The Latest Book Meme

Goodness, it’s been a while. I just finished a freelance gig that occupied the last week, so I’m back. A couple weeks ago, Charlie tossed me the meme frisbee, and I’m finally posting it:

Number Of Books I Own: I tried counting, but I may be off by a hundred. Probably around 600 books, 40% of them kids’ books. (Can someone do an intervention? Stop me before I buy books again! I am powerless to resist the siren song of the bookstore.) My living room bookshelves are 7 feet tall and 9 feet wide, and they’re pretty new so I don’t have stacks of books doubled up in front of every row yet. I forgot to count the reference books in my credenza, the other reference books hiding on that shelf in the dining room, the cookbooks in the kitchen, and the naughty books in the nightstand. Let’s round it up to 700 books.

Last Book I Bought: I bought three books from sex-toy and book purveyor Flea: a nonfiction book/memoir by Paula Kamen, All In My Head: An Epic Quest to Cure an Unrelenting, Totally Unreasonable, and Only Slightly Enlightening Headache; Brian K. Vaughan’s comic compilation, Y: The Last Man Vol. 5: Ring of Truth (due out next month); and Paul Showers’ kiddie science book, What Happens to a Hamburger?. Kamen has had a headache, quite literally, for a decade—the book is about headache science, her search for relief, and learning to accept chronic pain. Y: The Last Man is a comic book series in which some medical oddity has killed every man on earth—except for our hero and his pet monkey. There are gangs of modern-day Amazons! I’ve enjoyed Volumes 1 to 4. The last book is for Ben, since he was intrigued when I explained the basics of food in, down the tubes, out the tubes as poop. (A proud moment in parenting: impressing my child with my knowledge of the fabulous and amazing.) My prior bookstore purchase was a stack of crossword books—it ain’t just athletes who are into training, you know.

Last Book I Read: There are a number of books I’ve waded into but haven’t managed to finish. It’s possible the last one I finished was Terry Gross’s collection of interviews from her public radio show, “Fresh Air,” All I Did Was Ask—and I read that last winter.

Five Books That Mean A Lot To Me:

1. James Joyce’s Ulysses: In college, I was reluctant to speak up in class because I hadn’t fully outgrown my shyness. (It’s true! And I’m such a loudmouth now.) We read Ulysses in my senior seminar in English (technically, I haven’t read the whole thing—the reading was assigned chapter by chapter, and there were times when I just hadn’t read a chapter but had to move on to catch up; and no, I’m not ashamed, and yes, I plan to reread the whole book someday). In one chapter, Joyce’s language went nuts—a bravura assemblage of many different varieties of language all packed into a single chapter. And I had an idea! An idea I shared with the class! That the prof liked and my friend said was brilliant! It was a highlight of my academic career, seriously. I suggested that Joyce may have felt like the book had gotten away from him, and he was wresting control back from his characters by showing his mastery of the language in that chapter.

2. Randy Shilts’ And the Band Played On: This was one of my earlier ventures into reading nonfiction about germs (in this case, HIV) and the fascinating ways in which epidemiologists ply their trade. I’ve been hooked ever since.

3. Barbara Kingsolver’s Poisonwood Bible: Though I may have been drawn in more by Kingsolver’s romantic and feminist Animal Dreams, Poisonwood fed my love for wordplay. The book is narrated in turns by various members of a family. My favorite chapters were young Adah’s; her name was almost a palindrome and Kingsolver toyed with language in her chapters.

Because I’ve been rambling and can’t think of two more, I’ll stop with three books.

Now, let me throw down the gauntlet and ask a few other people to share their responses: Feral Mom, Mona, and Ms. AngelPants. Let's hear it, ladies!

Cartoons, anyone?

There's this guy named Francis Heaney who writes (the blog Heaneyland! and a recent book), creates crossword puzzles, and draws hilarious cartoons called "Six things." The cartoons are posted right smack dab in the middle of his blog every day or three, and each has six drawings on a single theme. For example, the kid song "This Old Man" doesn't cover all the numbers. On June 13, Heaney offered up six new verses, including "he played pi, he played knick-knack on my eye," with a sketch of a guy exclaiming, "hey, that was my EYE, you fucking idiot." June 14 features "strategies for coping with life if you were created by a mad scientist. Panel four: "if you destroy everything and kill everyone, who will be left to love you?" Indeed. Indeed.

Go check out the cartoon archives. If you like the dry weirdness and doodly drawing style of Roz Chast, you'll enjoy six things.

Jon Carroll is a smart man

Someone passed along a link to Jon Carroll's column in the San Francisco Chronicle, pointing out that the Democrats need to be more brash than Mr. Rogers and spread the word, loudly, about various Bush administration malfeasances. I haven't read Carroll before (can't say I've heard of him, for that matter), but he's damn funny.

Fox News? Less than 1% of the population watches Fox News in prime time. However much noise it makes and however much room it takes up in the brains of media people, Fox is a very small muffin in a very large bakery—a small, wizened, bitter muffin. Ignore it; everyone else does, writes Carroll. (I like my muffins moist and sweet, personally.)

His closing paragraph: Most Americans are neither ultraconservative nor superrich, and they are interested in hearing the truth. The Democrats should be interested in telling the truth, and telling it in a strong and convincing manner. They cannot flinch when the White House does one of its "gay marriage booga booga" dances. Be not afraid, Democrats. This is not an occasion in which the meek will inherit the earth. Speak for the people, because the people need you to end the madness.

Before and after

A good friend of mine mentioned realizing as a teen that she looked more like the "before" picture in a teen magazine's "before and after" feature. Which raises an interesting question for all of us: Do you consider yourself a "before" picture, an "after," or a "before" who must be transformed into an "after" prior to leaving the house? Please share your answer in the comments.

I am relatively unconcerned with the standards of beauty as put forth by fashion magazines. Objectively, one would call me a "before," as I wear precious little makeup. My hairstyling regimen consists of blow-drying my bangs and waving the blow dryer around the rest of my hair (no mousse, no gel, no Transforming Paste—though Mr. Tangerine loves his Transforming Paste). I often don't brush my hair again for most of the day. I see myself in the mirror, but I don't often really look with any degree of critical attention. (Is that enlightened self-acceptance or slovenliness?) But since I'm content with the results of my minimal efforts, I rather feel like an "after." It's telling: before a photo shoot for a major newspaper, the only extra grooming I did was trying to cover up some zits, using the lightly tinted moisturizer with sunscreen instead of the plain, and topping the moisturizer with some green powder to counteract my standard redness. I dampened my hair and did another round of blow-drying, and I added a touch of lipstick. (My poor mother-in-law: ever hopeful, she asked, "Did you fix your hair for the picture?" Yep, same blow-drying as ever! No products, no hairspray, no nothing.)

So, ladies and gentlemen, are you "befores" or "afters"?

Weird Dream #3

I dreamed I went to the grocery store near closing time to pick up a few things. One item I needed to look at was a magazine containing an erotic story by Mona. I needed to find a quiet spot in the store to read Mona's piece. I was crouching in the magazine section, but too many people were around so I realized I'd just have to buy the magazine.

I went to the self-checkout counter, which was about as social as sitting at the counter in a diner. I told a guy on one side of me that I'd enjoyed his crossword puzzles in the Sun; he was bashful and awkward. I proceeded to scan my grocery items. A plastic tub of soup that looked like salsa (but was not known to be gazpacho) had a $3.20 price tag, but it rang up as $9.95. I had to summon the manager on duty to issue my refund. There was a little to-do about it, during which the cute guy on the other side of me offered to taste the soup to see if it was any good. "Ptooey! This is bad!" he exclaimed. The soup had indeed gone bad. Ominously, the guy told me that Jay Somebody, who knew me from the American crossword tournament, had been seen lurking over in the magazine section, no doubt planting the soup there.

Seeing that the soup had turned, the store manager forked over a $16 refund, explaining "If the food could kill you, we give you a double refund." [Yes, I know the math doesn't work.] I peeled off six singles and gave them to the chivalrous young man who had tasted my soup, as a reward for his taking one for the team.

I left the store and began walking through an unfamiliar neighborhood or rowhouses. A young couple was shouting at one house, and I moved on. Eventually I encountered a large group walking down the sidewalk. My sister's young niece was there, even though it was past midnight, as was my cousin Linda. Most of the group consisted of men who like crosswords, about eight of them in a roving pack. Determined to infiltrate the group and figure out which one had tried to poison me with tainted* soup, I tagged along. We all went to a small apartment belonging to one of the crossword guys; presumably they were thrilled to have a couple women there. Linda wanted to leave, owing to the lateness of the hour; I promised we'd leave in 10 minutes, as soon as I was able to finish my sleuthing.

And then I woke up. What does it all mean?

*I have loved the word "taint" ever since seeing that "Mr. Show" episode 8 or 10 years ago, in which David Cross was a porn model posing for Taint magazine (the taint being that area that "taint your balls and taint your asshole"). His legs-in-the-air posing was classic. Mr. Tangerine and I laughed so hard, we cried. For two days. Sadly, when I bought the first DVD containing seasons 1 and 2, I found it did not include that episode.

David Sedaris! And a crossword!

The New Yorker that's currently online (the June 13 issue) has a hilarious David Sedaris piece, "Turbulence," concerning air travel and the Saturday NYT crossword. I won't step on the punchlines—read it for yourself. Hurry, before it disappears into the netherworld! (I always get bitten when I read something in my copy of the New Yorker and want to send the link to someone. By the time I look for it online, 'tis gone.)

Friday is Krugman Spaghetti Day

(Or should that be "Prince Krugman Day"?)

Paul Krugman's column today is about the sacrifice of the middle class and working class at the altar of the wealthy. Did you know that between World War II and 1973, average family incomes (adjusted for inflation) doubled? And between 1973 and 2003, incomes also doubled—for the 1% of families, anyway. Median family income rose just 22% during that period, and much of the increase is attributed to women joining the work force rather than rising salaries. Before we return to the days of rich robber barons and poor everyone else, Krugman says, we need to shake things up and expose what the current administration's policies are doing to working families.

Yeah, I could fill this post with quotes from the column, but wouldn't you rather read the whole thing yourself? I knew you would.

When parents kill: moms vs. dads

There's an interesting article in the Trib today about the judicial outcomes in cases where a parent killed his or her own child. Women tend to be sentenced to mental hospitalization, whereas the men are sent to jail or death row. The methods used tend to vary, with women more likely to go the unbloody route of drowning, poisoning, or smothering, while men are more apt to stab, shoot, or beat. Women are more often perceived, like Andrea Yates, as having a mental illness. Men are more likely to be viewed as just plain evil; case in point, Jerry Hobbs.

There's more to the discussion than these points, and it's an interesting read.

Edited to change "Paula" to "Andrea." (Thanks, Nut!) Paula Yates was married to Bob Geldof, and their kids had names like Fifi Trixibelle. Later, she hooked up with INXS's Michael Hutchence, and they had a kid named Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily. Then Hutchence committed suicide. In 2000, Paula was found dead, presumably a result of drugs. Andrea Yates, of course, is the Texas woman who drowned her five children. The name Paula Yates is rather unfamiliar to me, so I have no idea why I typed it instead of Andrea Yates. D'oh!

The latest opportunism from the Christian Wrong

According to an AP article, a nurse who worked at Eastern Illinois University filed a lawsuit because EIU and its nursing director "violated" her freedom of religion (among other things) when they didn't give her a promotion. During an interview for the promotion, Andrea Nead said she was morally opposed to dispensing emergency contraception; that ended the interview quickly, she claims, and the job went to another candidate. (EIU spokeswoman Vicki Woodard said, "I can say the reason Andrea Nead was not hired was unrelated to dispensing the morning-after pill.")

Nead's attorney works for a group, the American Center for Law and Justice, that was founded by Pat Robertson. (What a surprise!) Her lawsuit claims that EIU violated her right to freedom of religion, freedom of expression, and equal protection, as well as federal anti-discrimination laws.

Let's examine these claims. Freedom of religion? Seems to me she's free to have her religious beliefs, unimpeded by EIU. But if she's not willing to fulfill the duties of the job, then it's incumbent on her not to seek a job that she objects to. There are plenty of nursing jobs that don't involve EC; if she loves taking care of college kids, then perhaps she ought to find a college that isn't an affront to her particular moral beliefs and apply there. Freedom of expression? Nobody said she couldn't express herself. Discrimination? There are an awful lot of reasons one person gets hired for a job while umpteen other applicants don't. Perhaps the nursing director's interview notes for Nead and the individual who was hired tell the story. I've interviewed dozens of job applicants, and most of them present many compelling reasons not to be hired. They show up late, they don't make eye contact, they rant about old jobs, they have a wishy-washy handshake, they have no insightful questions or answers, their salary expectations are out of line with the job, their qualifications just aren't as good as someone else's, or someone else just "clicked" better. If one applicant really lights up the room and shows tremendous potential and interest, she's far more likely to land the job than someone who mopes through the interview. We don't know why EIU opted to hire someone other than Nead, but EIU says it had nothing to do with her religious beliefs.

My advice? If you object to EC, then don't take the pills. And don't try to get a job that involves dispensing EC. All those "pharmacists for life," and now this nurse—come on, now! It's not as if nurses and pharmacists face such tight job markets that they can't find work. That nursing shortage you heard about 10 or 15 years ago? It's still there. Nead's lawsuit is just another case of right-wing conservative-Christian opportunism.

Cutie pie

Ben is such a sweet and funny kid. I gave him a kiss, and he asked for an eskimo kiss, which he pronounces like it's eskaMOKus. Then he began inventing new displays of affection: the hand-kimo kiss, the finger-mo kiss, the pinkie-eskimo kiss, and the thumb-eskimo kiss.

I await the invention of the toe-kimo kiss.

Two things

First, Mr. Tangerine recently taught Ben how to produce an armpit fart. The child is in a state of sheer bliss when he's trying, arm pumping up and down vigorously, to make ungodly sounds emerge from his armpit. Yes, it is the death of innocence. Sigh...

Second, a very cool girl I know has just started her own blog called Ms. AngelPants. She's off to a promising start with her very first post. Check it out!

La di dah di d—oh, excuse me, do I have a blog?

My good friend K. reminded me last night that I have been back from vacation for days and haven't posted a thing yet. So here I am.

Vacation was relaxing, as all vacations should be. It's just the packing and getting out of the house and through the airport before vacation that kill me. I don't remember vacation departures being particularly stressful for my dad, but my mom assures me he was a nightmare. (He also tacked on some nervous diarrhea before vacations.) Genetics is destiny, as I was telling Mr. Tangerine during the cab ride to O'Hare. I can't help it if I'm a raving bitch during these situations. Hell, there's probably a proud tradition going back centuries. You don't think my dad's ancestors who came to the United States were in pissy moods before they got on that ship? Puh-lease. (And yes, I am equating a five-day vacation with leaving all you know behind.)

Young Ben had plenty of nature experiences at the beach. A real (dead) sponge looks nothing like SpongeBob! And real (dead) jellyfish are not pastel pink. Crabs, hermit crabs, conch-type mollusks, clams, they were all out there. Ben was also excited to find a tiny dead fish in a tidal pool—"Mom! Dad! Lookit! Lookit what I found!" We didn't go very deep into the Atlantic waters, not after Mr. Tangerine saw the sign that said "No shark fishing." His dad makes a hobby of worrying, and genetics is destiny—Mr. Tangerine's worrying is picking up steam now that's he's a father. But really, the sign didn't say "Look out or you'll get eaten by a shark," it said "Leave those poor sharks alone" (at least that's how I read the prohibition).

Ben behaved beautifully at a couple of restaurant dinners without any restorative nap beforehand. He completely charmed a table of older Filipino couples (my in-laws' friends and their friends). Apparently, any Filipino woman over the age of 65 is mandated by law to tell Ben, "You're El Guapo. Guapo means handsome." Garden-variety Americans will say he's a good-looking kid, but leave it to the aging Filipinas to pull out the "El Guapo" business. (Who remembers the show "Soap," when Jessica Tate was kidnapped by a Latino revolutionary nicknamed El Guapo? I may be fuzzy on the plot specifics, but I know my uses of "El Guapo.")

Also during vacation, I decided to start shaving (yes, shaving). So far, Mr. Tangerine has not taken advantage of the new look. I tendered offers on vacation, but dammit, he kept watching TV with his dad (and who wants romance with someone who just watched a Hannibal Lecter movie?) or falling asleep early. We're really far too lackadaisical about these things. It doesn't help that Ben finds his way to our bed almost every night. (And no, the bedroom doors don't lock.)

Oh, and that update to the last post where I whined about a cold weather forecast for vacation? I must've been smoking the crack pipe and reading a Chicago weather forecast or something. The Hilton Head forecast was 80s with some rain. And that's what we got—plenty of low 80s, craploads of rain. But not enough to ruin vacation or anything.

I had thought about completely abandoning any attempts at crossword puzzle construction, but then I had a brilliant idea (or at least a pretty good idea) for a theme, and slogged through the process with a little help from another constructor. Now I'm at the stage where procrastination is what's slowing everything down. Ha! It's just like the rest of my life. I have some e-mail correspondence going with several of my favorite constructors, which is awesome. It's like being a TV writer in the trenches with no experience, and suddenly you have people like Larry David showing you the ropes and treating you like a worthy peer. I call 'em my crossword boyfriends.

Speaking of my boyfriends, Barack Obama co-wrote a piece in the New York Times about avian flu. He must be my soulmate because he, too, takes an interest in key issues in viral epidemiology. I'm glad he and Richard Lugar are pushing the issue to the forefront. And that 1918 flu pandemic that killed tens of millions of people? I have a personal interest in that because my grandma's sister died in that pandemic. She was about 5, I think, and she was the healthy, strong kid in the family. Grandma was the sickly one, and here she is, still going strong (relatively speaking) a few weeks shy of her 93rd birthday. The events of 1918 remain deeply troubling to modern medicine because we still don't know why the flu was so deadly, why it spread so fast, and why it targeted the young and healthy while sparing the old, very young, and sickly. Since we know so little about what made it so terrible, we're ill-equipped to prevent another pandemic of its kind. So your job is to tell your Senators and Congresspeople to get in line with Obama and Lugar and push for funding for control and prevention efforts. (If only moveon.org would adopt this issue and make it so easy to contact people in D.C., eh?)

Let's see...vacation, mollusks, El Guapo, shaving, crosswords, Obama...what have I left out? Not that you're interested, but I also bought myself some fancy-ass brassieres recently (did you know brassieres were patented in 1913? And by a woman, who was probably sick to death of fussy corsets? These things I learn from crosswords and my crossword boyfriends). Bitch Ph.D. should be a paid spokesmodel for Wacoal bras, because I would never have wandered into the Wacoal department if it weren't for her recommendation. The prices range from roughly $45 to $60 for most of their bras (and no, I don't know where the Wacoal name comes from), but dammit, aren't my boobs worth it? I say yes. The bras fit well, they look great, and I totally needed a new bra wardrobe after Oprah told everyone they're wearing the wrong bra size. I measured myself using the instructions I found online and, for a change, didn't choose to overrule the numbers and insist I'm the same size I've been wearing. I've been wearing one band size too big and two cup sizes too small, according to the measurements. And what do you know? The Wacoal bras in the new size happen to fit great. So ladies, get out your measuring tape and see if you, too, have been punishing your boobs by inflicting the wrong bra size on them.

Okay, that's it for this morning. Nice to be back!

Disappointing vacation

The last time I was leaving town and leaving my baby (this blog) behind, I was headed for the crossword tournament, where trophies rained down on me and I felt utterly fabulous. Tomorrow I leave for Hilton Head Island, SC, with Mr. Tangerine and Ben. We'll be meeting up with my in-laws and spending a few days at the ocean. It'll be warm (whereas it's been so chilly near Lake Michigan all spring), it'll be cheap (the in-laws are paying for the condo), and it'll be relaxing (see ocean, above). But, darn it, it won't offer any trophies. Can I possibly be content with merely...a vacation?

Better to sit here contemplating that than to get off my duff and actually, I don't know, pack or something.

I can also contemplate the guilt of vacationing in a gated resort area of an island that didn't used to have resorts. It used to have regular people living there, people who spoke Gullah and were descended from African slaves, but most of them got booted out by developers over the last 50 years or so. I read all about it at One Good Thing—check it out. It's a heart-breaking story, and I will be mindful of it when visiting the private beaches and outlet malls.

See y'all next week!

Update: Just checked the weather forecast for Hilton Head. The flippety-flipping high temp for Monday will be 63! (The other days will reach the 70s.) So much for tank tops—it'll probably be a tad warmer in the Midwest. Grr. Repeat after me: "The ocean is lovely. You hate to sweat. This will be perfect."

Remember the slumber party?

The one Ben had with his stuffed animals at naptime? Here's a poorly focused picture of it.

My mom is weird. Honest.

Ben and I spent the afternoon out by my mom's, so I had a chance to pull out my camera and document for the Internets just how wacked out she is.

At the foot of her bed, she has a bag of socks. It's a full-sized comforter pouch, as you can see, filled with an eruption of ugly socks. Really. Would you wear a single one of these pairs? Mom likes to coordinate the color of her outfit with her socks, so she likes to have every color available. Some of her socks previously belonged to my sister or me. In the 1980s.

About 15 or 20 years ago, my grandma gave my mom a bag of hand-me-down pantyhose. Some may have been hers; some may have belonged to her friends or neighbors. My mom, of course, was delighted to take them off her mother-in-law's hands (or legs), even though some pairs of pantyhose had one snagged leg. She'd cut off the bad leg and wear two half pairs of pantyhose at once (two panties, but only one set of legs). I don't know if this heap of hosiery contains any of those heirloom pantyhose or if these items were acquired more recently. While the provenance of the pantyhose is uncertain, their location is crystal clear: on the dining room floor. But don't worry—there's no dining room table, so the hose are not in a room where eating happens.

What does my mom love even more than socks? Old newspapers. That's right. She won't recycle the paper until she's had a chance to go through it and clip out any articles that might be of interest to anyone she knows. She's got newspapers she moved to from the old house to the new house in 1978, and moved again in about 2002. She stores the papers EVERYWHERE, basically. What you see here is her couch (on the right if you tilt your head to the left), coffee table (on the left), and the floor between. (Sorry I was too lazy to flip the picture for you.) Somehow the organizational system she uses involves lots of newspapers everywhere, but the back issues of Newsweek seem to be concentrated on the floor here. And lest you think this was the only cluttered spot in the living room, let me assure you that the armchairs and floors are similarly decorated.

Put down your coffee, please

Have you seen Phil Spector lately?

Now, about that HPV vaccine for cervical cancer...

Human papillomavirus, or HPV, causes most cases of cervical cancer, which kills 4,000 women each year in the U.S. There's new hope, though: We now have a vaccine that can prevent HPV infection. However, right-wing Christian groups are objecting to the idea of widespread HPV vaccination, positing that giving girls the vaccine is tantamount to telling them they're free to fornicate with abandon. (Because isn't fear of cancer the main reason a girl decides not to have sex?)

For blogger Suzinalexa, this is a personal issue. She excerpts Katha Pollitt's Nation article on the topic. Go read it, and do what you can to spread the word about the HPV vaccine and the Religious Wrong's vendetta against it.

(Hat tip to the Unapologetic Atheist for the catchy term, "Religious Wrong.")

Supreme Court case I'll be watching

New Hampshire passed a parental-notification law in 2003. A federal appeals court struck down that law because it doesn't provide an exception for pregnant teenagers whose health is in danger (the law did offer exceptions when the young woman's life is threatened): According to the New York Times, the court ruled "that even if most pregnant teenagers do not have health problems requiring a termination of pregnancy, the law's requirements, which include a 48-hour waiting period after parental notice, pose an undue burden on a large fraction of those who suffer from such conditions as eclampsia or premature membrane rupture. Consequently, the law was unconstitutional, the appeals court ruled."

The state of New Hampshire has appealed to the Supreme Court, which has agreed to hear the case. NH "is arguing that a teenager with a health problem can go before a judge, who can take health into account even though the statute itself does not mention it. The First Circuit found this argument inadequate, noting that the judicial process, even expedited as the statute requires, can take up to two weeks."

Two weeks? Hmm, yeah, that's too long. I say this as a woman who had preeclampsia when pregnant. Those folks who say pregnancy is a natural process that shouldn't be medicalized are clearly not the ones who had medically complicated pregnancies. Without a team of medical specialists dedicated to keeping me and my pregnancy going, presumably my pregnancy would have eventually been fatal. From this very personal perspective, I oppose any burdens put on a pregnant woman (adult or teen) that require her to continue pregnancy, because sometimes—not always, but definitely sometimes—pregnancy poses a serious risk. It is just plain wrong to require a woman to take on that risk if she is unwilling to do so.

Wanna hear something funny?

This woman named Nancy got a moth in her ear, and the story is laugh-out-loud-over-and-over hilarious. You'd better not read this at work unless they're used to you snorting, and you'll also want to avoid beverages until you're done reading.

My marriage

I went to a cousin's bridal shower today. Mr. Tangerine and Ben spent the day walking, going to parks, and having sandwiches at convenience stores. During their afternoon outings, they had the following discussion:

Ben: Is Mommy at a wedding?
Mr. T: No, she's at a bridal shower.
Ben: What's a bridal shower?
Mr. T: A bridal shower is a party you have before a wedding.
Ben: Is Mommy getting married?
Mr. T: No, Mommy is already married. To me.
Ben: Why is Mommy getting married?

Presumably they'll be questioning Ebert and Roeper

From the Chicago Tribune comes this headline:

Teenager critically shot in parked car

One could argue that pretty much any time someone fires a gun at you, there's a degree of criticism involved.

What the hell?

According to SiteMeter, someone checked out this blog after searching at Google's UK site for "mother son wrestling." What do you think this person had in mind?

The lazy end to a lazy day

Other than doing some laundry and feeding the boy, I have done Absolutely Nothing today. Did some blog reading, but hardly anyone is posting this weekend. (What, are you people going outside because it's springtime or something? Sheesh.) Did some crosswords (that's a constant). Read through some magazines (another constant). Contemplated whether it is worthwhile or foolish to venture into crossword construction, when it's so much less effort to solve the crosswords other people have taken the pains to create. Did some e-mailing with various Men of the Crossword World (I have too many crossword pen pals now).

This evening, I was trying to work up the momentum to actually leave the house and buy groceries, when Mr. Tangerine asked, "You want me to go?" Hooray! I can continue doing nothing. So here I am.

Though actually, my day was more productive than that. I finally shaved my legs. And I remeasured my bra size (inspired by yesterday's Oprah show and a best-of post highlighted by Bitch Ph.D.'s guest blogger). GodDAMN, could I really be that far off in my bra size? I gotta go shopping and see if I really have been shorting myself one or two cup sizes. Jeezaloo.

Mr. Tangerine left the TV on, with a barbecue show on the Food Network. This middle-aged woman just got into miming the eating of BBQ pork, her eyes all aglow with enthusiasm. Here is what she said (and read this as if you were your mother's age and terribly excited): "When you pick up that pork, whether it's butt or ribs, and you [close eyes in ecstasy] put it in your mouth, and you bite down on it, you just want all that juice and flavor to explode in your mouth." Why, it's BBQ pornk!

So, you like the potty talk?

If our discussion of hoverers has not slaked your thirst for potty talk, head over to Gone Feral to take Loretta's quiz, "Are You Feral Yet?" Darn it all, she's making us wait until after the weekend for the answers. Anyway, here's question 3:

3. Out for a drink at your local watering hole you suddenly realize you have to pee. Ducking into the ladies' room, you
a) Line the toilet seat with tissue, delicately perch there, and relax to the musical sound of your gently tinkling urine.
b) There's germs on that there seat! Hold your ass at least a foot above the toilet, and take your best aim.
c) Same as b, but instead of taking your best aim, gyrate while you whiz so that your pee gets all the Christ over everything.
d) Toilets are for pussies. Grab an empty pint glass, pee in it, and leave it on the back of the toilet seat for the next unsuspecting, thirsty customer.

Quit making me laugh out loud, Loretta. It's hard to explain these things to my son when he wants to know what's so funny.

Whew!

Time for a little mommyblogger sigh of relief. Ben used to go to this terrible pediatric dentist who was basically ill-suited to treating children. (Why did the pediatrician recommend this dentist??) He did fine, until the first time he got a topical fluoride treatment. He gagged and puked a little. He seemed fine afterwards and had no complaints. However, six months later, hearing that it was time to go back, he freaked out. He'd wake up and ask, "Am I going to see Dr. V. today?" (This was almost a daily concern—starting a couple weeks in advance.) By the day of the appointment, he was so upset that he cried and thrashed and wouldn't submit to an exam. Dr. V. offered a Valium prescription for the next attempt. It made very little difference. We completed the appointment, but he was traumatized. The only bright spot is that there are still one and a half small Valium pills in my house. Just in case...

After that last trip to see Dr. V., I asked a friend for a recommendation (berating myself for not asking sooner), and got the phone number for Dr. Mary. (Oddly enough, even though both dentists do have surnames, they actually go by the pseudonymous-sounding names I have used here.) Ben was most apprehensive before his first visit to Dr. Mary last fall, but she could write a book called How To Put Kids at Ease at the Dentist's Office. Perfect approach.

Even though Dr. Mary was so very unscary, Ben remained a tad fearful of the dentist. I scheduled today's appointment a couple months ago, which started a new round of "Are we going to the dentist today?" To avoid ruining his night of sleep, I didn't mention the appointment to Ben until this morning. He was okay about it, but still nervous.

Fast forward to the dentist's office: we read in the waiting room, and he played with trucks and blocks. He aced his first-ever dental x-rays, saying "That was so easy!" He was the perfect patient, and Dr. Mary was the perfect dentist. He claims he will no longer be afraid of going to the dentist. Hooray! Monkey #1 off my back.

Any suggestions for the Valium?

Diatribe against the seat-spatterers who lurk among us

Nobody does a rant quite like Suzinalexa over at Post-coital Babble. Her latest post tackles the infuriating and disgusting practice of women whizzing above—and on, and around—a public toilet rather than just sitting down and tending to their bodily needs. We sitters do not appreciate the hoverers and the messes they leave behind. You know, if the hoverers would just not be so messy, public bathrooms would be cleaner, and then the hoverers wouldn't feel compelled to hover. It's a vicious circle.

Goodness, where has the time gone?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Hello, feckless searchers!

Was that you who Googled "cuntal" and found your way to this site? Wow, you must've been disappointed to see I was only mentioning a license plate that read KUNTAL.

Or were you trying to find out where John Oates resides, and all you learned is that I saw him on American Idol?

Or were you the German person who Googled (or, perhaps, begoogelt) "heyday of space travel," only to find out that the new rendition of Space Food Sticks really suck?

If you were the one searching for "get a brazillian wax in utah," I hope your other hits were more helpful. I have never had a Brazilian wax in Utah.

Similarly, this really isn't the place to track down the dirt on "hockey ice feints" or "gack in stores."

But thanks for stopping by, and come back soon!

Goofy retro fun

Thanks to Emma Goldman of War on Error for linking to this entertaining new blog, Threadbared. Retro sewing patterns for hideous clothes and crafts. This link will take you to some super-creepy puppets.

The scary retro stuff is so much fun! As soon as I find out how to work our scanner, I'll tackle that old Knox Gel-Cookery cookbook (©1963) and share some fantastic recipes and pictures with you. Here's a small sample:

Green Salad Mold

A new and deliciously different twist for a popular stand-by—green salad is molded for added pleasure." [Ed. note: Molded, but not ribbed.] The ingredients include:

1 envelope unflavored Knox gelatin
1 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt
1/8 tsp pepper
1 3/4 C water
1/4 C vinegar
1 Tbsp lemon juice
1/4 C chopped scallions
1 C shredded raw spinach
1 C chopped celery
1/4 C shredded raw carrots

After you get the whole thing molded into an attractive ring, they suggest that you garnish with tomatoes and olives. With all the spinach in there, it almost looks like lime Jell-o. Lime Jell-o with vomit suspended in it, that is. (Garnished with olives!) But if you really want a main dish that looks like vomit, you can't go wrong with Cottage Cheese and Kidney Bean Salad: "Hearty enough for a luncheon main dish, this salad has a tempting combination of flavors everyone will enjoy." (Those flavors being cottage cheese, kidney beans, French dressing, onion, and cabbage. Ohhh, Satan, how thou dost tempt me!)

I wish I knew what to do with a scanner. Sigh.

It's a veritable dormitory in here

Ben decided to nap on the living room floor today, and to have a little company. There are five pillows on the floor and five little blankets, cushioning and warming one boy, one small bear, one bear in thermal longjohns, one heavy bear, a dragon mitten/puppet, a Year of the Dragon Beanie Baby, a mallard duck Beanie, a small bear in surgical scrubs, and a Lambchop puppet. Just imagine the rush in the cafeteria tonight when they all wake up for supper!

I try the newfangled junk food so you don't have to

Diet Coke fans (hi, Kristin!), you might have seen the new Diet Coke formulation that's sweetened with Splenda instead of Nutrasweet. I bought a 12-ounce bottle for 50 cents to try it, and I assure you that it really doesn't taste like Diet Coke at all. Or regular Coke. It tastes sort of lemon-limey—but if you wanted your Diet Coke to taste like lemon or lime, you'd buy Diet Coke with Lemon or Diet Coke with Lime. I took one sip and put the cap back on to make sure none of it could get spilled anywhere near my tastebuds.

I think that Pepsi One might have different sweeteners, too, but I haven't tried it. For me, Pepsi products are associated with times of great privation—those occasions when Diet Coke is unavailable. Some of you know what I'm talking about.

Good judge of character

I was watching the local news just now for the latest on the murders in Zion (see below). I tend to watch the news with the TV muted if Ben's in the room, because there's just so much I don't want my 5-year-old to learn about our world just yet.

I paused the TiVo when Hobbs' glowering mug shot was on screen and asked Ben, "Is that a nice person?"

"No," he replied.

"Why not? Why do you say he's not nice?"

"Because he looks like he would break someone," he elaborated.

"What do you mean, 'break someone'?" I asked.

"Like, he would throw them out the window and they would get hurt bad."

We haven't talked about this story, and I can't recall ever talking about people being thrown out of windows. Sensitive kid?

(You can see the mug shot in this Reuters story.)

What should be done with Jerry Hobbs

Jerry Hobbs is the rage-filled, domestic-abusing career criminal who killed his 8-year-old daughter and her 9-year-old friend, with scarcely enough provocation for even a spanking. He has apparently given a confession (saying that the 9-year-old pulled a knife), and I can't imagine a jury will acquit him of such a heinous crime. I sincerely hope that the Lake County, Ill., D.A. doesn't pursue the death penalty. No, I'd like Hobbs to return to jail (yet again), this time for the rest of life, and have to contend with the most violent men in Illinois. You know—the sort of men who don't take kindly to anyone who murders sweet little girls. With a little luck, even the white supremacist prisoners will turn their backs on Hobbs. Apparently he hasn't learned enough about being victimized during his previous incarcerations—this time should do the trick.

Is it just me?

Or is it beyond the pale to:

A. Honk your car horn on a residential street at 7:50 a.m.
B. Operate power tools that make loud whining noises on a residential street at 7:55 a.m.

Ben sleeps like the dead. He's on the couch in the living room, close to all the noise, and yet drools peacefully. We both slept on the couch last night because we got new windows yesterday, see, and the window edges are sealed with this caulk, see, and I looked at the label on a caulk tube and it was horrifying. This chemical and that, you've got your mineral spirits. Warning this and warning that, I think there was mention of the brain. The bedrooms are less airy and smelled more toxic, so Ben and I shared the couch. I can fall asleep there to the TV, no problem, but spending the night there with another human? Problem. That's four nights in a row of inadequate sleep. Unlike those of you who always get inadequate sleep and are used to functioning that way, I don't like it. Ben has also been getting inadequate amounts of sleep [from outside, again: honk! reply honk!], too, which is really the bigger problem. And I need to dislodge him from said couch if he's going on that school field trip this morning.

Wow. I've outdone myself. This has got to be my single least interesting post ever.

Hello, visitors from Chez Miscarriage and Cancer, Baby

SiteMeter tells me about 80 visitors came here from my comments at Chez Miscarriage and Cancer, Baby, where I whored my blog in the hopes of attracting people to the ovarian cancer donations link (see top right). Thank you, thank you, thank you for stopping by! I hope you were all able to send a few bucks along to the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition, in honor of Cancer, Baby and any other women you know who have had to contend with this fearsome disease.

I handed in nearly $300 at the Walk for the Whisper this past weekend. Along the walk route, they had signs thanking participants for helping to raise awareness of ovarian cancer. Hey, glad to do my part.

Mommyblogging

On this Mother’s Day, let me tell you about some women you should be reading.

You probably all know flea, who writes One Good Thing. She’s got two little boys, a sex-toy shop where you can shop online for your womanly needs, a wickedly snarky sense of humor, and a fabulous literary bent. Join me in pushing flea to write her memoirs of growing up in the South—those posts are simply amazing. Her older boy has some behavioral issues similar to my son’s—I’m a sucker for all the snarky but heartfelt “special needs” mommyblogs.

You’re probably also reading Bitch Ph.D.. An artful blend of mommyblogging about her bright little boy, profblogging about the maelstrom of academia, feminist issues, and so much more. How many times a day do you check in over there?

Over at her blog, SBFH, Psycho Kitty writes about maintaining her sanity while raising two sweet kids, a wee girl and a boy who’s a few years older. Her boy has some issues of his own, and I get a lot out of reading about how PK handles things. And handle things she does—she’s a divorced mom who kicks ass.

Our friend known as “the nut” gives great blog at Welcome to the Nuthouse. Like PK, she’s divorced. She’s working on raising her 5-year-old boy to be a feminist man, and working on a degree at the same time. She combines entertaining mommyblogging with a lot of politics. Someday this mom will be molding public policy, and wherever she lives will be better for it.

You can’t leave comments (grr) at Dooce because it’s just too darn popular, but Heather still writes a mean mommyblog. Just think of the public service she performed by coming out of the closet last year with her postpartum depression. She’s one funny bitch, and I’m also learning so much from her about the constipated people (who knew?).

Another entry in the “moms with special-needs kids” sweepstakes is Squid, who writes the adventures of leelo and his potty-mouthed mom. Squid has a brilliant daughter who’s 8 (roughly), a son who’s 4 or 5 and autistic, and a baby girl. All three kids keep her hopping, but Squid and her husband manage to keep it all together.

Newer to the mom category is my local homegirl Loretta, who has Gone Feral after the birth of her twin baby girls. She’s effing hilarious. None of that sappy “I love my babies so much” from Loretta. Nope. Go read her.

Sarahlynn is a fresh variety of special-needs mom: she has a daughter! She also wins the prize for most creative blog title, Yeah, but Houdini didn't have these hips. Her girl Ellie is a cute blond toddler with Down syndrome. Sarahlynn’s latest post reminds us not to stereotype kids with Down syndrome (or anything else)—she points out that despite the chromosomal thing, Ellie’s genes do come from her mom and dad, not from some magic pot of Down syndrome “traits.” A good reminder for all of us—the same goes for autism, or this, or that.

JT’s another local girl. She writes My Blog Too: Electric Boogaloo, has two boys (one 5, the other 2), and is currently enjoying some heavy-duty first-trimester barfing. (Though she may be one of those women who keeps barfing throughout the whole pregnancy.) And whaddaya know? She’s pretty darn funny, too.

Remember the Ayelet Waldman flap, where Ayelet wrote about how lubby-dubby she and her husband were? Mona, of Mona’s Barbaric Yawp fame, and Sergei (who writes The Lowland Seed) are a hot couple. Frankly, I don’t know where they find the time to be so hot all the time with two young school-age kids in the house. But I do find it refreshing reading.

Mona’s kindred spirit is Lisa, the Bored Housewife. Lisa’s twin boys are almost 5. One of them asked to sleep in the coat closet recently. She took a picture and posted it. Lisa also wants to hoot lewdly at hot construction workers (apparently they grow ‘em hot in Utah). Her blog is sort of a stream-of-consciousness thing. Check it out.

Two new additions to the mommyblogging world (and veterans of the infertility blogging world) are Julie of A Little Pregnant and Tertia of So Close. Both of them struggled with too much infertility crap and complicated pregnancies, and now their houses have been invaded by healthy babies. Julie is so funny, it’s not fair to the rest of us. She has a sweet (if colicky/refluxy/fussy) baby boy named Charlie. Tertia throws South African idioms at us (naff?), educates us about life in South Africa, and teaches us by example how to be Gorgeous and Divine. Her twins, Kate and Adam, couldn’t be more different from each other.

I’m also a sucker for infertility tales of woe, having traveled a bit of that route myself. These ladies haven’t become mothers yet, but they get a Mother’s Day shout-out because they deserve to share their fabulousness with the next generation. In the meantime, you can partake of their fabulousness by reading their blogs.

First up is the saucy wench Getupgrrl at Chez Miscarriage. (Is it redundant to say “at Chez Miscarriage”?) Her egg and her husband’s sperm have created a fetus who is thriving within another saucy wench, Grrl’s gestational surrogate. Best wishes for a healthy baby in a few more months, Grrl.

Then we have some incredible stepmothers who are trying to cook up some babies. Suzinalexa at Post-coital Babble just got a sweet Mother’s Day gift from her stepdaughter, and is planning to try a donor-egg cycle after spending a summer having cocktails on her new boat. Anna Beth at Hashai just did IVF for the first time and sadly, ain’t pregnant. But things look promising, as she and her husband make a hell of an embryo. In the meantime, I wish she’d write more in her blog. More, more! Suzinalexa, and AB, I hope next Mother’s Day finds you pregnant or cuddling a newborn.

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.

Hi. What have you been up to lately?

I've been busy all week with the work I should have started last week. Procrastination is only fun until you actually have to get cracking, you know? Then it kinda sucks. It leaves so little time for blogging.

That old Virgin (or Vagina) Mary salt stain in the underpass? A guy wrote "big lie" on it with shoe polish and was arrested for defacing government property. Said government washed off the graffiti and painted over the stain with light brown pain (Our Poo of the Underpass!) The faithful have returned, however, to scrape off the paint so they can again view their blessed salt stain. One snarky bystander said, "They found the Virgin in the grilled cheese, they found Jesus in some French fries, whatever, you know, that's great. If that's what people want to believe in, if they want to say that's something significant, that's fine." (Wouldn't that be a great bumper sticker? I FOUND JESUS IN MY FREEDOM FRIES.)

I'm leaving in an hour for the ovarian cancer fundraising walk. Thanks to that bitchin' professor for mentioning it and finding me some more generous donors. Although it's too late to sponsor me in the walk, you can certainly donate by credit card by clicking on the "Donate to the NOCC" link above the blogroll to the right. The National Ovarian Cancer Coalition is the group that's holding today's Walk for the Whisper ("Whisper" is because ovarian cancer quietly sneaks up on a woman). I'm donating in honor of my aunt S. and cancerbaby. If you don't know anyone who has had to battle ovarian cancer, consider yourself lucky. And then, please, please, PLEASE donate to the NOCC. You know, if 20 of the people reading this blog each donated an easy $5, that's a nice $100 donation right there. You can make a difference.

Mother's Day is coming up tomorrow. A special shout-out to any would-be mom who's been struggling with infertility. I know Mother's Day can be bittersweet (or just plain bitter) when a child has eluded you—I wish you peace, health, happiness, and hopefully a baby soon.

To those of you who are already mothers, enjoy the day tomorrow. Remember to let your families spoil you! (Don't clean up after anyone, 'kay?)

Ben has said a lot of funny things this week. Too bad I can't remember them now.

Turning to American Idol, hooray! Not gonna have to look at Scott anymore. Smart money's on Carrie, but Bo's first song this week made my scalp tingle. (That's my stringent criterion for judging the quality of a vocal performance—Did it make my scalp tingle? Scott mostly just made my skin crawl. Bo was a scalp-tingler this week.)

I've been quasi-famous this week in real life. There was a feature article in the local paper featuring yours truly, so I'm discovering which people read the Sunday paper and which ones don't. I had a neighbor shout to me out her window, and my accountant asked for my autograph (yes, I'm just filing my taxes in May. Wanna make something of it?). In this article, I am compelled to point out, my performance at that crossword tournament was deemed "astonishing." This just may be the first time I have been so described, so I'm gonna hold onto that for a while. Makes me a tad giddy.

I'll try to write here more regularly, but the second I sent in the work I'd edited, of course my client sent me more work. Between that and the PMS and a general sense of not being on top of things lately, ack.

Three things:

First, I am in love. Who's the fella? Why, it's Barack Obama. I heard about 20 minutes of his appearance at the National Press Club on public radio this morning. He was so gosh-darned reasonable about, well, everything. His one flaw, apparently, is that he smokes. My brilliant and funny friend Kristin says he has got to quit. Not for himself, not for his family—no, for us, because He Is A National Treasure. (Frankly, I daresay she's in love with my boyfriend, too.)

Second, I saw a surprising vanity license plate yesterday: KUNTAL. I'm guessing it was the driver's last name, but still. Wouldn't you think the first four letters would be verboten by the DMV? (Kuntal sounds like a new adjective, doesn't it? It totally ties in with Bitch Ph.D.'s fetish mag concept, Knocked Up 'N' Totin'.)

Third, here's a meme idea that needs a little developing: "How crazy is my mother? Let me count the ways." Is there anyone who couldn't write a lengthy treatise (or at least a post or comment) on the ways their mom is a nut?

At last, the issue of "personal" grooming comes out of the closet. If you've long wondered about issues like Brazilian waxing vs. shaving vs. going natural, go read this post and the many comments over at Bitch Ph.D.

In my circle of friends, there is generally little interest in anything other than minimal maintenance. My sister once said that she and her friends all agreed on the importance of trimming, especially before OB/GYN visits. One of her friends even made sure to shave her areolas before appointments (though her male doctor assured her that it's not humanly possible to grow hair there—guess he hasn't been looking closely). I'd always wondered what my nurse-midwife was expecting to see every time she approached the stirrups. (Haven't you always suspected that providers of women's health care make certain judgments based on what sort of hair care they see?) The last time I went in for a Pap and annual exam, I asked C., my nurse-midwife, what percentage of her patients trim, wax, shave, or go long. While she didn't quote any figures, C. said she sees it all. Two in particular stood out for her. One was a patient who continued to get Brazilian waxes all through her pregnancy. The other was a woman whose natural bush was so ferocious, C. didn't know how the patient managed to get pregnant (I think she found it difficult to part the hair to gain access to the cooch, and I daresay she was a tad judgmental in that case).

Chacun à son goût.

The nut has spoken

The nut has spoken. She's answered my five questions, and quite introspectively at that. Check it out.

Join the fight against ovarian cancer

Back on March 24, I wrote a post about ovarian cancer. A woman known as cancerbaby left an informative comment, which led me to start reading her blog, Cancer, Baby. She's an amazing writer, almost poetic, and darkly funny. I was so excited to read the good news in her post on Monday: she and her husband were looking forward to becoming parents now that their adoption application had been approved.

Sadly, cancerbaby reported today that her ovarian cancer has returned. This means more difficult treatment is in store, and it means adoption cannot proceed. I'm not quite sure which is more heartbreaking.

I've added a link to the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition's donations page to the sidebar at the right. Please donate what you can, and talk it up so that other folks will also donate. If you're partial to other worthy ovarian-cancer organizations, send me the links and I'll add them to the sidebar.

Send your good thoughts out into the universe for cancerbaby. And please, reread my March 24 post to familiarize yourself with the early symptoms of ovarian cancer.

Made in China

My son's school just finished the whole fundraiser-catalog thingy, and each kid gets a reward of one piece of schlocky merchandise even more cheaply made than the stuff for sale. Here's what it says on the package for Ben's reward (note: the package gives the item no name other than TOY):

INSTRUCTION

STICKY BALL IS COMPRISED OF [Ed.: No! "Consists of," or "comprises," or "is composed of," but not "is comprised of." Who taught you English?] 32 FRESH AND SOFT NATURAL SUCKING NIPPLES. IT CAN ATTACH ON SMOOTH OBJECTS SUCH AS THE SURFACES OF TABLE AND MIRROR. WHILE PLAYING,IT WON'T CUT HANDS OR FEET AND CAN ENHANCE HANDLE AND REACTIVE ABILITY.

WITH SPECIAL BAT OF STICKY BALL,IT CAN BE PLAYED BY ONE OR MORE PERSONS. [Ed.: There are two "special bats of sticky ball," so more = two.] WHILE PLAYED BY ONLY ONE PERSON, YOU THROW THE BALL IN THE AIR FIRST, AND THEN CATCH IT WITH BAT WHILE STICKY BALL IS FALLING. WHILE PLAYED BY MORE THAN TWO PERSONS, ONE PERSON CASTS THE BALL TO ANOTHER;ANOTHER PERSON CATCHES IT WITH BAT AND CASTS BACK TO THE FORMER. IT IS FULL OF JOY AND CAN BUILD FIGURE.

NOTE: WHILE PLAYING, BE CAREFUL NOT TO HIT STICKY BALL ON KEY PART OF THE BODY SUCH AS EYES AND NOSES ETC.

Is this not the best set of instructions ever? I could take a picture of sticky ball and special bats, but I think it's better if you use your imagination to envision this foot-safe, nose-dangerous, handle-enhancing, figure-building, joyful product.

Update: One of the special bats of sticky ball is cracked already, since Ben was wearing the bats as shoes. Why was there no warning not to employ special bats of sticky ball as shoes?

Not for the squeamish

Some of you are squeamish (you know who you are), and some of you have a nearly limitless appetite for the disgusting. If you are in the first group, for the love of all that is good, I beg you, don't click the link below. You would regret it. If you are in the other group, though, please head right over here and read the entire "Steve, Don't Eat It" collection. It's laugh-out-loud funny. Steve starts with a can labeled "Ralph's Potted Meat Food Product," and it gets worse after that. Much worse.

(Thanks to Loretta at Gone Completely Feral for that delicious link.)

All About Stella

Stella has answered the five questions I gave her. Her college regrets are pretty much the same as mine—why didn't I take better advantage of the opportunities presented?

I've also e-mailed five questions to the nut (who has a meaty post up today—go read it) and eagerly await her answers. I'm still musing on what to ask Charlie. That leaves the other two slots wide open—anyone else want to answer some questions?

Welcome, troll

A new troll stopped by last night. A Google search on Ayelet Waldman led it to my April 20 post, where it proceeded to unveil "the real Ayelet." Did you know Ayelet wants her son to be gay? Gasp! The horror! (I guess the troll didn't see my April 25 post on that subject.)

And apparently she is only writing to get attention. (Hello? What am I doing with this blog?)

The troll also lists a suicide attempt. (Do you know anyone who holds that against someone? Goodness gracious. How unkind.) And bipolar disorder. (Let's stigmatize for more than just depression!) And Waldman's late-term abortion. (See the discussion at Bitch Ph.D. concerning not judging a woman's decision, regardless of whether we'd have made the same choice.)

Boys and the potty

Is Ben the only kid with this concern? About every other time he deposits a poop, he wants me to check to make sure he has not gotten any poop on the back of his shirt. (That's when he hasn't completely disrobed for the occasion.)

When George Costanza emerged from the bathroom shirtless and claimed that he always "went" that way, I thought it was an odd choice for the scriptwriters to have made—until Ben came along, that is.

Five-minute Idol wrap-up

Five minutes until tomorrow's NYT puzzle is released, so here goes: Scott. Ew. He's not Southern, he was born and bred in Ohio. His parents talk like Ohioans, whereas Scott talks like he's from South Central. Total wannabe loser. Simon told him to pack his suitcase tonight—instance #1 of Simon stealing thoughts from my mind.

My pick for the bottom three: Scott, Anthony, and Constantine. Will I be disappointed tomorrow? Certainly. But a girl can always hope.

Mr. Tangerine is a big Vonzell fan and a big Bo fan (Bo Bee-chay!). I like Carrie even though, like Simon, I just don't get country music; she's just such a sweet ol' farm girl. Also like Simon, I could not abide Bo's cheap sunglasses. Okay, here's the truth: I want to call and vote for Simon. There. I've said it.

Five Questions

Sergei gave me five questions, and has been nagging me for my answers. Here they are:

1. What is it about crossword puzzles that you find so engaging?

It’s a workout for a nimble, verbally oriented brain. The puzzles I like best require me to think flexibly, not just literally, to interpret the clue and suss out the answer. And all sorts of trivia that’s stashed away in my brain gets to come out—if it weren’t for the crosswords, it would just be clogging up the memory banks for no reason, but with crosswords, hey, there’s a purpose for all those factoids.

Two winters ago, I discovered the world of competitive crossword solving—racing against the clock and everyone on the Internet to do the New York Times puzzle every day. Instead of merely racing against the clock in the privacy of my own living room, now I can kick some ass. Then I went to the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, and soaked up the joy that is walking out of a ballroom while 400+ other people are still working the puzzle I just finished. I did quite well and came home with three trophies, some prize money, and some unexpected glory. (I’m a Leo, so glory is always a good thing.)

I’ve always enjoyed crosswords and similar puzzles—I’ve had a subscription to Games magazine for about 25 years—but it’s the competition aspect that engages me most now.

2. If you were asked to take your pick of the President’s cabinet positions, and given free rein to do whatever you wanted with it, which would you pick and what would you do first?

Although I’m tempted to choose Health and Human Services and implement a wide range of initiatives (involving, for starters, the FDA, CDC, NIH, and Planned Parenthood), I’ll have to go with the Department of Defense. Step one: Extricate the U.S. from Iraq. (Step two: Indict Rumsfeld.)

3. If you could have dinner with any three historical figures (they have to be dead as of today), who would they be and why?

If I could sit down with Hitler before he got rolling and smack some sense into him, I’d have one peaceable historical figure (maybe Jesus or Gandhi) there to talk reason, and one violent one (the Marquis de Sade? Someone from the Spanish Inquisition? Pol Pot? Uday or Qusay Hussein?) to totally bitch-slap him if he resisted.

4. What do like best about living in Chicago? What do you like least about it?

Best: I like having so many great amenities so close by. Restaurants with cuisines from around the world. People from around the world. Museums. The Gap and a good independent bookstore within walking distance. Lake Michigan, Wrigley Field, public transportation. People out on the main drags at any time of day or night. The city is vibrant.

Least: There’s not much I don’t like about the city—that’s why I live here. Let’s go with inflated real-estate prices (A nice 3 BR, 2BA condo with a shared yard? That’ll run you about $400,000.) and tight parking (that $400,000 usually doesn’t include parking). Though Adam Gopnik, writing in the New Yorker recently, said that the only cities worth living in are the ones where it’s hard to find parking. He’s right.

5. A genie appears and says he can change one thing about you—physical, mental, whatever—in any way you like, pain free and permanently. What do you choose?

While having a kid has definitely forced me to find untold reserves of patience, those reserves are often damn near tapped out. I want the genie to grant me an infinite amount of patience. (If the genie rewards my patience by granting another wish, then let me be shallow: eliminate the flab, elevate all that droops. Is that one thing or two?)

The rules of this Five Questions thing are that I have to write questions for five other people, whose answers can be posted here or on their own blogs. Any takers? C'mon. Don't make me wheedle.

Ayelet Waldman wants a gay son

I still haven't sat down with my TiVo to watch Ayelet Waldman's Oprah appearance, but I enjoyed Waldman's March 28th Salon column. She talks about her 7-year-old son, Zeke, whose best friend is a 59-year-old lesbian named Laura, a friend of the family.

While Zeke supports same-sex marriage, absolutely adores Laura, and can scarcely comprehend the existence of anti-gay bigotry, Waldman worries that someday, Zeke's easygoing broad-mindedness will fall victim to the world. But, Waldman continues, perhaps I'm not giving him and his generation enough credit. Maybe none of them will use words like "gay" and "faggot" as schoolyard barbs, or maybe some of them will react with anger if others do. After all, Zeke says you're supposed to marry the person you love, whoever and whatever that person happens to be. He says it's no big deal.

Waldman also says she hopes Zeke turns out to be gay. Think about it, I say. How many straight men maintain inappropriately intimate relationships with their mothers? Ahh, isn't that the dream for all of us moms with little boys?

Fabulous ornaments for sale

I picked up this link via Eric Berlin—a site with lots of merchandise that might appeal to the heavy-duty Christian shopper, unless he or she recognizes parody. This just might be their finest work, though

Domestic violence

I just happened upon this essay explaining why it's so wrong to ask a domestic-abuse victim, "Why didn't you just leave?" Go read it. You might even learn something.

Okay, then: Hooray for Ratzinger!

In her latest post, Stella made perfect sense to me:

So, there's been mixed reaction to choosing the conservative Ratzinger as Pope. I am actually happy to see it -- because I think that keeping the church's policies as they are will continue to drive more people away from it. Congregations are getting more and more gray-haired as time passes, and that's a good thing to me. An institution that bases itself upon the unreason known as "faith" has no place in a world in which men must make their way by means of reason. And therefore its slow decline through the unwillingness of its leaders to "change with the times" is a good thing.

Grrl Taunts Boy

Getupgrrl continues to gaslight Competitive Boy at her meditation class. In last week's post, she ate honey in front of vegan Competitive Boy and said that bees can defend themselves so it's okay to eat honey—but that plants can't defend themselves and that's why she doesn't eat plants. Grrl freaks out Boy even more this week. Read and laugh!

What? Not again.

Yes, once again, the American Idol results show has concluded without creepy domestic-abuser Scott getting the boot. Who exactly is the contingent that keeps voting for him? It can't all be his mom's doing. (Mind you, at least two of the songs he has sung were chosen by his mother. Norman Bates, anyone?) He's made it to the top six, and I just don't know why. Can anyone explain?

If only Anwar had worn more authentic, 1970s, Earth, Wind & Fire, bright orange clothes, he might have pulled it off. Instead, he and his dreads return home this week.

I gotta switch to Fear Factor or something. Idol is bugging me.

Oy vey

I was just checking out SiteMeter to see what other sites brought people to my blog. This week, there have been a bunch of hits from people searching for info on the leaky-underpass "miracle." You think any of them were sorry they dropped by for my take on it?

I do think it's sad that people are going to the underpass hoping for miraculous healing to occur—one woman quoted in the media took her blind infant there.

Women and Catholicism

Carol Marin's latest column in the Sun-Times offers a personal and thoughtful response to Ratzinger's elevation and the continuing divide between women and the Catholic hierarchy. Go read it now.

Jacko and the Pope

This is kind of funny.

Ayelet Waldman on Oprah

Today's topic on Oprah is the whole foofaraw about women loving their husband more than their kids. I'll be TiVoing the rerun tonight so I can see the whole thing, but what I've seen so far this morning involves a lot of women shaking their heads at Ayelet Waldman. Waldman, of course, wrote that column in the New York Times a few weeks ago about how she loves her husband, writer Michael Chabon, more than her children. Apparently, when she told her 10-year-old daughter that she was going on Oprah to talk about how much she loves Daddy, she couldn't bring herself to tell the child that she loves Daddy more than she loves her. (Duh!)

The Pope Name Meme

We've all played the game where you pick the name you'd have if you were a stripper, porn star, or soap-opera star. How much do you want to bet that all the cardinals have played the pope name game? I don't know how the game works (that's all part of the secret conclave business), but I'm guessing that first they pick their favorite Roman numeral, and then they find a papal name that will go with that number. Maybe Ratzinger loves the concept of "sweet XVI," and he looked through the list of past popes and saw that the last Benedict was numbered XV, so voila, he is Benedict XVI. Or maybe he loves eggs Benedict. (If he had more of a sweet tooth, he'd have gone with Pius.)

All those other disappointed also-rans probably picked out their pope names too, only to lose the election to Ratzinger. You'll start seeing those would-be pope names mentioned on the cardinals' blogs, mark my words.

And they should totally retire pope names when they've had an all-star. Who's gonna have the balls to be the next Pope John Paul?

Our Lady

underpass
Originally uploaded by Orange Tangerine.

Here's a photo of "Our Lady of the Underpass," a water stain in a local viaduct. It's all over the local news—the faithful are standing guard and taking pictures of what they believe to be an image of the Virgin Mary. Mr. Tangerine and I have concluded that it's actually the Vagina Mary. What do you see?

Priorities, people!

I was just sacked out on the couch, watching Oprah, enjoying laryngitis, and waiting for Ben to wake up (or, more accurately, hoping he'll sleep as late as possible). Oprah's first guest was Jon Stewart, and would you believe ABC News cut in to show a procession of cardinals? What the hell? The cardinals have not elected a pope yet. They are merely walking single-file in red hats and gowns. (An aside: Will US magazine do a post-conclave pictorial of conclave fashion hits and misses?)

And I was TiVoing this meeting of the minds, too. I just don't see why ABC News couldn't have waited until Jon's segment was over, preempting Cameron Diaz instead. Grr.

Marburg virus outbreak

I'm fascinated by the epidemiology of infectious disease, so I've been reading the NYT's coverage of the current outbreak of Marburg virus in Angola. Today's article is good and long, so I ate it up. Marburg virus, of course, is a virus that causes gruesome deaths due to hemorrhage, much like Ebola. So far, the death toll is at 230, and the current outbreak is especially deadly—the first well-documented outbreak was fatal in about a quarter of those infected, but in Angola, 90% of the infected are dying. The international public-health authorities are having a tough time isolating victims and monitoring people who have been exposed because the local population doesn't trust them—it might help if the biohazard suits weren't the color (white) traditionally associated with witchcraft, eh?

Viral outbreaks like this require medical expertise, skills at tracing contacts, and logistical heroics combined with a keen understanding of local customs and human nature. It's as if the team of health experts has two equally important jobs: fighting the virus, and working within an entrenched societal structure to change the people in order to save them. For instance, recall that in prior Ebola virus outbreaks, one way the virus spread was through the tradition of careful washing and preparation of a loved one's dead body before burial. How do you convince a culture that their most strongly cherished customs must sometimes be abandoned? Hypothetically, imagine if baptism were banned here because it spread disease, or if married people were told they might die if they had sex within the first year of marriage. How many Americans would embrace the new rules?

In my next life, I'm totally going to medical school, training in infectious diseases, getting a degree in public health, and doing field work for the World Health Organization.

Deep thinking for the weekend

Head over to Bitch Ph.D. for a fascinating post on abortion rights and feminism. Dr. B. suggests that expressing certain reservations about abortion rights (e.g., in the third trimester, or for sex selection) is like questioning a woman's ability to think about her situation and decide for or against an abortion—essentially saying that you know better than that woman does. See the comments section of that post for an especially thoughtful discussion between Dr. B. and dozens of contributors.

As I would expect

Your Linguistic Profile:

75% General American English

15% Upper Midwestern

5% Midwestern

5% Yankee

0% Dixie

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

These results are actually a bit off because one question asks what you call the shoes you wear to work out. I really don't call them tennis shoes or sneakers. Around these parts, they're gym shoes, dammit! So gimme 5% hard-core Chicagoan in lieu of 5% Yankee.

(Thanks for the link, Psycho Kitty!)

Yum!

My home page pointed me to a news story from Hong Kong on the health risks of dim sum. Many menu items contain a lot of fat or salt. In particular: "Items high in sodium per serving were marinated jelly fish, with 780 milligrams; steamed chicken with fish stomach and steamed curry squid, both with 640 milligrams, the study said." Darn it! Too bad I have to watch my sodium intake. Will one of you guys try these for me and let me know if they're any good?

The Food Meme

Favorite food to crunch: Cheetos.
Favorite comfort food: Peanut butter and chocolate chip sandwich.
Food that makes the best noise: A juicy peach or nectarine. Slurp!
Favorite picnic lunch: Green grapes, chips, diet Coke, cookies. Oh, do I need an entrée? I guess I’d throw a sandwich in there. Totally old school.
Favorite food scene in movie: I loved the movie Big Night because it was hilarious (the fight scene on the beach!) and touching and because of Tony Shalhoub’s chef’s passion. Although that giant concoction he made looked absolutely disgusting to me. (Hard-boiled eggs ruin anything.) The movie of Like Water for Chocolate was less evocative than the wonderful novel by Laura Esquivel. Again, not necessarily food I want to eat, but tons of passion.
Favorite food lyrics: “I like to oot, oot, oot ooples and boonoonoos.”
Least favorite food lyrics: I got nothing.
Best food smell memory: Ah, walking from the bus to the office back in the day, and getting a whiff of the aromas from the Blommer chocolate factory. Whatever they were doing, it smelled like brownies in the oven.
Favorite summer snack: In-season nectarines, peaches, raspberries, and strawberries.
Food that reminds me of the ocean: I’ve spent little time at the ocean, and nothing tasty reminds me of Lake Michigan. How about fried smelt.
Favorite winter snack: Fresh-baked Toll House cookies, the kitchen all toasty warm, the chocolate chips all melty, and the cookies crispy.
Most likely to eat for lunch: Bean tacos (Taco Bell!) or the aforementioned peanut butter and chocolate chip sandwich.
Least likely to eat for lunch: Tuna-salad or egg-salad sandwich. Eww. Mayonnaise plus tuna or hard-boiled eggs? Plus maybe celery or mustard or onions? Blech.
Makes me gag: Sauerkraut, broccoli, and more than a minimal amount of eggs.
Food tradition I hate: My grandma tormented me with the “clean plate club”—and she served stuff like sauerkraut and Polish sausage. Runner-up: pickled herring at New Year’s. Wha?
Saturday night food: Cheese pizza will work.
Favorite wild foods: Mulberries. Because you can’t get ’em in the grocery store, and they’re plentiful in my neighborhood park in the summer. Wild strawberries are also delectable, but mighty hard to come by in the city.
Favorite food for sex play: I got nothing.
Favorite medicinal food: Chocolate. Duh.
Food that reflects my heritage: My other grandma used to make us grilled cheese sandwiches with Velveeta, and also invented sliced bananas in a bowl of orange juice. My heritage includes Polish, German, and Irish (among other nationalities), and none of those cuisines excite me. Except for kolacky—cookies with fillings like cream cheese or raspberry.
Food most like me: Huh?
Favorite raw food smell: Oranges. And tangerines. Of course!
Weird childhood food: Ketchup sandwiches. (I had to add this item to the food meme.)

LOL!

When I read getupgrrl's latest post, I actually did laugh out loud. (Full disclosure: I did not roll on the floor, and my ass is, unfortunately, not off.)

The background for this post is that grrl finds this guy at her yoga class to be especially irritating (he's one of those "I am more enlightened than you" types), and her readers have been eagerly awaiting her counterattack for a couple weeks. So go read all about it, and leave grrl as many "lol" comments as you want.

I watch TV so you don't have to

Reader service #1, I watch plenty of TV and can fill you in on what you need to know. For example, were you aware that tonight was the pilot of Stacked, the new bookstore sitcom starring Pamela Anderson? I was going to be on that channel anyway for the Idol results show, so I watched it. And—because I'm such a splendid wife—I TiVoed it in case Mr. Tangerine wishes to view it. Here are my thoughts on the show.

Premise: Skyler (played by Pam) goes to a bookstore to find a relationship self-help book so she can stop dating bad boys. The store is run by two brothers, one a geeky, unsuccessful, and divorced (from Paget Brewster) novelist and one a chubby would-be horndog. Marissa Jaret Winokur, who was in Hairspray on Broadway, works at the coffee counter. Christopher Lloyd plays yet another quirky character (oy), this time a retired physics professor. The brothers hire Skyler to do an undetermined job at the bookshop.

Script Highlight: Shout-out to Sense and Sensibility as a sop to literature fans. And one instance of Skyler scoring an apt rhetorical point on the novelist.

Visual Highlight: Pamela Anderson's torso is usually visible when she's on screen. Low-cut top reveals her prodigious bosom, which really is a sight to behold.

Upshot: Ordinary, hackneyed sitcom has little to offer that's fresh other than Pamela Anderson's impressive bustline. Will that be enough to save this show?

This evening, I also watched last week's Lost on TiVo. I don't think there's another show that offers so much beefcake. I can't even pick a favorite piece of eye candy. Contenders include Jin, Sawyer, Jack, and Sayid; the late Boone (killed off in last week's episode) sure had purty eyes. What happens when their clothes start wearing out next season? Will they all be half-naked?

Tonight's viewing schedule now continues with Idol. Will Scott be voted off? Please, oh, please?

Idol Update: What?!? Scott will return again next week, but Nadia's off the show? Who are the people who keep voting for Scott? At least he's in the bottom two for the second week straight, and at least Vonzell boosted herself out of the bottom three. It's surprising that Bo Bice was in the bottom three, too. I hope he stays in for several more weeks because I like to pronounce his name as if it were Italian. Say it with me: Bo Bee-chay. Molto bene, Bo Bice!

SOS

When you see that a post has "1 comments," would somebody (this means YOU) please leave another comment so the plural error can be eliminated? I don't ask for much.

Such a rebuke, to be an editor and see "1 comments" plastered all over my blog. Please help!

American Idol: The Week of Eight

The highlight tonight was Vonzell Solomon's energetic performance of "Let's Hear It for the Boy." Now, I have always been a total sucker for that song. As far as I'm concerned, Deniece Williams' song was the only decent thing to come out of the Footloose mania, and I was going to be mighty disappointed if Vonzell didn't do it justice. But dawg, she worked it out, man, I was feeling it. It is safe to continue loving that song. "Maybe he's no Romeo, but he's my lovin' one-man show": Best. Lyrics. Ever. (You may think I'm being a cynical smartass, but I'm absolutely sincere about this song.)

The lowlight, once again, was Scott Savol's performance. It was especially creepy because Hall & Oates were watching from the audience as he sang one of their songs. I miss John Oates' mustache—he just looks bizarrely angular without it. And was Daryl Hall's chin always that Lenoesque, or has he had work done (and done poorly)? Why were Hall & Oates even there in the audience, you ask? My theory is that when H&O's people were asked to grant the rights for the song to be performed on Idol, they said, "Sure, but you gotta put us on TV. We're desperate. You know, we're touring again, but nobody cares. You gotta get us some exposure!"

Secondhand rant

Are you cranky? If not, would you like to be? Over at the Post-coital Babble blog (I don't know why it's called that), suzinalexa (I don't know if there's a real name in there) is ranting up a storm. Hey, someone had to do it, so she did.

My husband feels so lucky...to be alive

My ISP was acting up last night and I couldn't send e-mail. Mr. Tangerine is quite computer-savvy, and he was trying to fix the problem. However, he tends to think anything that's amiss on a Mac must be the fault of Apple, so he opted to delete my e-mail account in the Mail program's preferences.

What do you know? In doing so, he deleted my in-box. Which had almost 1,200 messages. And my ISP's server had saved only the last week's worth, so I lost about 1,000 messages. Many were crap, but there were plenty I was storing in my in-box for various reasons (receipts, passwords, e-mail addresses, instructions from my freelance client, replies from authors, and heck, even a few examples of internet humor). He called the ISP a little before midnight and learned that nope, they can't get my messages back, and yep, it happens to other people.

The whole thing could have been avoided by, oh, not deleting my e-mail account. (Does that not sound catastrophic?!? And not to be entered into lightly?) Mr. Tangerine seems to feel quite chastened. I look forward to seeing how he makes it up to me. But I don't want another box of Godiva chocolates, because I have grown tired of that as the default gift (and I'd like to drop a couple pounds). And flowers don't excite me. Please share your suggestions, and I'll pass them along to my husband. Won't you please help him?

(P.S. From now on, I plan to archive things I want to keep into a zillion new folders that should reside on my hard drive. If you're like me and you warehouse a lot of crap in your in-box, you might consider doing the same.)

Moratorium on "LOL"

How often has anybody actually laughed out loud just before typing "LOL"? It's totally overused, and people may gravitate to its usage because it seems less sophomoric than typing an emoticon smiley. But there is an alternative! Yes, people of the blogosphere! I am here to offer you an alternative to the hyperbolic "LOL": SWGABNLOL. Try it. You'll like it.

Have I got a crossword for you

If you like crossword puzzles or you dig Einstein, pick up a copy of today's New York Times for an oversized puzzle by Elizabeth Gorski (the puzzle's at the end of the NYT magazine).

And then guess how long it took me to solve this crossword, speed-solver that I am. Whoever comes closest gets a prize of trumped-up effusive praise designed just for you!

More pope! I can't stop myself.

What's better than a secondary source? How about tertiary? Or quaternary (if that's the correct way to use the word)? Eric Zorn extracts some hilarity from the CJR Daily (the Columbia Journalism Review's blog), which has studied the media reports on the pope's death and awarded the MIPSY prize for the Most Inane Pope Story.

One of the honorable mentions went to the Washington Post's web site for this fantastic headline: "For Vatican Press Corps, Pontiff Remembered as the Human Pope." (It's not clear whether the other popes are recalled as aliens, lesser primates, cyborgs, or what.)

Head over to Zorn's page or the CJR Daily for more MIPSY fun.

The Rule of Law

The New York Times reports that the Vatican has named Cardinal Bernard Law, who presided over the Boston archdiocese throughout the sex-abuse scandal, one of nine prelates who will preside over the pope's funeral.

Two years ago, the Times reports, "Cardinal Law resigned after a judge decided to unseal court records that included a letter from the cardinal commending priests even though he knew they had been accused at one time of abusing children." Despite all that, the Vatican thought he was a heck of a guy and gave him a cushy position in Rome—and now, the international spotlight in the pope's funeral. I'll bet Law feels quite chastened over the whole covering-up-for-molesters thing, huh?

Clearly the Vatican needs a better public-relations manager. And—what the hell—maybe some better overall policies while they're at it.

P.S. "Pope" is a funny word. Try saying it five or six times in a row.

American Idol: What??

Okay, what is going on? Who on earth is voting for this guy? At least he was finally in the bottom two, so perhaps his days on TV are numbered.

My cousin says Scott looks like a serial killer in the making. The at-times-incomprehensible Southern accent and ill-fitting clothes aren't helping matters. Is there no one in the Idol wardrobe department who can make sure that his sleeves aren't ridiculously long? It just serves to make his hands look pudgier.

Testify, sister!

Okay, go to the mirror, grimace like an angry chimp, and take a look at your teeth. Back now? Good. Do you like what you see? I'd been mildly troubled since, oh, about sixth grade by tooth staining. I finally did something about it, inspired in part by a friend who hated her varicose and spider veins and got 'em treated recently. Yes, beauty may involve some temporary discomfort, but it can be worth it. (Unless you're Michael Douglas—click the link at Awful Plastic Surgery to see his latest seeping wounds and share the horror. This is exactly why vain older men should stay far, far away from much younger, much more beautiful women.)

So anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Yesterday I went to a dentist's office to get my teeth bleached with the Brite Smile technique. (For the record, I deplore the "brite" spelling.) I've been contemplating it ever since my days as a dental editor, when I edited a paper on the then-new method, and I sure have drunk a lot of diet Coke (caramel color, anyone?) since then. It turns out I had pesky two-toned tooth staining—some yellowish surface discoloration, plus some more internal grayish coloring. The yellowish portions improved by eight shades, the grayish areas by four shades. My teeth are not freakishly, fluorescently white like Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul, but they are now a respectable ivory.

"How does it work, Orange?" you are undoubtedly asking. It was much easier than I expected. The technician took a Polaroid of my baseline tooth color and matched the shades to some standardized tooth-shade samples. Lip retractor in place, the tech put some cotton rolls in there and a rubber thingie to bite on and keep the tooth edges apart. She applied a protective substance of some sort to the gums, lips, and (!) tip of my nose. Then she swabbed a bleach onto the front surfaces of my teeth, and turned on the Magic Blue Light. At the 20- and 40-minute marks, the tech swabbed more bleach on. TV remote in hand, I listened (couldn't see past the arm of the blue light) to the local news for an hour (the pope, apparently, has passed on). No dripping goo, no gag reflex, no nasty taste, no pain.

After the hour was up, the tech removed all the doohickeys from my mouth. In the moment before I rinsed with some minty mouthwash, it tasted a bit yucky.Then the tech took another photo, and she and the dentist compared my tooth color to the shade samples. Success!

The tech warned me that a startling intensity of tooth sensitivity was to be expected that day, and advised me to take Tylenol #3 with codeine. That sensitivity only hit me six or seven times, for a couple seconds at a time, but it was a real sumbitch. So I took the narcotic, and had myself a little nap.

The post–Brite Smile regimen also involves eating only white foods (yes, really!) for 24 hours, so I had bananas, a baked potato, bread, applesauce, sour cream, milk, Rice Krispies, and Monterey jack cheese.

"But what does it cost, Orange?" you ask. Well, I had a cents-off coupon (for 10,000 cents off), so I paid $400. It was all so easy, I'd totally do it again in a few years after diet Coke has wreaked havoc again.

Swingers

Remember that line in the movie, Swingers: "Our little baby's all growns up"? Well, this little baby blogger is all growns up, 'cause I got my first troll today!

This blog is all about self-expression, making connections, conversations, what's on my mind, and things I find funny. This blog is not about getting me riled up or about me riling up other people. If you disagree with what I write, you're welcome to visit one of the other 58,500,000 Google hits for "orange," or any other web page for that matter. We're not gonna fight at my house.

Tuesday is Krugman Spaghetti Day

Last week, a new study revealed that a commanding majority of professors are liberal (75%, vs. 15% who identify as conservative), and the study's author, Stanley Rothman, suggested that a liberal bias in hiring might be involved. However, it's not just poli sci—even faculty in the hard sciences are more likely to be liberal.

Paul Krugman suggests that there are two reasons. First, self-selection: people who gravitate to academia are more likely to be liberal, while more conservatives opt for the private sector. The bigger reason, though, is the difference in what liberals and conservatives value most, Krugman writes:

"...There's also, crucially, a values issue. In the 1970's, even Democrats like Daniel Patrick Moynihan conceded that the Republican Party was the 'party of ideas.' Today, even Republicans like Representative Chris Shays concede that it has become the 'party of theocracy.'"

A Florida legislator has sponsored a bill that would allow students to sue their professors for disrespecting their conservative views—such as when the biology professor presents evolution as, well, scientific fact.

Krugman continues, "...today's Republican Party—increasingly dominated by people who believe truth should be determined by revelation, not research—doesn't respect science, or scholarship in general. It shouldn't be surprising that scholars have returned the favor by losing respect for the Republican Party."

Once again, liberal economics professor Krugman makes perfect sense to me. But then, I value scientific inquiry a lot more than right-wing interpretations of the bible, so that must be my liberal bias popping up.

Cheese bra

Last night, Ben was chilling out shirtless, having a supper that included a slice of American cheese. First, he tore off two corners and said he was eating a house. Then he tore the house into two pieces, slapped one on each side of his chest, and announced that he was wearing a cheese bra. (More like cheese pasties, if you ask me.)

Next week, he's got a screening for kindergarten. If they have cheese, he's a shoo-in for the gifted program.

Hooray for Blago!

Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich may be a bit of a weasel, but he's our weasel. Kudos to the Governor for making Illinois a place where no pharmacist can interfere with the doctor-patient relationship by refusing to dispense the pill or emergency contraception. To wit, Blago said:

"Our regulation says that if a woman goes to a pharmacy with a prescription for birth control, the pharmacy is not allowed to discriminate who they sell it to and who they don't. No delays. No hassles. No lectures. Just fill the prescription."

Blagojevich has filed an emergency rule to this effect. It will remain in force for 150 days, after which the administration will seek to make it permanent.

Karen Brauer, president of Pharmacists for Life International, thoughtfully termed Blagojevich's rule "crazy" and "nuts." I won't say it takes one to know one.

P.S. It's pronounced Bluh-GOY-uh-vitch. (Anyone know how to key in a schwa?)