An orange product recommendation

Did I ever tell y'all about my fondness for Trident fruit-flavored gum? It came in an orange package, and the gum was light orange in hue. The flavor was mellower than Juicyfruit, but because it's Trident, it was sugar-free. It was my favorite gum, but it was discontinued by 1997 or so. Don't give me that "Tropical" or "Strawberry Breeze" or "Citrusmint" malarkey—none of those gums have anything like Trident's old fruit flavor.

When I visited Prague in 1997, I was delighted to find Orbit sugarless gum with a strikingly similar taste. I brought a few packs back home with me...but soon enough I was out of fruit gum again. My dear friend Robin was living in Europe and tried—lord knows, she tried!—to get more of this gum for me. Alas, Orbit quit selling that fruit-flavored gum. There were other gums that claimed to be fruity or that had orange packaging, but they weren't the same.

After more than a decade of waiting, at last I have found a reasonable facsimile: Spry Fresh Fruit gum sweetened with xylitol. Xylitol is good for the teeth! (Really: There's a wealth of scientific data supporting xylitol's efficacy in fighting cavities.)

Sure, you need two pellets to have a decent-sized wad of gum, and the flavor doesn't last too long. But it transports me back to the halcion days of the '80s and '90s, when Trident fruit-flavored chewing gum was available at every 7-Eleven and gas station across the land.

Diversity in fabrics and people

You know what's a fun way to buy a new purse, handbag, clutch, messenger bag, or diaper bag?

(1) Go to an 1154 Lill Studio store (in Chicago's Lincoln Park, Boston, Philadelphia, or Kansas City) or their website/

(2) Choose a style.

(3) Mix and match with about 150 different fabrics to design your very own super-cute bag.

Today, I ordered the Sophie bag with pink and green fabrics (key lime twill, bubble gum linen, morning glory). You can play around on the website, trying a zillion different combos.

The prices may seem a little high for a fabric bag, but they're sewn in Chicago, not China, and provided you don't choose a horrendous combination of fabrics, you're going to get plenty of compliments on your probably-unique bag.

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So, the Chicago 1154 Lill store is on Armitage, in the heart of a Lincoln Park boutique shopping district. Nearby was a salon that appears to be dedicated to facial bronzing. I don't know what that means. You go in and someone else applies self-tanner to your face so you don't "tan" your palms? I don't know. It did strike me as quite possibly the whitest business concept that there has ever been.

There's a lot of money in that neighborhood, and a lot of white people. Driving home from Armitage to our more diverse neighborhood, we made a game of labeling the pedestrians and cyclists we passed. Like this: "White, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, brown, white, white, white, white, white, tan, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, black, black, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white, white." Down in Lincoln Park, I think there were at least 30 white folks for every person of color.

It struck me as a good method for sizing up just how diverse or not diverse a particular area is. I think it's easy for the typical white person to fail to notice those first 30 white people and just notice the occasional variation: "Oh, yeah, this neighborhood's really diverse. You always see people of a variety of ethnic backgrounds." But if you are a person of color, perhaps you notice those 30 white people in a row: "It's an almost all-white area."

Try it out yourself, the white/tan/brown/black game. (Tan is Ben's designation for most Asian and Latin American skin tones.) Maybe you'll find it as illuminating as I did.

Slow down for the crosswalk

The Chicago Tribune reports that the Chicago police will start publicizing the crosswalk laws this week. It's about time! There are so many crosswalks at small intersections or in the middle of a long block—without stop signs or traffic signals. Most drivers seem to assume that these crosswalks don't give pedestrians the same right of way that they're granted at corners with stop signs or red lights. But it's not so. If a pedestrian has entered one of those renegade crosswalks, he or she does have the right of way, and the driver is required by law to cede the right of way and wait for the pedestrian to pass safely.

The cops will be crossing the street in some of those crosswalks and issuing warning tickets to people who don't yield to them.

Now, those of you in places like Wisconsin, Minnesota, and California may find it odd that drivers wouldn't naturally slow down to let people cross the street. But Chicago drivers tend to keep plowing through, even though slowing for a pedestrian is a minor inconvenience.

So if you're driving in Chicago's neighborhoods, pay attention. If a pedestrian's in the street, don't play chicken with them. Slow down, let 'em cross. Even if you could zip past before the walker reaches your lane, slow down and wave them across. Some pedestrians will insist that you go, and others will be pleased as punch that a Chicago driver's actually being nice.

Jaywalking is technically illegal, but I suspect the law requires drivers to ease off the gas pedal and not try to run over jaywalkers.

Imagine the karma points that you'll rack up, letting people cross the street in front of you. Extra bonus points in crappy weather or hot, muggy weather, when the pedestrian just wants to get where she's going and you're comfortably ensconced in your climate-controlled vehicle.

This is my first attempt at posting straight from my phone. I fear you will need to tilt your head to see the Police concert photo.

Hitching a ride

Why bother writing my own post about going to the Police concert on Mother's Day weekend with Flea when I can just link to her write-up? My own version wouldn't make fun of me like Flea's does, but I am willing to accept a little public abasement if it means getting out of doing some work.

Speaking of getting other people to do my work for me, does anyone know if there's a way to send a photo from a Verizon phone to Blogger?

Why some mothers don't breastfeed

Breastfeeding is a brilliant invention of evolution, isn't? Mammalian mothers can magically nourish their offspring with food produced by their own bodies, and that food turns out to offer optimal nutrition.

But sometimes it doesn't work. If you have ever had a scornful thought when you saw a woman feeding her baby with a bottle, please read Julie's post, "The breast-laid plan," and the comments thread. When nursing works out, I hear it's a lovely thing. But for the unlucky women for whom it simply doesn't work—for a slew of reasons, including low milk supply, pain, poor suck, medical complications, and prematurity—the societal pressure to breastfeed can exert a huge psychic cost.

If you have never known the tyranny of the breast pump (and not the pumping-at-work set-up—I'm talking about round-the-clock pumping), you are lucky. If your body actually produced enough milk to meet a baby's nutritional demands, you are lucky. If breastfeeding was natural and beautiful, you are lucky.

I was not lucky. I had problems that were addressed by four separate chapters of The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, and one or two more problems that the book didn't cover. There was no chapter entitled "What To Do When There's a Perfect Storm of Problems and It's Simply Not Working Out"—the message was that quitting is not to be contemplated, even when it's ruining a woman's quality of life.

The pumping/lactation phase of my life lasted only about two or two and a half months eight years ago, but it remains the most traumatic period of my life. I think Ben's early months would have been much less stressful if my doctor had said, "Listen, your body is in no shape to make this work." But that didn't happen, and I put so much pressure on myself. On the bright side, Ben thrived despite our rough start, and he thrived when he got formula instead of milk.

So if you see a woman in public mixing up a bottle of formula for her baby, don't assume that she's selfish or shallow or unaware of breast milk's advantages, or that she takes a cavalier view toward caring for her child. She might've adopted that baby. She may be taking vital medication that's not safe for the baby. She may have tried like hell to breastfeed and failed Dairy Cow 101 anyway. She might've had breast surgery that precludes nursing. Informing her that "breast is best" or that she's robbing her child of 6 IQ points and improved immunity? That's deeply hurtful and certainly poor manners.

If you know a pregnant woman, sure, go ahead and make the case for breastfeeding's advantages. But don't suggest that she'll be failing her child if it doesn't work out. And once the decision has been made—for whatever reason—don't presume to second-guess it. Respect the woman's ability to make the best choice for her and her child.

ZOMG! Hostess dropped the beef fat!

I've been shunning Hostess Ho-Hos and Ding-Dongs and their other crappy snack cakes for years because the ingredient list couldn't commit to vegetarianism. The "May contain one or more of the following" list of oils always included beef fat. The message I got from that was "We're gonna buy whatever we can get by the tankload for the cheapest. Maybe it's hydrogenated vegetable oil, maybe it's beef fat, maybe it's some other plant-based oil. We don't feel like picking just one and sticking with it."

But today, I picked up a Ho-Ho package in the store and lo and behold, no beef fat! I bought a box of 10 immediately. Then I ate one for dessert after my salad lunch. It seemed smaller than I remembered, and drier and less tasty. And I recognize that the nutritional value comes in on the negative side. But I had to say "thank you" to International Foods for finally leaving cows out of their snack cakes, didn't I. Moo!

What about boys?

The New York Times reports on "purity balls" today—those father/daughter dances in which dads promise to protect their daughters' "virtue" and the teen girls “promise to God and myself and my family that I will stay pure in my thoughts and actions until I marry.”

It's such a crock. Where are the mother/son purity balls? Oh, right. Boys will be boys, but girls need to be kept on a tight leash lest they become damaged goods, sullied flesh that isn't suitable property to be handed over from father to husband. Really, could this entire concept be any creepier than it is? Look at the psychosocial ramifications: Girls are promising to let their dads keep their virginity in a lockbox so Dad can "give" a tight piece of ass to another man. It's just gross.

If the patriarchal nutjobs who endorse purity balls at least expected the same from girls and boys alike, I might buy their cover story, that it's about saving yourselves for a beautiful marriage blessed by the lord, yadda yadda. But when the movement is centered so strongly among girls and their fathers, the fact that it's about controlling female sexuality is laid bare. There's absolutely nothing wrong with celibate teenagers, but the fetishization of female virginity just gets re-e-eally creepy when Daddy gets involved.

What do you think?

I am the undisputed heavyweight champion of the procrastination world

My blogging to-do list:

• Flea and I went to the Police concert last weekend; reflections, ruminations, and a pictorial comparison of the mini-flower pots her son and my son gave us for Mother's Day. The contents of the pots are, quite frankly, the best part.
  
• Pictures from spring break and whatnot. I pull out my phone and take pictures of things that amuse me, but then the pictures seldom make it to the blog I intended them for.
• My fear and loathing of the busyness of this time of year. Weddings, graduations, birthdays, family gatherings, and all the truly wonderful crap that fills our calendars and deprives us of our lazy time. I love weekends with no plans. I stay in my pajamas all day. I go to bed in the same pajamas I've had on all day. Eventually, I motivate myself to shower and maybe put on some real pants...but don't go anywhere. It's not that I'm a total homebody—honest, I'm not—but I love a good lazy weekend. 
• Therapy. Did I tell you I started seeing a therapist in March? Wow, is it indulgent! I go and talk about whatever, and she listens attentively. And I'm not supposed to say, "Enough about me. How have things been going for you?" Therapy rocks. Plus she dispenses the occasional helpful suggestion that smooths out some rough spots at home. For instance: Ben + homework = trauma and frustration all around much of the time. Now we're on a new plan of "finish your homework by 4:30 and you get to play video games from 4:30 to 5." This is working like gangbusters. Ben's usually done with his work on time, and he's not lollygagging his way through it or fighting about it. He gets down to business because there's a reward. Say what you will about incentives and children's behavior—it works, and it's far more enjoyable than the daily knock-down, drag-out disputes Ben and I had been having...for a year and a half.
  

While I continue my busy, busy schedule of procrastinating, tell me: What have you been meaning to do, but you just haven't found the time?

Unprecedented development!

I got a Mother's Day card from my mother-in-law yesterday, one of the rare "to my daughter-in-law" cards. This spurred Mr. Tangerine to exclaim that he needed to send his mom a card.

I think that for nearly all of the past 17 years, I have been buying and mailing the Mother's Day cards we have sent to his mother (and mine). Today, he called me from work to ask for his folks' new mailing address because he wanted to get that card out in today's mail.

Omigod! Is it the apocalypse? I think it's the apocalypse. The swine have taken wing, and the devil is refereeing snowball fights.

Socks update: I sorted out an embarrassingly outsized heap of clothing in my bedroom. I just knew that many of the missing socks were lurking within the pile, and it would feel so good to be able to mate (heh) some socks and throw away the remaining confirmed-bachelor socks. Wouldn't you know it? I found four socks in the pile. All white, and not one a match for the lonely socks. So now I have more desolate socks than ever before.

My most important poll ever!

I need to know, dammit. I need your advice. I don't know what to do. I'm lost.

I have a laundry basket that never gets emptied out, even though the contents are always clean. There are some socks going stag in the basket. A lot of socks. Approximately seven black socks, six tan socks, seven white socks, and a couple miscellaneous stragglers of other hues. Some are mine, some are Mr. Tangerine's, and some belong to Ben.

None of these socks have mates! But surely, I tell myself, they'll surface some day. They must be in the house somewhere. Probably just got nudged under a stack somewhere.

If I throw these ones away, you just know their mates will return to them, full of apologies for being gone so long, eager to make amends, desiring nothing more than riding into the sunset together whilst embracing my family's feet.

What to do?

Your drag self

Hey, did your parent(s) ever tell you what you'd have been named if you'd been born with a different chromosomal package? I would have been named Anthony, which makes little sense. It's not a family name. Perhaps my mother had a thing for Anthony Hopkins or Anthony Perkins (Norman Bates!) in the '60s?

Ben might've been a Julia Rose. We had plenty of girl names we liked, but hadn't settled on a boy name before he was born. In fact, for his first three days of life, we called him something else—the name that became his middle name. (The bonus of having a baby in the NICU is that you can shoo away the birth-certificate-filler-outer person for days on end, and need not worry that you'll leave the hospital before naming the kid.)

A lot of parents do settle on both boy and girl names for a baby, particularly if they don't know the baby's sex in advance. What might you have been named if you'd been born with a different set of gonads?

Guess whose crossword was accepted by the NYT?

I just got the good news that Will Shortz has accepted a Sunday crossword co-constructed by my friend Tony and me. It will likely be many months before the New York Times Magazine runs this crossword, but: Wahoo!

It's that time of year: Heartfelt donation request time

But first, it's information time. Information about ovarian cancer. The wife of an acquaintance of mine, a woman I met briefly last year, died of ovarian cancer a week ago. Her name was Michele.

The disease was fairly advanced by the time it was diagnosed. For a year before diagnosis, her doctors said it was just irritable bowel syndrome, that's all—and they didn't recognize her vague symptoms as the warning signs of ovarian cancer.

Almost a year ago, my aunt died after a three-year struggle with ovarian cancer. She, too, had experienced vague symptoms and consulted multiple doctors for months before her cancer was finally discovered.

One of the biggest reasons that ovarian cancer is so deadly is that the symptoms are so nonspecific. From that Mayo Clinic link comes this information:

Recent studies have shown that women with ovarian cancer are more likely than are other women to consistently experience the following symptoms:

• Abdominal pressure, fullness, swelling or bloating
  
• Urinary urgency
  
• Pelvic discomfort or pain
  

Additional signs and symptoms that women with ovarian cancer may experience include:

• Persistent indigestion, gas or nausea
  
• Unexplained changes in bowel habits, including diarrhea or constipation
  
• Changes in bladder habits, including a frequent need to urinate
  
• Loss of appetite
  
• Unexplained weight loss or gain
  
• Increased abdominal girth or clothes fitting tighter around your waist
  
• Pain during intercourse (dyspareunia)
  
• A persistent lack of energy
  
• Low back pain
  

Now, how many of those problems have you experienced off and on? A lot, right? Gas, bloating, indigestion, constipation or diarrhea. Apparently what marks these as suggestive of ovarian cancer is persistence and worsening—rather than coming and going or acting up depending on what you've eaten, if those vague abdominal symptoms just don't go away, it's not a bad idea to ask your physician to give you a workup to rule out ovarian cancer. This might include a transvaginal ultrasound (using what I like to call the "cooter wand"), a rectovaginal exam (like a pelvic exam, only with two entry points), and/or a blood test to check your CA-125 level. (Note: CA-125 tests can be false-positive and freak you out, or miss many early-stage ovarian cancer cases, so it's not the be-all and end-all of ovarian cancer detection.)

On Saturday, May 3, I'll be taking part in the 11th Annual Break the Silence: Walk for Ovarian Cancer, held by the Illinois chapter of the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition. The NOCC is the nation's leading ovarian cancer public information and education organization; the group promotes research, raises awareness about ovarian cancer, and provides support for women and families dealing with the disease. If you'd like to sponsor me, please visit my donation page. There's no minimum donation, and every little bit helps. I'm hoping to raise $500 overall.

Thanks for your consideration, and please spread the word about ovarian cancer's nonspecific and deceptive symptoms. Many women and many physicians don't think to suspect ovarian cancer, so it's incumbent on all of us to be familiar with the symptoms and be able to advocate for ourselves and the women we care for.

I will spare you a photo

Really, it's that I'm too lazy to take a picture and post it. If I'm going to do that, then I'll get mired in the process of sorting through those other photos I wanted to post, and nothing will ever get done.

And I also don't want to horrify and repel you, or show you The Scarlet Pimple.

Words must suffice. On my neck, above the larynx/Adam's apple zone, just left of center, I have a giant...thing. I believe it to be an ordinary pimple, but it's completely ignoring the tea tree oil assaults I have administered, and it won't shrink or appear vulnerable to a good, firm squeeze. It is not anchored to anything firm.

In short, this thing is freaking me out, not to mention those who behold it.

It needs a name. And there will be a poll in the sidebar for one week. Won't you please help name this evil baby?

Feminist LOLcats!

Check 'em out. If you like LOLcats, you like feminism, or you like giggling, you need to see these annotated cat pictures.

My favorites are the "I'z not racizt, I has black cat frend!" and "I dansed, but revolushun no come."

Mr. Tangerine's special brand of genius

This morning, Ben had what we term "a messy poop." He wiped. He wiped again. He wiped some more. And so on, and so on. He may have sat down to a bowl with some TP already in it, but the approximately 29 wipings that followed? Overloaded the toilet's capacity to flush it all away. Ben flushed, the water level rose, and I lifted the tank lid and jiggled the whatsit to stop the influx of water.

"Honey! We have a situation here!"

Take a moment to ponder how you would remedy the situation.

The approach that Mr. Tangerine came up with was new to me. He stretched out a wire clothes hanger and used it to tug two thirds of the TP globs away from the escape hatch, and flushed. One third, down the hatch. Then he unleashed half of what remained, and flushed again. After that he neatly disposed of the hanger, and the toilet was cleared via a third flush.

Staged flushing! I never would've thought of that.

Note: This method is unlikely to work for a giant turd like the one in David Sedaris's "Big Boy.

What's the deal with femininity?

Twisty, who has resumed regular blogging of late, puts a new (to my brain) spin on the matter of femininity. Key excerpts:

The greater the sex-based dimorphism in commercial products, the easier it is to rationalize sex-based social discrimination. For it is upon the supposed enormous differences between men and women that our culture bases its wide approval of the concept that women’s essence justifies our ghettoization in the sex caste.

Picture disposable razors, molded from manly black or blue plastic or from feminine pink and lavender plastic. Clothes, wristwatches, rubber flipflops, deodorant, greeting cards—and now, Twisty reports, there's even a Russian vodka with an hourglass figure to its lavender bottle, wearing a Marilyn Monroe skirt. Can pastel girly beer be far behind?

Behold the neat trick. First, you make women act like simpletons, broodmares, janitors, mannequins, and sex slaves before you grant them social approval. You call this behavior “femininity” and explain that it is their essential nature, and that any deviation from the program will be punished. Then you infantilize and ridicule the ones who get it right, and vilify and abuse the ones who get it wrong (you can also vilify and abuse the ones who get it right, because, let’s be honest; the world is your oyster).

With so much riding on it, whether femininity is performed right or wrong is an issue of enormous concern to women. That’s where the Empowerful Pink Marketing Juggernaut comes it. They package femininity, changing it a bit every so often so that the old version eventually becomes obsolete, and sell it to women as insurance against getting it wrong. This pink capitalist enterprise has the dual effect of diverting women’s income back to the male-dominated megatheocorporatocracy, while simultaneously reinforcing women’s investment in the bogus feminine identity and marking (with pink, the color of female infancy) the objects tainted with girl-cooties. The woman festooned with pink accessories, therefore, may be easily identified from a distance as a friend to Dude Nation.

And the reverse is true—the woman who doesn't go in for traditionally feminine clothes, who doesn't have a high-maintenance hairstyle, who doesn't spend time and money on cosmetics, and who eschews high-heeled shoes is marked as a threat and often deemed to be in need of fixing. "With a perm, you could be really cute." "A little eyeliner would really bring your eyes out." "She needs to wax those caterpillars sprouting over her eyes." "She could stand to lose 10 pounds." "Wearing heels would visually lengthen your legs." "Man, she's ugly." "What a dog." You've probably said something like this at least once, and quite possibly been on the receiving end of this sort of judgment or "helpful" suggestion, aimed at wedging each of us into the femininity mold rather than helping us achieve our potential as humans.

Femininity, in fact, can’t even be practiced without stuff (which is one way of debunking the argument that it is an inherited sex trait). It is simply not possible for a woman without makeup and deodorant and lingerie and kitten heels and diet pills and clothes without pockets and anti-wrinkle cream that promises “glowing skin” and self-help books explaining the best ways to suck up to men and jewelry and razors and tweezers and lemon-scented cleaning products and boxes of Lean Cuisine in the freezer — all stuff that must be bought — to be fully feminine.

This is not to say that I will stop shaving my legs or getting highlights, or that I will reject any compliments about a new haircut or cute outfit. But I won't kid myself that I'm furthering the cause of feminism by playing along with femininity and reaping the benefits.

Dispatches from the schoolyard

I just reserved a date for Ben's birthday party at that garish Charles E. Rodent arcade place. It'll be a joint party with one of his friends who also has an April birthday. Yes, the site is loud and horrible to behold with one's eyes, but it entails so little effort on the part of the parent, my dominant lazy gene appreciates the Rat.

The other kid's mom was telling me today about a party her kid was invited to a couple years ago. The venue was Chicago's Navy Pier, and they were going to see Spider-Man 3 and eat at McDonald's and whatnot. And...the hostess informed the invited guests that she'd be needing $55 in advance from each kid ($75 per adult if they wished to accompany their kid). Can you imagine? Planning an expensive party and billing the guests up front? I'm not sure if anyone actually went to the unfortunate boy's birthday party.

This week's school newsletter mentions a child named Treasurer. Is that not the most awesome name ever for a kindergartner? I hope Treasurer doesn't turn out to be a sloppy money manager or an embezzler. (I also hope it wasn't a typo for Treasure, because that's not nearly as funny as a six-year-old Treasurer.)

One of Ben's classmates is named Windy. His parents came to Chicago from the other side of the world and named their son after the Windy City. True story.

That Cooter Festival

I got back yesterday from eight days in Florida. Ah, spring break! Ah, greenery! Ah, warmth! Ben played in the pool every day, and he even figured out how to swim. Yeah. Laps. The technique isn't textbook, but he gets across the pool, mostly with his face in the water, with confidence. The last time he was in a pool, over Labor Day weekend, he couldn't do this.

I thought about going to Inverness to find a "Save a fish, eat a cooter" t-shirt, because Mona had wanted one a couple years ago. But then I Googled that phrase, and found this blog post by a local bemoaning the hick reputation that the lame Cooter Festival was giving the county. (And that county needs all the help it can get—between the Badcock furniture store, Mama's Kuntry Kafe, and the U-Kill-Em self-serve pest control store, it doesn't need any more blows to its elusive sophistication.)

The week in Florida was the most relaxing vacation possible without spa treatments. My mother-in-law cooked a lot, the air and the pool had both just warmed up in time for our trip, we had wireless internet access, we slept late every day, we did laundry a couple times (that counts as relaxing because not having any clean clothes left is stressful), and Ben went in the pool twice a day. Good times. And now, it's an Easter Sunday full of laundry and getting ready for a busy week. And—sigh—there's about 5" of fresh snow on the ground from Friday's storm, only the evergreens are green, and the cold, dry air is working hard to chap my hands, smooth from a week in warmth.