent ended as a person swimming in depressants could be. Really, this mind-body collective spirit thing was not good for me.

So that was bad enough, but it was basically an extended version of what happens to me at the beginning of each school year, when I drink like a fish for a week straight before moving back to my usual sobriety for the rest of the year. But then last week Kieferrific and her friends all went on that extreme Master Cleanse [which La Mystery informs me Beyonce and Oprah just “adore.”] OK, fer real, thank god I knew neither what it was nor the Beyonce connection when the Kieferrific approached me to do it, too. I figured I would try it, because I like the concept of trying new things, even if not the actuality of it.

Now it has been five days later and here are the results:

Kieferrific and her dear girlfriends? Went on the Master Cleanse. Purged toxins, became glowy and effervescent, lost weight, felt ethereal. They are all happy, shimmery, going to the gym, peaceful, svelted, and devoid of any and all old gunky junk clinging to their insides to poop out. Anywhere. They are so very happy with themselves.

Meanwhile I? My brain even hearing about the possibility of doing a Master Cleanse overwhelmed it, causing it to quake to its core.

And so my body? My body went into full-on Fight or Flight symptoms, craving and downing every veggie burger/dog/fry basket for miles, gorging on all manner of baked chocolate treat, downing beer and liquor every single night since we even talked about doing it. [Never mind that under normal circumstances I am attached at the hip to green leafy veggie soups, rarely drink, and totally dislike chocolate.] End result? I probably gained weight, fer shure gained an intense feeling of grossness, and mos def added extensive major toxin internal coatings to my innards... all on THEIR master cleanse. Go me!

And so I beg of you, if you are in my community, please do not cut deny yourself things in such a potent way. As a member of your community, I just cannot handle it. I thank you.

Kieferrific, My Human Anti-Twin

Kieferrific happens upon my kitchen, a veritable half-way house for all strange appliances and kitchen accoutrements passed on by my increasingly purging nonagenarian neighbors. And she sees the '50s sandwich maker and remarks:

'Giiiiiiirl, you don’t need to get married – you already have the appliances you could ever want.'

Aaaaaaaaaw. Cute Kieferrific moment, a rather interesting commentary on marriage as an institution, and yet another indication that our cranial paths personify “Opposite Day.”

On being a Pig

Well, well... Welcome, 2008.

"Daily Chinese: January 19, 2008

This could be a positive day for initiating a necessary change in your life. A domestic crisis may occur, but with your patient and obliging nature you should have no problem diffusing it. You might want to seek medical guidance on ways to improve your overall lifestyle and fitness." Brought to you by the same folks who predicted surgery, travelling mayhem, etc. Hmmmmmmm.

So... 'positive'? Does that mean standing (puffy eyed and despondent again, post-domestic crisis) on the sidewalk shaking my pro-choice fist and chanting alongside just 200 local other pro-choicers at the THOUSANDS of bussed-in Anti-Choicers marching through the Embarcadero to Pier 39 (presumably so they could do some sight seeing)?

Or does it mean catching the farewell lip syncing tour at Balazo's?

Because I found all parts of my day equally disturbing.

So I'm just checking. I guess that's the power of the word, 'could' eh?

The Mouthwash Wars

Last week my dad and I went for a stroll. Our conversation strolled along, too:

Me: Ooooooooh, I love my new mouthwash. It's not at all overspicy or sugary at all. You add as much peppermint oil as you want. It is awesome!

Dad: Ooooh, really? Oooooooooh, I have a favorite mouthwash, too. I make it myself!


Dad: First you take some lemon juice.
Then you add some water.
And finally, you mix in some Campari!

It is my favorite mouthwash. It is delicious.

Me: Er, isn't that called a Campari with lemon?

Dad: Yes! It's my favorite mouthwash! It's also my favorite drink and my favorite dessert!

Me: Um....

I Can't Quite Put My Finger On It...

But leave it to the ever-litigious, territorial Bikram to get my proverbial panties in a twist.

Could it be that they have taken to crowning reigning yoga masters?


Yep, it's the San Jose Bikram-hosted Fifth Annual Northern California Regional Yoga Championship

The line that really most encapsulates the true spirit of yoga principles: "Look for Poornima, Lauren, Jennifer, Roshan and others to perform the requisite seven postures in three minutes! Contestants throughout Northern California from Carmel to Sacramento will be competing." Nice.