That's so...Christian

Pat Robertson is emphasizing an odd aspect of his religious faith, calling for the assassination of Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez on his show, "The 700 Club." Seriously, I'm not making this up. Something to do with Venezuela trying to become "a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism." Yeah, whatever, Pat. But assassination is a swell approach. WWJD? Call for political assassinations, clearly.

The AP article mentions some of Pat's other insightful remarks, such as the 2003 highlight that feminism pushes women to "kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." Although I'm a diehard feminist, I have yet to kill my child (or anyone else's for that matter—this probably casts my feminist credentials into doubt). I haven't done the witchcraft thing, but I enjoy Halloween and liked Willow's spellcasting on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Destroy capitalism? Sadly, I have failed there, too. I am an American consumer and I haven't invited Castro or any Maoists to overtake the American government. Become a lesbian? I'll pass. But some of my best friends, as they say, lean that way. Can I still be in The Feminist Club? Please don't kick me out. I don't think The 700 Club would have me.

Evolution, intelligent design, and the President

The daily Borowitz Report (by Andy Borowitz) hasn't been that funny lately, but today's outing made me giggle. The headline is EVOLUTION, INTELLIGENT DESIGN FAIL TO EXPLAIN BUSH: Scientists in Oslo Debate Origin of President. Excerpts, without further ado:

“There are some here who firmly believe that the theory of evolution explains President Bush, since he shares many characteristics in common with the chimpanzee,” said Mr. Kyosuke, one of the world’s leading zoologists. “And yet, if you put him and a chimp side by side, it is hard to say with any confidence that Mr. Bush has evolved.”

Similarly, supporters of the intelligent design theory have been frustrated in their attempts to apply that theory to President Bush, Mr. Kyosuke said.

“Most efforts to call Mr. Bush the result of intelligent design crumble to dust the moment he opens his mouth,” Mr. Kyosuke said. “So we’re really back to square one.”

As for Mr. Bush’s refusal to speak to antiwar activist Cindy Sheehan, Mr. Kyosuke said that he has developed a new theory to explain this phenomenon.

“I believe that President Bush is like ‘The 40-Year-Old Virgin,’” Mr. Kyosuke said. “He’s afraid to talk to a woman.”

And what is this, anyway?

Hey, you! Yes, you, sitting before your glowing monitor, reading these scintillating words. Occasionally somebody asks me what my blog is about. What the hell is my overall topic here? Indiscriminate brain-dump? If you can describe my blog in 25 words or less, please do so in the comments. Thank you for your kind assistance!

Why screening tests often aren't helpful

We all know about the medical screening tests that are widely recommended. The annual (or biannual) Pap smear for women, baseline mammogram between 35 and 40 and regularly every couple years thereafter, the annual prostate check for men over 40, cholesterol screening, colonoscopy after 50, etc. We also hear a lot about how serious diseases like cancer are so much more treatable when they're caught early, so there's temptation to screen more broadly. We even witnessed the trend of full-body scanning that people paid for out-of-pocket (often identifying mysterious spots in the body that were causing no trouble but now required a full work-up to diagnose).

The standard assortment of broadly recommended tests have been shown by the preponderance of research to produce more good than harm. You do run the risk of a false-positive test creating unnecessary worry and resulting in unnecessary follow-up procedures, but on balance, widespread use of the standard tests is believed to benefit the population.

With Peter Jennings' recent death and Dana Reeve's diagnosis of lung cancer, the worried well may be tempted to ask their physicians for a screening CT scan. In today's NYT, a group of Dartmouth researchers explain why this is a bad idea at present. It's a too little involved to excerpt it here, so go read the op-ed if you're interested in grasping the connotations of unnecessary early screening.

Sweet Home Chibloggo

Bitch Ph.D. came to town for some last hurrahs before the fall semester and set up a lunch party for her local homegirls. She and Flea motored in from Suburban Heck to join Sarah from Chicago, Sarah's pal Roni, Screed's Ding, and me at a Mexican restaurant, where the margaritas flowed freely in many flavors and in ginormous glasses. The conversation also flowed as we chatted about the usual: the blog world, children who like to run about the house in a state of déshabillé, bloggers, crazy mothers (the previous generation, of course, not us, for heaven's sake), race relations, blogs, how delighted we are to see our boys heading off to kindergarten, our neighborhoods, the shoddy quality of American kiwi fruit, and whatnot. And, of course, blogs. Then we walked to the El (undoubtedly looking very "Reservoir Dogs" gone femme) and took the train to shop on Southport, where we did not purchase any shoes or bras.

That's the great thing about blogging, isn't it? Like-minded people can get acquainted through one another's writings, and then when you actually meet for the first time, you're old friends already. None of that awkward-silence nonsense. It's been the same experience when I've gotten together with the Feral Mom and JT. I hope all of you participating in the blog party get the chance to meet up with your tribe, too.

Things that entertain the language snobs among us

Yes, it's fun to mock celebrities at Go Fug Yourself, but you know what's even more fun sometimes? If you're a word geek? Language Log. Here are a few recent posts that amused me this evening.

First, I deplore inventive spelling. Spelling is spelling is spelling; getting jiggy with spelling is just plain wrong. All those future adults named Maddisen and Makayla and Jordyn—just wrong. Another case in point: The people who market that upright wheelie thing that George Bush fell off, the Segway. They took a perfectly good word, segue, and got jiggy with it. Now, increasing numbers of people seem to think the word that means transition is spelled "segway." Read more here, in "The birth of an eggcorn." (An eggcorn is a word or phrase that the listener/writer has gotten almost but not quite right: e.g., eggcorn instead of acorn, bear-faced lie, butt naked, cease the day, dashboard stomach. A longer list of eggcorns is available here.)

In this post, linguist Mark Liberman investigates the use of the Germanic-sounding verb onpass, as in "Unfortunately, those myths have been onpassed to current generations." The word seems to have become established in the finance arena. Liberman can't resist coining his own words in that vein, such as upturn, throughslip, uplook, and outcheck. Outcheck it! Start using these words yourself and upkick your language a notch.

This post relates the things people say when they learn someone is a linguist. "Oh, so William Safire must be the bigwig in your field, right?" Or when meeting a philosopher. "Oh! What are some of your sayings?" There's also a cute quote: "At this point in the conversation, I was presented with a dilemma. In social situations, I don't like to act like that guy—�you know, the guy who has to be right all the time and rubs your face in it? (Note that I say I don't want to 'act like' him, because I am in fact that guy, but I try to keep a lid on it.)" Can you relate to that? Just a little? C'mon, admit it.

Intelligent design redux

A few months ago, Bill Frist was in the running for Scumbag of the Month over at the Un-Apologetic Atheist's site. Frist certainly had many compelling factors in his favor, but I believe he was edged out by an even more unworthy candidate. (Aww...Better luck next time, Senator!)

I admit I was a little suspicious when Frist came out in favor of embryonic stem-cell research. After all, it hadn't been so long since he added a little long-distance neurology to his medical practice, diagnosing Terri Schiavo's condition.

And now, Frist demonstrates that his stance on stem cells (designed to reach the masses who support it, but sure to piss off the conservative Christian "base") doesn't mean he's gone to The Side of Evil. Why, he agrees that so-called intelligent design should be taught along side evolution in the public schools. Doing so "doesn't force any particular theory on anyone," says Frist; "I think in a pluralistic society that is the fairest way to go about education and training people for the future."

Doesn't force any particular theory on anyone? Let's examine that. How would I have felt, as an atheist kid, if my science teachers told me that either Darwin was right or it was all God's doing? Pissed and marginalized. Kids can get that "information" from their parents or any church their parents choose to take them to. But in the public schools? No. I felt excluded enough with the pro forma recitation of "one nation under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance. Stand up, put your hand over your heart, and...recite words that you don't believe in? Great way to instill patriotism, really. Exclude some based on religious beliefs, and then see if the rest of pledge inspires them.

(There was that one movie my freshman-year biology teacher had us watch one day when he had something else he had to do during class. It showed all the beauty and elegance of nature—mountains, trees, animals—lots of great nature photography. Then the picture changed to sunbeams shining down through puffy white clouds, and the booming-voiced narrator concluded, "Could this all be just an accident?" Yep, you heard that right. I suspect the teacher hadn't actually seen the movie, because the rest of the curriculum was actual science. But my friend C. and I were both stunned to have been presented with that dreck in our high-school biology class.)

A bigger issue here is Frist's statement about "education and training people for the future." Is anyone impressed with how well American kids are learning science compared with kids from other developed nations? No? I didn't think so. Just a hunch, but I bet China and India aren't teaching intelligent design any more than the schools in Europe are. So let's make more time for religion and less time for science in our science curriculum, shall we? That should help train future generations of American scientists to be prepared to compete in the global marketplace of ideas. This country is heading in the wrong direction, and I don't like it.

I am helpless to resist your pleas, O Spammer

I can't help it. I enjoy the crazy names that appear to be sending me spammer e-mail. I don't generally want to write a novel, but the potential character names offered by spam are so tempting.

Garland Mocco awoke one morning with hazy thoughts of lovv-priced medicines, rubbing his eyes. He rolled out of bed and shuffled to the john to see to pee and check on the size of his member. "No changes yet," he mused aloud. "Better increase my dosage today. Maybe three pi11s tonight?"
----
After a quick shovver, Mocco got dressed and drove to the coffee shop to meet his contact. He didn't dare arrive late: Numbers Bohley is not a man to fuck around with.

Mocco slid into a booth with a view of the parking lot and waited.

"What can I get you, hon?" the waitress asked.

"Coffee, black. Is Alvera your real name? Did I say that right? It's pretty."

"Yeah, thanks. You want some eggs, toast?"

"Just the coffee, thanks."
----
Numbers Bohley slammed into the booth when Mocco's coffee had already grown cold.

"Listen up, Mocco. There's a dame we need you to take care of. Name's Leola Courtney. It would mean a lot to Mr. Bost if you could help Leola out wid her vacation plans. She wants ta go ta da seashore, and I hear you know some good places she could stay."

"M-mister Bost?" Mocco stammered. "Arnulfo Bost? Uh, yeah, okay, I can find her a nice place right on the water. I hear it's real pretty this time of year."

"This Leola dame? She ain't some low-class broad. She comes from money. So you're gonna need to use a classy name. Something like Harrison...Hoagland...no, Harlan Spotwood. Here's where you can find her."

Mocco looked at the slip of paper Numbers had shoved toward him.

"Awright, I'm on it, boss."

Numbers Bohley left as quickly as he had come. And Mocco felt an unfamiliar tingling.
----
Garland Mocco left five bucks on the table for Alvera and locked himself in the bathroom near the diner's entrance. Shaking, he unzipped his pants. He pulled out his johnson and was astonished to see that it was a good three inches longer than it had been earlier that morning. The all-natural member-embiggening formula actually worked! He manipulated his oversized member back into his pants, took a deep breath, and zipped up.

Leaving the bathroom, Mocco walked back toward Alvera. "'Scuse me, Alvera, would you please have dinner with me tonight?"

While he waited for her answer, Garland Mocco knew. He knew he was through with being a hired killer. He was through answering to men like Numbers Bohley. He knew he was through being lonely. He knew he could please Alvera if she gave him the chance; he could please any woman. He knew his johnson was finally big enough.

Happy Birthday, Mister President

(Picture me doing my very best Marilyn Monroe impression.)

Yes, today is Bill Clinton's 59th birthday. "How best to celebrate the occasion?" I asked Fireangel of Ms. AngelPants. She had a few suggestions: "I think it would be appropriate to smoke a cigar if you like cigars. Or, you can make a purchase at the Gap—get a dress, not a skirt. How about spending the day getting primped? Maybe you can order a Monica Lewinsky purse online. Here's an idea that the whole family can participate in—a trip to McDonald's in your jogging outfit."

I'm all for shopping, primping, and eating food I don't have to prepare myself. But I'll have to pass on the cigar.

How might one mark Dubya's birthday? Let's see. We could all get together (on the early side—bedtime is at 9:00) and enjoy a bowl of pretzels. Maybe go for a bike ride and try not to crash. Cover our ears and go "LA LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU" for eight years. How about a petulant pouting session? That's always fun as a group activity. And then there could be reminiscing about the wild ol' days of decadence. Then we'll all concoct crazy nicknames for each other, and they'll feel just a little...hurtful.

Happy Birthday, Bill!

Tyrannosaurus Elton

If you've browsed at Go Fug Yourself, you enjoy the mockery of celebrities. And you will also like this collection of pictures of Elton John aroar at Manolo's Shoe Blog. I just saw part of Jurassic Park III, so it's especially entertaining.

You want a good cry?

Go read the birth story at Chez Miscarriage. Everybody's birth story is a little different, but Getupgrrl's story features the background of years of heartbreak and disappointment (DES damage producing infertility and miscarriages), followed by a tense pregnancy by means of a gestational surrogate (complete with the sadness of losing one twin), followed by an extraordinarily uncomplicated birth with a beautiful happy ending. Got your Puffs handy? Okay, then you're ready to read of the birth of Gefilte Boy.

Medical breakthrough? Political hot potato

This is amazing: A team of Swiss doctors used a single sample of skin taken from an aborted fetus to help children with second- and third-degree burns. The fetal cells grow so well that one piece of fetal tissue can be used to generate enough skin bandages to treat thousands of burn patients.

The doctors, led by Dr. Patrick Hohlfeld, thought the fetal skin might allow improvements in skin grafting, but they found that the tissue instead served as a "biological bandage that stimulated healing." The children's burned skin healed to the point that it appeared unscarred and was basically as supple as normal skin. And what do you think of when you hear about a kid with severe burns? Extended hospitalization, agonizingly painful procedures? The children in this study were treated on an outpatient basis, with no need for anesthesia, and their burns healed within about two weeks.

While burned children have a greater need for this treatment than adults—scarred and burned skin doesn't grow as a child grows, requiring multiple operations over time—imagine how this "biological bandage" could revolutionize treatment of burns and other serious skin wounds.

Now, here in America, many people work themselves into a tizzy about using cell lines from embryonic stem cells that have existed only in a laboratory, and equate it to baby-killing. I reckon they'd throw a huge fit about researchers developing treatments from fetal tissue. But I think of the children who get terrible burns and suffer so intensely during treatment. The children who must live the rest of their lives with dreadful scars that limit their dexterity or ability to smile. The children who face more rounds of painful surgery as their bodies grow but their skin does not. The children whose scars broadcast their medical history to everyone they encounter, and garner them looks of pity from strangers. Imagine the promise restored in a burned child's life when the "biological bandage" approach heals her damaged skin.

My prediction: This line of research will eventually lead to a Nobel prize in medicine for the pioneers in Switzerland, and burn victims around the world will be able to quickly shed the label of "burn victim" as their skin heals. But in America, people with burns will live their lives with disfiguring scars, as Americans are sentenced to live with third-rate burn care because too many politicians thought they'd get voted out if they didn't ban the use of fetal tissue in research and treatment.

A thing of beauty

Tonight, my cousin L. picked me up and we went to see the new Jarmusch film, Broken Flowers. We'd just gotten on Lake Shore Drive, and L. wanted to get out of the right lane. She saw a break in the next lane over and sidled over, enraging the man who was now waaay too close behind us. And lo! Mr. Old Dude in a Mercedes Convertible was filled with the rage of the road. Oh, the cursing! The angry, angry faces! The muttering that only he could hear! The gesticulating! L. gave him a "whaddaya want from me?" hand gesture and avoided accelerating to close the gap in front of us. This, of course, served to enrage Mr. Old Dude further. Now, he had to exit a mere seven blocks after we moved into his lane, so he had to get out of the lane anyway. He did his best to speed ahead in the right lane, which allowed us to see his vanity plates: some abbreviated version of ADDS AN INCH.

Yes, Mr. Old Dude apparently hews to the theory that driving a sports car effectively adds an inch to his penis. As he curved away (ooh! pun!) in the exit, he continued his pointless ranting and gesticulating at us. As the passenger, I was free to return his glance and hold up my fingers in the universal "you're tiny" hand sign, index finger and thumb an inch apart.

You might think the story ends here, but you would be so wrong. We continue on Lake Shore Drive, and a Prius pulls up next to us in the right lane. The guy in that car has witnessed all that has transpired, and he looks into L.'s car, smiling and relaying the universal "you're tiny" sign in solidarity.

Isn't it beautiful when strangers can come together to mock the unreasonable?

P.S. I think Mr. Old Dude might have been experiencing an upward fluctuation in his testosterone level this evening. At least that's my theory.

P.P.S. The movie was good; it was funny and somewhat touching. But for sheer entertainment value for your dollar, you can't beat The Aristocrats.

Excellent refutation of "intelligent design"

In a silly but serious column, Chicago Tribune writer Charlie Madigan presents a number of compelling points of evidence that argue against the half-baked theory of intelligent design.

"A perfect God setting out to make a whole universe could do a lot better, one would think," than to give humans have the useless (and occasionally dangerous) appendix, not to mention menstrual cramps and ill-timed erections in adolescent boys. "Then he said, 'Let there be bowel disorders!'"

The bizarro aspects of lower creatures, like the praying mantis's postcoital cannibalism and glow-in-the-dark lures dangling from butt-ugly deep-sea creatures, cast further doubt on intelligent design. "Why would he create so many unusual pieces, given the power to make it all perfect?"

What do you call this blog? "The Aristocrats!"

The Tangerine Man and I went on a nigh-unto-my-birthday date yesterday and saw The Aristocrats. Those of you who know me well know that I have a high tolerance for the potty talk and soforth, and this movie was hee-larious! Unspeakably foul, yes, but also an hour and a half of riproaring good fun. Not sure if this movie is for you? Well, I don't want to retell the Aristocrats joke, because that would surely garner me some Google hits I don't need. You'll have to do your own research. You can go to the ifilm site and watch clips like the South Park version of the joke. (Warning: You're not gonna wanna watch that at work or with kids in earshot.) If you recoil in disgust, The Aristocrats is not the movie for you. If you laugh and are intrigued, then find a theater near you that's willing to show the movie (i.e., not the AMC chain) or wait for the DVD. A filthy, graphic joke told by a mime? Priceless. You won't want to miss it.

Calling all preemie parents, past and future

Today's New York Times Magazine has a must-read article by Paul Raeburn, "A Second Womb." For years, there's been evidence of cognitive deficits in kids who started out as preemies or low-birth-weight infants. This article suggests that the NICU environment may be partly responsible for this. The bright lights and loud noises are so different from the experience in utero, and gravity and flat Isolette beds make it hard for preemies to curl up the way they did before birth.

Heidelise Als is a developmental psychologist at Harvard Medical School and Children's Hospital. She's been focusing on the NICU from a baby's standpoint: how does a tiny baby react to the stimuli? What is he missing from the womb environment? How can the NICU be made to more closely approximate the womb, easing the baby's transition to the outside world and cushioning his brain from the sensory assault?

Als has a bold but eminently logical idea for NICU design: Place each infant in his own warm, climate-controlled "womb room" where his family could stay full-time until he was ready to go home from the hospital. Of course, no hospital has the space and funding to provide womb rooms for each preemie, but it's good to have an ideal to shoot for.

The article is sobering. I read it and was sad for Ben's experience in his first 40 days on the outside. It was bright, with small windows and a bank of fluorescent lights. It was loud, with nurses, doctors, and parents talking, with other babies crying, with monitors shrieking alarms without notice. It wasn't very cozy in his Isolette or, later, in his open bed. We couldn't hold him much of the time. If he was sleeping, we usually let him be. My husband went to work in the daytime, and I had to visit the pumping room every 2 to 3 hours. We returned home each evening, so it was Ben in a box alone every night. (At least the staff dimmed the overhead lights at night.)

Ben's brain wiring is a tad off, as you might suspect after reading the NYT article. He needed extra time (and lots of speech therapy) to learn to communicate verbally (thankfully, he's all caught up now). The way he processes sensory input isn't quite right, and while he's essentially a normal, healthy kid, if he doesn't have his weekly occupational therapy sessions, his behavior degenerates markedly. I don't know how he'll do in the noisy kindergarten environment, and I don't know if he'll exhibit any learning disabilities (such challenges are not uncommon in kids who were born prematurely). No specific cause has been identified for the sensory issues, to my knowledge; plenty of kids who were born at term have similar problems. But I can't help suspecting that being ripped untimely from his mother's womb played a role in Ben's brain developing the way it has.

Ben's smart, curious, observant, social, and active (and has an innate talent for schmoozing). He has educated and involved parents who pay attention to his development and seek out any interventions that might help. But if the NICU had been a warmer, more soothing environment—set up per Als's recommendations—and better eased Ben's transition into the outside world, would he need those OT sessions to keep on an even keel? I wonder. I do wonder.

Approaching a milestone

Hey, Orange Tangerine is about a week away from hitting the 10,000-hit mark! (Um, that's cumulative. You people who get 2,000+ hits a day can just go bask in your fame and stew in your own juices.) While we do not have any door prizes to offer, we are excited here in Tangerine Land. I'd love to offer the 10,000th customer a free shopping spree here at the store, but there is no store here.

My birthday is nigh upon us as well (in a mere two days!). I will be delighted to accept your gracious birthday wishes. Fortunately, this birthday is not a milestone year, and I don't really want to think about that next milestone birthday. (Gifts optional.)

Search terms that entice my readers

The number-one most popular search term that has brought people to Orange Tangerine is...erectionphotos. Which I mentioned back on May 17, after Esquire magazine mentioned it. Just so you know, let me go on the record: I have not posted, and will not post, erection photos. This site is really much more text-driven. (Similarly, brazilian waxing pictorial cannot be found here.)

Then there are the obligatory logical searches for orangetangerine or some version thereof, and a few people looking for finslippy (she's right over there in the blogroll).

The rest of the search terms were entered by one sad individual apiece, typically looking for something they're not going to find here. Erotic correspondence? I can't be sure—who knows what I might write in a fugue state?—but I really don't recall blogging about that. It fits right in with my text-driven nature, sure, but...I think the person who clicked over here looking for something like Penthouse Forum was probably disappointed.

Next we have "drop a couple pounds" parody. Huh? And "john roberts" combover. Does he have a combover? I really haven't been paying attention. Mother son wrestling" discussion—again? Really, I don't address that. But did I ever tell you about my college roommate who learned to wrestle? Yeah, the wrestling coach, who was also her faculty advisor, was happy to teach her to wrestle. She could practice with the men's wrestling team, but wasn't allowed to compete against wrestlers from other colleges. Long story short, despite their 44-year age difference, the wrestling coach and his protegée fell in love and got married. (He had to "retire" from his posts. It probably didn't help matters that she had rented a room in his house while she was his student, eh?) The bride's stepchildren were older than her. The groom's mother- and father-in-law were younger than him. Shockingly, this marriage founded on the basics of grappling did not last.

My absolute favorite—and I have no idea what the hell this one's about—is bibles that are orange. Welcome, Person Interested in Orange Bibles! Sorry I can't help you. I'm not much of a bible fan.

lip-liner gloss mascara site:blogspot.com? Uh, sorry, nope. wacoal spokesmodel? Hey, that's me! Sorry, no photos of my new bras. Last on the list is what is the meaning of the word tangerine. Hey, I love etymology! I'm guessing it has to do with Tangiers. 'Scuse me while I look that up. Yep, tangerine (the fruit and the associated color) is named after Tangiers, Morocco, whence the first mandarin oranges were shipped to Europe in 1841.

(By the way, yes, I know this sort of post is a sign of lazy blogging. It is slightly less lazy, however, than writing nothing.)

Blogger Meetup: IHOP Edition, Volume 2

The Feral Mom and I lunched at IHOP yesterday, joined by Ben and the Feral Twins, two happy little toddlers who are so sophisticated now, they can handle slices of toast. We chatted about blog stalkers (those people who visit your blog all the time but never, ever leave comments—you know who you are, and would it kill you to leave a comment once in a while?), NICU hassles, and the unfortunate fact that the Feral Cat has not been posting his evil thoughts lately. Those of you who read Gone Completely Feral but have not laid eyes on Her Feralness yourselves, you should know that she's way hotter than her pictures. That last picture, from the NICU—you know, I bet most women look their worst when they're spending their days in a NICU. It's like coming off a 9-month bender (or a 7-month one, in my case), hungover and cotton-mouthed, saggy and lumpy, owning no clothes that fit, with no energy for luxuries like bathing. I'm never showing you my NICU pictures because I looked like a bloated nightmare. (But that's a story for another day.)

Anyway, after we finished eating, one of the Feral Twins dumped a dookie in her diaper, so mom and tot went off to the IHOP john, leaving the other twin with Ben and me. I figured the diaper change was a tough one, and I figured maybe the Feral Mom forgot that she'd picked up the check last time and it was my turn to treat. Maybe she was hiding out in the bathroom to force me to pay, like that guy on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" who always managed to be away from the table when the time came to pay the bill. (When is the next season of that show? I miss it.)

As it turns out, the lengthiness of the visit to the ladies room pertained to Turdgate '05 (if you have the stomach for it, you can read the whole story at Gone Completely Feral). It reminds me of the time Mr. Tangerine and I went to the Shedd Aquarium and witnessed a turtle in the same dire straits the Feral Mom was in. We couldn't take our eyes off the beast. Hovering in the water in his tank, he'd push a turd out, making progress...halfway there, don't give up...and then the turd retreated back inside. Push, push, push...retreat. Push, push, push...retreat. We stuck around for a good half hour (a very good one!) and witnessed no progress, only the slo-mo instant replays of push, push, push...retreat. The poor guy clearly needed a turtle poop wrangler to come along and manually disimpact him. But no one came to his aid. He was left alone in his elemental struggle with nature. Isn't that how it always is?

Free-range chicken

The New York Times tells us that the burgeoning trend in suburban/exurban pets these days is...chickens. Yes, chickens. The membership of the American Poultry Association has tripled in recent years. Many people are raising the smaller bantams, which you don't eat. Maybe you use the eggs, but mainly, you've got yourself a chicken as a pet. And then there are the shows. Who didn't love the movie Best in Show? Just substitute chickens for the dogs, and what could be more entertaining?

I have my suspicions that this chicken craze is expanding geographically. Last weekend, Mr. Tangerine and I took Ben to Navy Pier, where we rented one of those surrey bikes. We pedaled down the paths in Olive Park (Ben ably steering the vehicle) and went past Ohio Street Beach. Right across the street from Lake Point Tower (where I hear Oprah used to live), near some bushes a few feet from the path, we saw...chickens. Two roosters. One a rich reddish brown, one a mottled dark brown and white. I hopped off the bike and went toward them (am I not fearless?), and they retreated into the brush. (Ha! They're so chicken!) WTF? Does anyone know why there are free-range chickens in the heart of downtown Chicago? Anyone?

Do you fug?

How often do you stop by Go Fug Yourself to join in Heather and Jessica's mocking of celebrities' misguided fashion choices? Me, I go just about every single day. Sometimes more than once a day. There's a lovely picture of Pamela Anderson with Charo, "representing what Pamela Anderson will be thirty years from now." Ouch, and yes.

Back in the day, readers could add their own snarky comments, but then too many people started referring to skankily clad actresses as sluts and things took a misogynist turn. So the posts are closed to comments, but you can still be super-snarky in your own head.

If you're bored, go make fun of famous people who should know better than to leave the house looking like that.

Hail to the Coward

Yesterday, Bitch Ph.D. wrote about Cindy Sheehan, the woman who's camped out in Crawford, Texas, asking to speak to President Bush about her son, an Army specialist who was killed in Iraq last year.

Maureen Dowd is back from her leave and picks up the same issue in her column today. Dowd writes, the president's "rigidly controlled environment allows no chance encounters with anyone who disagrees. He never has to defend himself to anyone, and that is cognitively injurious. He's a populist who never meets people - an ordinary guy who clears brush, and brush is the only thing he talks to." She continues, "W.'s idea of consolation was to dispatch Stephen Hadley, the national security adviser, to talk to Ms. Sheehan, underscoring the inhumane humanitarianism of his foreign policy. Mr. Hadley is just a suit, one of the hard-line Unsweet Neo Cons who helped hype America into this war."

Dowd mentions the 1,835 servicemen and women who have lost their lives in Iraq, along with 13,000+ who have been injured, many grievously. Yesterday, driving near a hospital campus, I saw a young, attractive woman in a wheelchair, missing both legs and one arm. My mother suggested that the woman may have recently returned from Iraq. I don't know if that's the case, but it's certainly plausible. How else might a young, healthy-looking woman have come to lose three limbs? A recent episode of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" featured an Iraq veteran, a 20-something guy using a wheelchair to get around because his legs hurt too much to walk. Then there was the memorial service in Ohio for the 14 Marines who had been based there.

As Dowd points out, all the president needs to do is invite Cindy Sheehan in for tea and speak with her face to face. Compared with the huge sacrifices so many have made for Bush's war, is it really too much to ask of him? He utterly lacks courage.

Just a note to add a link to Pat Oliphant's cartoon on the subject.

Oddball dream

This morning, I dreamed that Mr. Tangerine and I were driving around in his crack dealer's car, and I demanded to be let out. So I got out and went back home, where I was locked out but the neighbors were all very sociable. Eventually, I think the mister returned, zonked out.

After I woke up, I related this dream to Mr. Tangerine, who was gently reassuring. He wouldn't use any crack, he says. "Just black-tar heroin." (What does that even mean?)

I love a funny man, I do.

I got...nothin'

It's been a couple days, so I should really post. But what should I say? I'm drawing a ginormous blank.

Ben started the supplemental day camp (two weeks in August after the six-week camp ended) this morning and had a fantastic time. The six-week camp had been preceded by a mandatory parent meeting—did I tell y'all about that?—in which The Handbook of Rules was distributed and The Questions of Nervous Parents were addressed. (My two favorite questions from that meeting: "Will there be a clown on the first day?" and "Is there someone to help hold the kids up so they don't fall into the toilet?") The six-week camp was also beset by swarms of hyperfertile yuppies. Most of the time, I go about my business blithely unaware of my quasi-non-fertility (or whatever it's called). But these women! With their raging uteri! Escorting their preschoolers to camp, toting toddlers in strollers, and pregnant or nursing a baby to boot. It's not a neighborhood that seemed to have a lot of three-child families. I mean, this is the city! There's no parking! How can people survive, trying to pack a suburban lifestyle into a congested urban area? Sheesh.

This two-week camp is at a different Chicago Park District facility, and there are 30 kids instead of 100. I was not beset by hordes of successful breeders, so that was nice. And there was no parent meeting, nope. Drop off your kid, fill out the emergency-contact form, and go. If Ben likes it just as much as the first camp, damn, I'll sign him up for the whole summer at this facility next year. They even have an outdoor pool. ("Swim day" at the first camp involved hoses putting about seven inches of water in three wading pools. And that's what the yuppies fight to get their kids into!)

Four weeks from tomorrow, kindergarten starts. And I will be liberated! For 5 hours and 45 minutes a day. I can't wait! And Ben? Wants school to start tomorrow.

See? Like I said up front. I got nothin'. I have a couple memes I want to fill out sometime, but not right now. One-time-only offer: What do you want me to write about next? I'm taking requests. (Can't swear I'll answer the requests, but I'm taking them.)

I resent the implication

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

(Via After School Snack.)

Krugman on the undermining of science

Paul Krugman's column today is must reading. The 25-words-or-less summary: The SOBs on the right are trying to sow doubt about evolution just like they did with the facts of global warming, and their sneaky methods might work. Okay, so that's 28 words.

Slightly longer summary: Right-wing think tanks, funded by big business, promoted unfounded ideas like trickle-down economics in recent decades. Since then, they've mucked around with the issue of global warming so much that plenty of people think the scientific data are inconclusive, and that maybe none of this so-called global warming is actually happening. Hey, wasn't it really cold that one week in January? Those liberals are just making things up now. After attempts at pushing "creation science" flopped, the right-wingers realized they just needed to implement the same plan, inventing "intelligent design" and pretending that the issue of evolution isn't settled, that it's subject to debate. The science teachers of Kansas were hip to this, of course, and refused to join the "debates" several months back.

All of this gets obfuscated in the media, where reporters bend over backwards to demonstrate that they don't have a liberal bias. Krugman writes, "I once joked that if President Bush said that the Earth was flat, the headlines of news articles would read, 'Opinions Differ on Shape of the Earth.' The headlines on many articles about the intelligent design controversy come pretty close."

If you haven't read the column yet, please do.

Ad-susceptible boy misses a beat

Today at day camp, the kids had a visit from Ronald McDonald. Ben came out of this naked attempt to cultivate young fast-food customers with a slight misperception: He said they saw Old McDonald. (No mention of a farm, or a quack quack here or there, or a string of vowels.)

Back at home, Ben's been launching various "promotions." He knows Happy Meal toys are promotional in nature, but hasn't grasped the meaning of the word. At times, he arranges a zillion stuffed animals on his bed so that they're all looking the same way with their dead, plastic eyes, and announces the event: "Mom, there's a promotion in my bedroom. Come and see!" Who can resist?

A bumper sticker

Charlie over at Shades of Grey occasionally takes pictures of vehicles sporting way too many rah-rah ribbon magnets. He can't top the van I see periodically with at least 15 or 20 magnets on the back (I so have to get a camera phone!), but he could fight back with this bumper sticker I saw on the road today. For those too busy to click that link, I'll tell you what it says: there's a red, white, and blue ribbon beside text reading, "I support patrio-fascist groupthink."

The same car (well, actually an SUV) also had a sticker saying that if you like religion in the schools, you should send your kid to school in Iran. Zing!

(Hi, Charlie!)

Roll call

Okay, I know I haven't been minding the store very well lately. I started up a new blog (a crossword thang) and it's cut into my Orange Tangerine time. And I've been forgetting to chat in the Comments Parlor, too. But tell me—who am I writing for? I know the handful of regular commenters, but there are a lot of you lurkers who never say "boo." Please drop a line and (1) tell me something funny, (2) describe who you are, (3) talk about the weather (boy, is it getting hot and muggy around here!), or (4) at least say "boo." Don't be shy. I won't bite.

Hearing people I voted for on the radio: sighhhh

Remember a couple months back when I heard Barack Obama on public radio and totally swooned? Today, I sat in the car for an extra 10 minutes, shushing my kid, because Bill Clinton was being interviewed. Because many of you probably missed the interview, and because it's possible some of the content will make you swoon, herewith a summary:

re: Supreme Court nominee John Roberts—Bill says he strikes him as a good guy, but (and there has to be a "but") he has some concerns about his Reagan-administration work. Apparently there were instances when Roberts was to the right of his DOJ colleagues, and that can't be good.

re: Iraq—He doesn't agree with those calling for a withdrawal date to be set. He argues that setting a date is equivalent to saying "this effort can't succeed," and that the insurgents would then just wait for that date. The elections have already taken place, and the Iraqi constitution is in the midst of being written. He'd like to see the goals met before any pull-out plans are made. (Not swooning here; not sure how I feel on the subject.)

re: mortality—Since Bill's father died before he was born, he's always been more aware of his own mortality than other people. However, he was always "healthy as a horse," so he could push hard and work hard and not worry about it. When his heart surgery and lengthy recuperation came along, he was reminded again of that mortality thing, and it strengthened his resolve to do everything he can to make sure other people don't die unnecessarily. The American Heart Association asked him to capitalize on his situation to help raise awareness of heart disease, and he has opted to focus on the issue of childhood obesity. Also in the vein of preventing deaths, he's working on AIDS in Africa; currently some effort he's involved with (anyone know the name?) provides AIDS drugs to 110,000 people, with plans to cover 300,000.

re: Hillary—Will Hillary run for president? And does he want her to? First, Bill says, she has to win reelection to the Senate; if the folks in NY don't ratify her performance in office, there'd be no point running for president. Then (here comes the swooning) he went on and on about how gifted she is, a strong leader, so wise, gifted, wise, not to mention incredibly gifted, so it would be nice for the country if she served it. But selfishly, he says, he'd love for Hillary to have more time to relax and have fun. He gave her that 1,000 Places to See Before You Die book for Christmas, and there are plenty of places left for them to see together. Awww...

The interviewer wished Bill a happy birthday, though his 59th isn't until August 19. Gotta love a fellow Leo! Plus he's articulate, and it makes me so nostalgic to remember a time when we had an articulate president. (Will swoon for articulateness.)

Healthy skepticism

Remember the news story a couple months ago about the pregnant woman with undetected melanoma who was brain-dead from a cancer-related stroke? And her husband kept her body on life support so she could continue serving as an incubator? Well, that body has now undergone a C-section at roughly 26 weeks of gestation, and a baby weighing 1 lb., 13 oz. and 13.5 in. long has been born. According to a news article, "the baby appears healthy, said the girl's uncle." A lot of 26-weekers do start out on ventilators, so perhaps already the baby (named Susan after her quasi-late mother) resembles her mother. It's expected that adult Susan's life support will be turned off soon, and her widower can move his vigil from her hospital room to baby Susan's NICU. While the uncle describes the baby as "healthy," she's likely to remain hospitalized for a good 3 months or so (many preemies stay in the NICU until they are close to their original due date; those with complications may stay longer).

The idea of keeping a body nominally "alive" for months (about 3 months in this case) to gestate a fetus gives me the willies. Yes, I have sympathy for the family that has suffered a terrible tragedy, but it seems like a precariously slippery slope to walk out on without a better pair of cleats. Predictably, the National Pro-Life Action Center issued a statement last night, saying in part: "This has reaffirmed the incalculable value and sanctity of every human life from conception to natural death." If it makes sense for a woman whose brain has ceased working at 15 weeks of gestation to have others decide to use her body as an incubator (her husband says this is what she would have wanted, and that may well be), it's not that far a stretch for others to decide that a healthy woman in the early second trimester of pregnancy should also continue serving as a vessel, whether or not she wants to.

I suspect some of you think I'm completely wrong on this, but that's my two cents' worth.

The right-wingers that right-wingers love to hate

From Right Wing News comes the following list of "Least Favorite People on the Right." The voting was done by 47 bloggers on the right (number of votes in parentheses):

1) Pat Buchanan (28)
2) John McCain (21)
3) Ann Coulter (20)
4) Pat Robertson (19.5)
5) Michael Savage (17)
6) Bill O'Reilly (16)
7) Jerry Falwell (15.5)
8) Arlen Specter (10)
9) Sean Hannity (8)
9) Rick Santorum (8)
11) Tucker Carlson (7)
11) Bob Novak (7)
13) Andrew Sullivan (6)
14) Tom DeLay (5)
14) Rush Limbaugh (5)
14) George Voinovich (5)
14) Chuck Hagel (5)
18) Tom Tancredo (4)
18) Ralph Reed (4)
18) Newt Gingrich (4)
18) Lincoln Chafee (4)
18) James Dobson (4)
18) George Pataki (4)
18) Arnold Schwarzenegger (4)

Hey! Aside from the notable absence of Bush administration names, I have to say most of these are right on target for liberals, too! Except John McCain and Arlen Specter are not-so-bad Republicans, and at least Newt ("Dump Your Wife When She's Sick") Gingrich is hanging out with Hillary these days. Personally, I'd add Bush, Cheney, Rove, and Scalia, just for starters.

Rod Blagojevich may have a lousy rep

...but he sure knows how to suck up to women voters in Illinois. Gov. Rod already issued an executive order that pharmacists can't come between women and birth control pills or emergency contraception. And today, he's signed legislation to allow any nursing mother to skip jury duty if she wants to. Illinois also has a law, passed last year, that nursing mothers can't be asked to leave someplace just because they're breastfeeding. It sure is nice to have a Democratic-controlled state legislature and a Democratic governor who will have to fight for reelection.

They say women will vote for him because he has great hair; I say the hairdo is cheesy and Rod looks like a local newscaster from the late '80s. I'll vote for him if his stance on women's issues and everything else I hold dear is better than the other candidates' stances (which was the case when he first ran for governor). Though if he had a gruesome combover, it would be a lot harder to cast a vote for him, because we girls are shallow creatures.

As*hole

Bush appoints Bolton as U.N. ambassador.

More advertising evil

I don't know who's in charge of booking advertising on the Toon Disney channel, but it's gotten worse. Yes, they're still advertising "Space Bag" to children—the plastic storage bags that you vacuum all the air out of to compact your clothes and pillows and such. (One handy use they showed was a suitcase packed full of compressed bags of clothes that otherwise wouldn't fit into the suitcase. Great idea! As long as the hotel where you'll be staying offers hose vacuums when you're ready to pack for the return trip.) [Sadly, those Best Western ads Ben was swayed by earlier this summer did not address the vacuum-related amenities. Yes, "you can have free coffee" and "you can stay for five days," sure. But how are they fixed for guests who need to vacuum-pack their suitcases?)

Worse still, this channel aimed at kids is also running ads for the Craftmatic adjustable bed. Yes! Merchandise aimed at the children's grandparents' demographic group! Ben has urged me to purchase the Craftmatic posthaste. "We don't need that because we already have beds we like," I explained. "But it's more comfortable!" rebuts the most willing consumer of advertising ever.

Are there any picture books out there that help explain to kids why commercials are not to be believed?

Funny link of the day

From McSweeney's Internet Tendency comes Matt Alexander's hilarious jokes, entitled ALTHOUGH I LIKE A GOOD GEORGE W. BUSH JOKE AS MUCH AS THE NEXT GUY, SOME OF THEM SEEM GRATUITOUS AND MEAN-SPIRITED. It's actually a link from last week, but hey, it's new to me and probably to you. Sample joke:

Q: How many telemarketers does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: Wouldn't a more relevant question be "How many pounds of cocaine has Bush snorted?"

The Canterbury Tales

I was listening to NPR today (I don't know what show) and heard some of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales set to a rap beat, complete with bleeping of the words too hot for the FCC. It's a fine concept, sure, but the execution suffers because the rapping is done by a very white-sounding Canadian by the name of Baba Brinkman. According to the CBC, "Brinkman likens the competitive nature of telling entertaining stories to the rap freestyling seen in Eminem's movie 8 Mile." Yes, that may well be, but sadly, one can't really liken the sound of Brinkman's Chaucerian rap to Eminem (or any other popular hip-hop artist). Brinkman really just sounds...Canadian. I don't think 50 Cent has to worry about his spot on the charts.

Solving the Umbrella Problem

It's a rainy day, and you use your umbrella as you return to your car. By the time you reach the car, the umbrella is dripping wet. What would be a good place to toss that umbrella inside the car? "The front seat floor," you may say. Or "the back seat floor." Wrong! Floors are for suckers!

The engineers at VW have devoted considerable efforts to solving this problem that none of us even recognized as a problem. Wanna guess what sort of space they've designed for a wet umbrella? Go ahead. I bet you won't come up with the right answer.

Belated weekend summation

Over the weekend, Mr. Tangerine and I took Ben up north to play with his cousins at an indoor water park (that indoor thing was handy, given the cold rain on Saturday and the sweltering heat on Sunday). Now, we all know that Wisconsin is America's Dairyland. And they love their fatty German meats (wienerschnitzel, bratwurst) and their deep-fried fish (a stunning percentage of restaurants offer "fish fry" every Friday night), but lest you think they're super Atkins adherents, let me tell you the sides served with the fish fry at our hotel: cole slaw (hey! vegetables!), bread and rolls, french fries, potato salad, and potato pancakes. (The fish fry? All-you-can-eat, bien sûr.)

The upshot of the Wisconsin diet is that, although the state doesn't make the list of the top 10 fattest states, the folks do run large. The stores stock larger clothing sizes, on average. And I looked positively bony at the water park. It was one big panniculus party, and assorted man boobs were on display. There was also a man who was so furry, I wanted to sic the Queer Eye Fab Five on him for some compulsory waxing. His back! His arms! His shoulders! Omigod, the shoulders. (My eyes!)

Regional language fun: An employee directed me to the "bubbler" to get some water. That's one of those things the rest of us call water fountains or drinking fountains, of course.

The 8-year-old nephew reported seeing the British zombie comedy, Shaun of the Dead, recently. Apparently, my brother-in-law rented the DVD and let his 8- and 5-year-old kids watch it. Now, I enjoyed the movie myself, but damn! is it ever violent. In what circumstances do you feel R-rated movies are appropriate for young children?

Sunday morning, Ben woke up with a stuffy nose, and the clever boy made sure it didn't progress to a nasty cold. I'm delighted for him. However, he transmitted it to me, and the sinus pressure is most bothersome. I'm lazy enough as it is—tack some malaise on top of that, and it's a miracle if I get out of the house.

I did get out of the house today, because the lovely people from Volkswagen brought me a new car for a 24-hour test drive (that viral marketing dealio) and I had to try it out. I was hoping to replicate the experience of driving a new Passat 5 years ago, when it was hip and newfangled and other drivers liked to make eyes at it. Sadly, the only attention the 2006 Passat got was from an elderly woman working at the grocery store. She admired it and patted it gently. Where are the young hipsters ready to goggle at the sight of it? (This may not bode well for the new model's reception in the marketplace.)

Okay, I'm going to lie down now...

Debunking the Lance Armstrong story

Every July when the Tour de France rolls around, Lance Armstrong mania rides uphill to another peak. Part of the Lance mystique is the status as a cancer survivor who beat the odds, of course, and the mythology generally credits his survival to his conviction to beat cancer. Yes, if only you have the will to survive, cancer doesn't stand a chance! Right? Wrong. What newly diagnosed person doesn't hope to beat the cancer? Propagation of the Lance Armstrong mythology spreads the idea that cancer can be cured only if the patient has enough will power—from which we can infer that those who succumb to cancer just weren't trying hard enough.

This is crap, of course. Lance achieved a cure because his cancer cells were susceptible to the treatments used. If he'd had a more virulent type of cancer, or if he'd used less effective treatments, it's possible that all the will power in the world would have been no more effective than slapping a Band-aid on his tumor site.

The eloquent writer known as Cancer, Baby gets into this issue in depth in herlatest post. For those who haven't read her blog, she's currently undergoing treatment for recurrent ovarian cancer, and she's done some reading on the whole "will to beat cancer" concept. Read it. Share the link with people you know.

How revolutions are born

This afternoon, the Chicago Tribune website posted an article about the surprise birth of a gorilla at the Lincoln Park Zoo. The byline is "Tribune staff reports," and this sentence appeared within the article:

The baby guerilla's gender remains unknown, as the mother is holding its offspring close to her body and may continue doing so for months, officials said.

The baby has yet to be named. May I suggest Che if it's a boy?

You are all reading One Good Thing, aren't you?

In her latest post, Flea has created another one of her trademark brilliance. One part amusing observations, two parts moving tales from motherhood, and eight parts Southern-girlhood memoir. (It goes to eleven!)

Flea such is a gifted writer. I don't know how she remembers her childhood so clearly, and how she's able to write about it so movingly, so evocatively. There's absolutely a book percolating in her soul. It's not that anything so unusual happened in her childhood—it's how beautifully she captures the mind of the child she once was, the children we all used to be. I look forward to the day she's got enough time to put all those essays in order for a mighty compelling book. Damn, that's some great writing. Go. Read. It. Now.

Weird dream: It came from the '80s

Gotta love the inexplicable dreams!

The contractors on my condo were (inexplicably) Hall and Oates. They showed up to do a little work, carrying in sacks or plaster or cement, as I headed out for a walk, and told me they'd pay me as one of their laborers if I wanted to stick around and pitch in. I assured them that I so seldom get exercise, I really had to go for this walk. The guys were disappointed to see me leave.

I realized how ratty my striped sweater was and decided to toss it after I wore it this one final time.

Eventually my walk took me to a smallish city grocery store. Who should I run into there but my first college boyfriend! He had just had his picture taken with all the other people there who were wearing their hair spiked up (actor Zach Braff was in the photo, too). As I craned my neck upwards to look at the ex from '84, I observed that he must have grown at least three inches taller since we dated. "How tall are you these days?" I asked. 6'6", 6'7", he said. "What? I know you couldn't have been more than 6'3" when we went out." He demurred, claiming that he really was that tall back in the day. Thanking my lucky stars that I hadn't ended up married to him with a permanent crick in my neck, I took my leave and continued my walk.

And then I woke up. WTF? What was I doing wearing a sweater in tatters? It wasn't even, like, "Flashdance" tatters. Just...loose yarns sticking out like an angry cat had gotten hold of the sweaters.

More data for my testosterone theory

I have long suspected that poor behavior in men is correlated with their testosterone level, in kind of a bitchy man version of PMS. According to Tyler Cabot's piece in the August 2005 Esquire, maybe I'm onto something.

Irritability has been linked to "unhealthily low testosterone levels." Low testosterone may also be tied to depression. High testosterone levels, on the other hand, may make a fella more likely to smoke, drink, fight, and get hurt. Levels shoot up in the morning. Testosterone production gets a boost from a rigorous workout, in moderation; after an hour of exercise, levels start to drop. Sports fans whose teams win experience an increase in testosterone, whereas a losing team's partisans suffer a drop.

Help me with this theory. Do you know a man who pisses you off because he's extra irritable? Or who's cranky in the morning? Or who gets pissy around workout time? Who's totally unbearable when his team wins or when it loses? I can't figure out whether assholery would go along with low or high testosterone levels. I always figured it was high levels that produced the assholery. Mr. Tangerine gets extra-ornery when his team loses (low testosterone), but also tends to be grumpy early in the morning (high testosterone, but confounded by the factor of sleepiness). Let's do some science here, folks!

Secular cynics, rejoice!

My eyes bugged out like a runaway bride when reading the Tribune article about the Precious Moments theme park. Yes, really! It's no joke. Conveniently located in Missouri so you can swing by Branson on the same trip.

In addition to the wedding chapel and the dead-children-gone-to-heaven parts of the Precious Moments park, there's also a Fountain of Angels. The Trib article describes it thus:

Twice daily, the Fountain of Angels erupts into life.

In the center of its own 10-story theater, the multilayered fountain blasts water over 120 4-foot bronze statues of bare-bottomed cherubs, cheerful-looking fish and water-spouting ducks.

As the music soars -- a chorus of recorded Christian music (example: "In the Garden") performed by members of the London Philharmonic -- the fountain bursts into a Vegas-style light and water show. In one, "The Everlasting Promise," a booming voice narrates tales of Genesis and the New Testament as corresponding biblical images are projected onto a wall of water behind the fountain.

At the end, a smiling Jesus, played by an actor bearing a striking resemblance to a bearded Orlando Bloom, greets the audience from heaven with open arms.

"It just gets me every time," says Joann Hannaford, 65, sitting outside after the show. "It's just totally fantastic. I've seen this show six or eight times, and every time it touches me. Like I'd never seen it before. . . . The ending is always the best, when you see Christ walking toward you."

My kid cracks me up

We've had a variety of imaginary friends hanging out here for months and months, all girls: Becky, Cindy, Cinderella, and Lizzie. Finally, Ben has added some males to the imaginary realm: his neighbors, Dixon and Peterson. You should hear this kid going on about what Dixon and Peterson are up to. We're just waiting to hear something like "Dixon and Peterson landed the Enron account, so they took us all out for drinks."

Reading the paper

Frank Rich's column on the political underpinnings of Comeuppancegate (JT's coinage) is a good one. Are we really approaching the point at which Rove falls on his sword and takes his pasty head elsewhere?

Based on this article, I don't think I'll be buying that hybrid Honda Accord I've been craving. The more upscale hybrids, apparently, use that electric motor to kick performance up a notch, offering only minimal improvements in fuel efficiency. I want a responsive V6 engine that gets me up to highway speed effortlessly, and I want to be green. Honda pretended I could have that with the hybrid Accord, but dammit, I will probably have to choose between being truly green and having kickass performance. Why? Why can't I have it all? Can I blame Detroit?

Speaking of cars, you've heard of viral marketing. The automaker who made my current car (a 2000 model that was quite a hottie when it was new—I'm such a hipster, don't you know) has redesigned the car for 2006, and they're trying a viral marketing thing to promote it. Later this month, they will deliver a 2006 car to me for a 24-hour test drive. They're hoping that I will love it and rave about it to everyone I know, trendsetter that I am. Back in the day, I raved about the 2000 model without even being asked. Now that they're doing intentional rather than natural viral marketing, will it work? You'll find out in a couple weeks if suddenly I start raving about some new car that's not out yet. Uh-oh. What if they give me a four-cylinder instead of my beloved V6? If they do that, they'll be antiviral.

How come my corner of the blogosphere never heard about this? Teenage blogger tells his folks he's gay, and they send him to straight reeducation camp. The camp rules include no Internet and no TV ('cause we all know how gay TV is), so he hasn't posted since he arrived there. Blog people, keep me posted if you hear what happens when he finishes the program, will you? Thanks.

Let me do a little volunteer viral marketing here. This article is about the hoops PC users must jump through to prevent and remove computer viruses, malware, and other crap from mucking up their systems. A couple people they interviewed bought new computers to start fresh; one woman selected a pricey Apple laptop. "She is instituting new rules to keep her home computer virus-free. 'I've modified my behavior. I'm not letting my friends borrow my computer,' she said, after speculating that the indiscriminate use of the Internet by her and her friends had led to the infection problems." Hello? People? It's a Mac. All she has to do it use it like she used to use her PC back in the day, and she should have no problems. All that malware/spyware/virus crap is targeted at the Windows operating system. Nowhere does this article mention that Apple users are virtually immune to these problems. I've used my current G5 Mac for about 18 months, I've taken no special precautions or actions, and I've had no trouble. It's lovely, really.

Can you tell my kid's still asleep? Leisurely reading and writing time, ahhhhhhhh.

What, you thought that link would take you somewhere real?

The biology behind men bugging the crap out of women

You know that thing where a man is blind to the messes he leaves around the house, and he is also deaf to the arguments against drinking out of the carton and putting it back in the fridge? The Lioness has written a scholarly treatise on this very topic. Ah, it is so true, you will laugh and you will cry. The Lioness has studied the male specimen closely, and we can learn from her.

For example: The Male is always on the lookout for predators. He cannot therefore be bothered to notice that clothes have dried and need to be folded and put away - or any other thing for the matter. It would be unnatural and perhaps even dangerous. The Female's safety must always come first. The Lioness knows all.

P.S. The Lioness blogs from Portugal. I have a warm spot in my heart for Portugal for a weird reason. I have a good friend whose dad wanted to separate himself from his family, so he changed the last letter of his surname from an S to an O; this totally throws off anyone who's trying to guess their national origin. The family joke was that when the U.S. census person came around, they'd put on a fake accent and say, "We are from Brazil. We speak Portuguese."

Plea for advice from parents

Okay, so Ben was putting out gooey eye boogers all day, and I'd wipe them away with a Kleenex (technically a Puffs brand facial tissue) and go on about my business. It was only after 5:00 (and after the pediatrician has gone home for the day) that I realized: Hmm, this could be a conjunctivitis/pinkeye thing. I checked a couple books, which indicated that yeah, the goo probably means bacterial pinkeye. The supercontagious crap. I tend to touch my face more than I should, so undoubtedly I have inoculated my own eye sockets with Ben's bacteria.

"Are you stupid?" you ask. First, don't say that word. It's not nice. Second, well, he woke up and said he wasn't feeling great, and he sniffled a little, so I had "mild cold" on the mind and happily accepted a profusion of eye goo as part and parcel of that.

So my question is this: How long do I have before my own eye gets itchy, red, and gooful?

Hammer pants!

Who can forget those crazy baggy pants popularized by M.C. Hammer back in the day? Some clothing manufacturer out there, apparently, not only remembers the Hammer pants, but has produced a low-rise version for women. Swear to god, I saw a chick on the sidewalk today wearing knit Hammer pants. Tight around the ankle, crotch curving in at the knees (ample room for knee-length balls if she had 'em), and a folded-over low-rise waistband. It was accessorized nicely with a spiky jewelry thing protruding from her chin piercing.


I have got to get myself a camera phone.

We need a name for Karl Rove's leak scandal

Lifethreateningleakgate? Blabgate? Effingliargate? I don't think these are catchy enough. You have any better ideas?

Handy-dandy newspaper links

The maps at newseum.org let you click on a city and view the current day's front page of the city's newspaper(s). Almost all the U.S. papers seem to have Hurricane Dennis on the front page today, with most hyping the "slams ashore" aspect but a few pointing out things like "storm damage minimal." I have to say I've just lost a little respect for all the newspapers playing up the drama. What do they think they are—TV news?

The banner on the Maharashtra Herald's front page has teasers for show biz articles inside: Why Sharon Stone will never age! Meet the Housewives! Who knew "Desperate Housewives" was on in India? And Sharon Stone looks damn good, but I daresay her face has matured over the years. Compare her in Total Recall to now. I mean, really.

Newseum has 405 newspapers from 45 countries. Check it out.

Are you reading Finslippy?

I've read posts at Finslippy a couple times in the past. Tonight, here in the wee hours, out of boredom, when I should really be sleeping, I clicked on Finslippy in somebody's blogroll. I've just read three months of posts, and that Alice is fricking hilarious. I can't even give you funny little excerpts, because the hilarity, it's like a pandemic over there. Her little boy cleaning his balls. Promising ponies to readers sending good vibes or prayers for her dad in the hospital. (Ponies!) Coaxing a smile from a cranky Russian cashier via an inadvertent potting-soil mustache. And much, much more! You go. You will giggle.

Sadnesses

Late last night, I got to thinking about something that I usually accept with equanimity, but right now it's making me sad. It's the unfairness of my quasi-infertility. (Is there a term for when you might or might not be able to get pregnant, but it would be a really bad idea to try?)

I had a rough time of it when I was pregnant with Ben and after he was born—I was in the hospital twice at the end of the first trimester with scary-high blood pressure. After that, there were weekly visits to the high-risk specialists. Frequent migraines and a worrisome, unidentified problem with my kidneys. Then preeclampsia, an emergency C-section, a spinal headache after the epidural (it made the migraines seem like the height of physical pleasure by comparison), difficulty getting my blood pressure to come down so I could leave the hospital. Not to mention a preemie in the NICU (fortunately, his NICU course was fairly standard, but 5 1/2 weeks is a long time to be in the hospital). The whole lactation thing was a nightmare. The La Leche League book, The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, had chapters on various breastfeeding challenges. I had four separate chapters' worth of problems, and there was no final chapter addressing what to do if you're screwed four ways.

A few weeks after we brought Ben home from the hospital, it was time for a kidney biopsy to figure out what the deal was. This involved an overnight stay in the hospital and large needles extracting tissue samples from my kidneys. Lying flat on my back to keep pressure on the puncture wounds made it almost impossible to pump milk, so I didn't; that pretty much took care of my lactation problems by rendering all efforts moot. It was actually a huge relief to stop pumping. I think my body needed every calorie to heal itself, and couldn't spare the energy to manufacture baby food.

The various doctors I talked to afterwards—my internist, the nephrologist, the OB—mostly didn't talk about the idea of a subsequent pregnancy. If they raised the subject, I quickly shut them down with a "no," and they didn't offer a rebuttal. Last year, my nephrologist finally mentioned pregnancy as a possibility—but warned that it would drastically speed the demise of my kidneys. The idea of kidney failure is scary enough as it is—but to develop it when I had a new baby? Not good. I'd also be starting that pregnancy with impaired kidneys, so I suspect I wouldn't make it all the way to seven months next time. And the baby wouldn't be likely to have such an uncomplicated course in the NICU. So no, I don't think so.

I would dearly love to have another baby—if I could conceive effortlessly. If I could have a normal, healthy pregnancy lasting at least 36 weeks. If I could have a full-sized, healthy baby. If it wouldn't mean I'd start asking strangers if they could spare a kidney. But it's not to be.

I recognize, of course, that in the grand scheme of sadnesses—death, cancer, intractable infertility, terror attacks—this one's not huge. But it's mine.

New terminology

(Do not be afraid. No more urology. But can you imagine the Google searches that are going to bring peoplel here now?)

After I explained the concept of jaywalking to Ben, he opted to label those folks wandering across the street in the middle of the block "badwalkers." Today, he introduced a new word for it: stinkywalkers.

Male urology!

I just finished editing nine short papers on the male genitourinary tract. I have learned so much!

We all know men are supposed to get a digital rectal exam at their annual check-ups starting at age 40. What's involved? A whole lotta inspection and manhandling of the bits that are accessible via that route, particularly the prostate. But be alert: "A urine specimen should be taken prior to palpation of the prostate, as prostate massage squeezes prostate secretions into the urine."

About that prostate—what's it for? "Its principal known function is to supply the fluid that propels sperm out of the penis during ejaculation." (Don't you love the writing style? It's just so fun!) And what about the rest of the anatomy? The tumescent dong's purpose is "to enter female genitalia and act as a conduit for forceful ejaculation of sperm." (That must be the "propelling" we just learned about.)

Also, the ball skin has "a distinctive corrugated texture." Is that what they mean by "box"? (I didn't think so.) Back in his stand-up comedy days, Tim Allen described it as more a case of God saying, "We've got some extra elbow skin left over." I haven't looked at my elbows the same since.

After I finished the anatomy and examination papers, I moved on to the most cringe-inducing paper I've ever had the misfortune to edit: everything you ever wanted to know about STDs and the male genitalia but were too terrified to ask because you were afraid they'd show you pictures. (I am so grateful this paper was not illustrated.) There were many evocative terms and concepts: Bloody ejaculation. Prostate massage. Bed rest with scrotal elevation. (What?!? How?) Warty lumps. (Which would be a great name for a band.)

Gonorrhea? You don't want to mess around with that. "Copious urethral discharge stains undergarments and may make changes of clothing necessary, while scanty discharge may be apparent as beads of moisture or small crusts at the head of the penis. The discharge may be clear or foul-smelling." See? They should totally market a macho version of pantiliners.

Okay, I have exorcised the urological demons and promise not to write any more on the topic for at least a month.

Satire is alive and well

I can't say who Bush is going to nominate to the Supreme Court seat vacated by Sandra Day O'Connor, but I sure enjoyed reading Michael Bérubé's wickedly funny prediction. Go, read, laugh—because laughing is generally more fun than crying.

Collected Short Works, circa 1974

I'm not sure what grade I was in when I wrote these—maybe third or fourth grade?

First, in honor of Bitch Ph.D.:

The Beautiful Shoes

I've been wishing for a pair of shoes.

One day I got some beautiful shoes.

"Oh, how beautiful they are," I remarked. THE END

(The teacher drew a red star and wrote, "Lovely. What did you do in them?" Pshaw! When it comes to beautiful shoes, the point is that the shoes are beautiful, not what you might do while wearing them. "I was fabulous in my beautiful shoes, bitch!")

Next, in honor of the Bush administration's record in environmental protection, my younger self is proud to offer:

That Poison Pollution

The air used to be so very clean,
but now it's very dirty.
Let's all work to clean it up
or it may kill us before we're 30.

Weird Dream #4 (1978 edition)

I tend to have vivid dreams, and still recall a plane-crash dream I had when I was a kid. My mom's a total pack rat, so she saved a bunch of papers from my grade-school years. Perhaps one reason that dream remained so clear over the decades was that I had written it down—and my mom gave me that sheet of looseleaf paper today. Here, without further ado or editing, my write-up from about sixth grade:

The Huge Crash of '78 (a dream)

Amy Anderson and I were laying down on our backs on the front lawn. Somehow, all the grass has a kind of brownish color, but that didn't matter.

"There goes an American Airlines," I said, not caring that it was very low (about twenty feet above the Co-op's roof).

It continued on in its northerly-going path, engines aroar.

Then Amy A. practically shouted, "Look how low it's getting!" (It looked like it was going to crash into the O'Donnell's building.)

I thought there was a chance, a big one at that, that they were going to crash, but I decided to just watch and see what happened.

Then the plane started tipping from side to side. Finally, it tipped over and was flying up-side-down!

In some weird way it turned back over, and also must have backed up so that it was going a slightly different direction. Then it went over the corner of the O'Donnell's court and the engines quieted while the screams became louder. The next thing I knew the plane was right outside my house. A lady, who was in hysterics, screamed, "I know he's dead, I just know it. My husband is dead!"

I tried to comfort her by saying, "The odds are for you that husband's alive." She kept running anyway, but I didn't really care. I had other people to take care of.

I then went over to Debbie's house. She had either company or at least twenty plane crash survivors eating all her food up. I knocked and said, "Is Debbie there?"

The woman's reply was, "There's nobody named Debbie here."

I answered, "But she lives here."

"Not anymore," she said.

And that was the end of my dream.

I have omitted the numbered footnotes keyed to explanatory drawings. I'm impressed that although I used "laying" in place of "lying" (which I do to this day) and some of the wording's a little bizarre, everything was spelled and punctuated correctly. Now, if a bright sixth-grader can remember whether a period goes inside or outside parentheses or quotation marks, how come so many adults these days don't have a clue?

Hey, cooter wandees, know what's worse?

Many of us girls have been so lucky as to undergo transvaginal ultrasound, or what some folks call "gettin' speared with the cooter wand."

The project I'm editing right now pertains to urology, and I just learned about a test doctors do for fellas with prostate trouble: rectal ultrasound, in which the cooter wand becomes a heinie wand. (Yikes!)

Urologists have many tricks up their collective sleeve. They've concocted voiding cystography as well, in which the patient is injected with a contrast dye and then basically x-rayed WHILE PEEING.

Although that's nothing compared to what I read about back in the day when I handled a book on gastrointestinal radiology: defecography. It's a lot like voiding cystography, but with #2 instead of #1. (I will never forget the key piece of equipment: "a radiolucent commode." That steel toilet's just gonna hide the action; better to go with plastic.)

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Brooke Shields fights back

Tom Cruise gets a well-deserved smackdown in Brooke Shields' essay in today's New York Times. Brooke is grateful for the antidepressant medication and the therapy that allowed her to emerge from postpartum depression, and believes the "vitamins and exercise" Dr. Tom Cruise recommends would not have sufficed.

Hey, infertiles! Did you know Brooke tried to conceive for two years and did a couple rounds of IVF? I hadn't known. Brooke had expected to be so happy when her child was born: "But instead I felt completely overwhelmed. This baby was a stranger to me. I didn't know what to do with her. I didn't feel at all joyful," she writes.

Brooke offers a fantastic suggestion for broader management of postpartum depression: "If any good can come of Mr. Cruise's ridiculous rant, let's hope that it gives much-needed attention to a serious disease. Perhaps now is the time to call on doctors, particularly obstetricians and pediatricians, to screen for postpartum depression. After all, during the first three months after childbirth, you see a pediatrician at least three times. While pediatricians are trained to take care of children, it would make sense for them to talk with new mothers, ask questions and inform them of the symptoms and treatment should they show signs of postpartum depression."

I think that's an excellent idea. I cried at some of Ben's first pediatrician visits, and asking me how severe the stress was would have been a logical move for the pediatrician. She did tell me I didn't have to try nursing, pump milk, and formula-feed at nearly every feeding—I was really putting a huge burden on myself, and my stress level plummeted wonderfully after I stopped the lactation business. Before I quit nursing, I did ask my internist if it sounded like I had postpartum depression or if I was just upset for a number of very good reasons. She said either way, if I stopped nursing, she'd be happy to prescribe an antidepressant for me. I was lucky, and the misery lifted without medical help once I quit nursing. (Mind you, I'm not suggesting that anyone should quit nursing if she's having a rough time during the postpartum period. In my individual case, it was physically too much to ask of my body at that time.)

Advertising evil

Wouldn't you think a company like Best Western would focus their advertising dollars on adults who book travel? Nope, they're running commercials on Nickelodeon with some sort of promotional tie-in with a Nick cartoon. Here in my house is a 5-year-old who feels compelled to inform me, "You can stay there for 5 days," each time the ad is on—twice so far this morning, and it's only 8:30. Bloody hell!

Update: Thirty minutes later, it's on again. "Look, look, Mom, they have coffee. Look, a swimming pool. Look! Mommy, they call it Best Western." Devious, devious advertisers...

When did you stop swearing in front of the baby?

Loretta and I had a blogger meet-up at my friendly neighborhood IHOP today, complete with offpsring. Her little girls are adorable and a ton of fun—very open and outgoing babies, which everyone knows is the best kind. Ben was also a happy-go-lucky baby and toddler (when he wasn't being an absolute hellion) and is a cheerful kid still, so I'm partial to happy babies. Which is not to say that a colicky or shy baby doesn't have its finer points, but you know what I'm getting at. Here are two cool things about Loretta: She has a tie-dyed nursing bra, and she lets her kids eat straight from the table (no wussy sanitary placemats, no antiseptic wipedown).

Anyway, Loretta asked me something that is probably not addressed in the garden-variety parenting handbook: When do you have to stop swearing? Her girls are 12 months old, so poor Loretta probably only has a few more months of good "Fuck it!" and "Holy Mother of Christ!" and "Cocksucking shit!" to go, right? Ben had a speech delay, so Mr. Tangerine and I got a free pass on swearing for at least an extra year, which was handy. (I was so proud when he finally was able to utter, "Fucking shit!" like a pro. And then I had to cut way, way back on the foul mouth.) Given my atypical experience with swearing-in-front-of-the-kid, would those of you who have kids beyond the baby stage share your experience? I'm sure Loretta would appreciate being able to swear just as long as possible, so let's be generous in our advice.

Isn't it lovely that blogs aren't subject to those fucking idiotic FCC obscenity regulations so we can swear like the bitches and assholes we are?

My recent spam

Francis Heaney over at Heaneyland (home of the "six things" cartoons) took umbrage at the spam subject line "effete Francis." That inspired me to mine my own bulk-mail folder to see if I had anything good. It's always fun to get something that promises to enlarge a body part I have not got, and I thought "Surprise her with a bigger Johnsons" was especially fresh. The capitalization and pluralization of "johnson" makes it sound almost like you'll get a whole family of phalluses.

I don't know why Charmaine sends such incomprehensible messages, like "You didnt answer solomon jew." Who is Solomon? Is she sure he's Jewish? Or is that his last name? You know, I went to college with a girl named Patty Jew. Maybe she knows Solomon.

Jonelle questions, "can you even get it up?" I'm glad she asked. The other week, I really had a hard time working my grandma's window shades. I couldn't get it back up without trying a few times.

I don't think I've met Brittney Yoder. I think that's often an Amish surname, and it would really sadden me to learn that even the Amish have fallen prey to the American tendency to misspell their children's names. Anyway, Brittney is writing me about "my wife bolshevism bacchus." Her wife sounds pretty wild! Bacchanalian and Bolshevik, all in one tasty package? Party hearty!

The confessional meghan hawkins wrote to say, "now I am a new man." She's hawkin' a "Male Enhancement formula." All I can say is, if it made meghan a new man, this must be one hell of a formula! Just imagine what it could to to a man. Maybe it could transform his johnson into Johnsons.

I have a hankering for cheese and crackers after Joni told me "Crackers and cheese gunther locksmith" and Monroe said "rotarian, Crackers and cheese." Sadly, the cheese I bought today was string cheese, and it doesn't crackerize well.

What's your favorite spam? (And don't say the reduced-sodium Spam.)

WTF: The GH Edition

Remember when I watched that Pamela Anderson sitcom, “Stacked,” so you didn’t have to? I have taken another hit for the team. This time, I read the July issue of Good Housekeeping, featuring 54-year-old Joan Lunden and her four toddlers and babies. I bought the magazine (a title from the genre I refer to as “married-lady magazines”) to basically find out WTF was the deal with Joan Lunden. Ah, but the magazine offers so much more…

I picked up the issue to pass the time while sitting with Ben in front of the TV (those Fisher-Price Little People videos offer nothing of interest to adults but the Aaron Neville theme song). I knew I was in for a treat right off the bat, on the letters-to-the-editor page. There was feedback on a recent article about a couple who lost a child to a dreadful genetic disease and opted for IVF with preimplantation screening to avoid a repeat of that tragedy. “Many readers wrote in, some concerned that the unhealthy embryos had been disposed of. ‘…I was…sad to learn that life had been destroyed to get the end result.’” Yep, that’s right. That reader would prefer that an embryo with a fatal genetic malady be transferred into a womb. WTF?

Another thing that caught my eye was the Venus Vibrance battery-powered razor, which appears to be a disposable razor crossed with a vibrator. WTF? If vibrator technology really facilitates a close shave, wouldn’t the folks at Gillette have introduced the vibrazor (I gotta trademark that!) concept in men’s razors first? (Ah. The Gillette website shows the “M3 Power Nitro” battery-powered razor for men—no mention of “vibration,” though. Guess vibrators aren’t manly.) Or are women supposed to shave their pits and their legs with this doohickey, and then flip it over to use the non-razor portion? Seems like a lawsuit waiting to happen—you could totally cut your hands on the razor blades.

Looking for a T-shirt that’s dressy enough for the office? What could be more practical than the Piscotta tee? It’s made from 100% organic milk, freeze-dried and spun into a silken yarn. Hand-wash, line dry—like I said, practical! (And yes, I did say “organic milk,” and no, I’m not mixing this up with cheese.) WTF?

Then there was an ad for the Tide to Go instant stain remover pen. Somehow, you press it on the stained clothes you’re wearing and the stain disappears, but your flesh is not chemically burned—that seems to be the gist of it. It seems too easy to be a good idea, doesn’t it?

Moving on to the article, “Does your husband need training?”—you’re supposed to tear out the article and give it to your husband so he knows how to make shit up when you ask insecure questions like “Do you wish I still looked the way I did when we first met?” or “Do you think that woman’s attractive?” Yep, read the canned answers, then give the article to your husband so he can feed you the canned answers right on cue. That won’t piss the woman off, will it? Sheesh.

“What about Joan Lunden?” you ask. She has three grown daughters (aged 17, 22, and 25). Five years ago, she married a man 10 years her junior. She was closing in on 50 when she started fertility treatments. IVF failed—big surprise—so they moved on to surrogacy and donor eggs, plus her husband’s sperm. (No one will be surprised to hear that the article didn’t mention the word “egg” or “donor” anywhere. These articles seldom do.) The surrogate got pregnant with twins, and then did it again 21 months later. Now, Lunden, age 54, reports, she is just so darn full of energy and enjoying parenting again. (Of course, having two nannies and a baby nurse on staff helps prevent exhaustion.)

Lunden argues that it’s unfair to criticize older women for having babies, given that older men father children all the time without incurring judgmental reactions. She answers the “Isn’t it selfish to have more babies” issue by saying, “having children is a lot of work. It involves tremendous amounts of time and emotion to create a kind, even-keeled, educated, spirited, happy person to send out there into the world. I mean, this is our gift to the future.” Not that I want to be hurling mommy drive-by judgments at another woman, but I don’t know if I buy this rationalization. Lunden had already sent three people “to the future”; if she felt the need to nurture more kids, why not adopt or take care of foster children? I just can’t even imagine trying IVF at age 49 or 50. If Lunden’s babies and tots are lucky, she’ll live until they’re about 40; there’s certainly a reasonable chance that she’ll die or be incapacitated long before that.

What do you think—Joan Lunden: Hero Mom? or Joan Lunden: Selfish Narcissist?

I can’t finish this magazine right now. It takes too much out of me. I haven’t even gotten to “Burning Questions for Michael Bolton” yet. (I am not making this up.)

This is why I live here

Most of my relatives live in the south and southwest suburbs of Chicago, where I grew up. Mr. Tangerine and I have lived on the North Side for 15 years. Those who live out yonder (30 to 40 miles from me) find my location and the lack of ample parking to be most inconvenient; the city driving, harrowing; the city air, dirty and noisy. "Why don't you move out here?" they ask. "You know, in a few years, you'll have to move to the suburbs so Ben can have playmates in the neighborhood."

I honestly find suburban driving to be more stressful than city driving (with the exception of driving in the Loop—I haven't honed those skills yet). The city may seem big and anonymous, but there are familiar and friendly faces here. I don't hanker for a big yard that requires mowing and landscaping. I love the proximity to Lake Michigan and its beauty, not to mention the lake's moderating effect on the local climate (warmer in the winter, cooler in the summer—almost 20 degrees cooler today, in fact). I like the easy access to public transportation (Ben loves the bus and the El). It's great to have so many museums and parks nearby.

But what I value most about the North Side is its diversity—the kind of diversity that suburbs exclude almost by design. There are rich people and poor people. Black, white, Latino, Asian, and Native American. Straight, gay, lesbian, bi, and transgendered. Yuppies and goths. Old people and babies. Nerds and hipsters. Immigrants from all corners of the globe (well, not counting Antarctica), speaking dozens of languages. Families, childless couples, and singles. Hard-bodied jocks, fat people, skinny people. The able-bodied and people with all sorts of disabilities. Atheists, Christians, Muslims, and Hasidic Jews. I want Ben to grow up understanding that we are all one human race, that we can all be neighbors. In this part of Chicago, I think it will come naturally to him.

This afternoon, we walked down to Pride Fest (the street fair kicking off tomorrow's parade). There were shirtless men with nipple rings, buxom transsexuals, drag queens, same-sex couples holding hands or embracing, very dykish-looking lesbians (one sporting a t-shirt that read "Yes, I am in the right bathroom"), RuPaul live on stage (back after a five-year hiatus from fame), people of all races—the works. What one person caught Ben's eye and caused him to exclaim? A clown, clad in a red and white get-up with matching face paint and a wig. How many five-year-old kids in the 'burbs wouldn't think twice about all the rest of the folks at Pride Fest?

Here in the city, we're home.

The thrill of business attire

When we were at the Hilton Head TJ Maxx a few weeks ago, I opted not to buy Ben a cheap-ass dressy outfit—pants, dress shirt, vest, necktie, all for $10—even though he begged for it. First of all, when would he ever wear such a thing? And second, I don't wish to encourage him to whine and cry to get merchandise he wants. He got over the disappointment, but boy, did he cry and cry at TJ Maxx.

This week, because I do tend to spoil Ben, when he asked about "a suit," I checked online and found an $11 shirt-and-tie combo. He selected the white shirt/navy tie combo because, apparently, his fashion adventurousness disappears completely in the menswear world. (Not much in the way of sparkles, purple, or vivid colors to choose from.) The shirt and tie arrived today, packaged just like a grown-up dress shirt but without the straight pins. When we finally extricated the garment from the packaging, cardboard and plastic supports, and clips (why??) and got Ben buttoned into the shirt and velcroed into the tie (yes, it has a velcro closure in the back)—oh! So adorable! He wore it with his shorts and played for a half hour, squatting on the floor amid his toy cars just like any grown man wearing a shirt and tie.

Now that's he's supposed to be going to bed, he came out and asked if he could show his "suit" to Daddy. He's so proud of his "suit."

His name is Ben
He is so cute
He likes formalwear
Check out his suit
Roll call!

I just may dress him in that for my cousin's wedding in a month. A velcro tie is the height of cheesiness, yes, but so precious! And truthfully, I think it's just a matter of time before men's ties go the velcro route. Guy gets to the end of a long day, wants to loosen his tie, and—scrrrrrrtch—he adjusts the velcro strap.

Look, I killed it

I didn't post for a week, and I stunned you all into silence. Comments? Hello?? Is anyone out there?