WongoWorld

End of a Romance

2011-04-26T16:21:00.001-04:00

The last typewriter factory in the world closed its doors. It almost feels like the end of a romance. I remember my little Smith Corona in middle school. I used to love the feel of keys underneath my fingers and the smell of the ribbon. Pressing the keys to flip up the type bar and hearing that chick! chick! chick! ding! was downright Chopin-esque. It somehow made me feel closer to my words. As much as I love my computer and its access to the world, I still miss my little blue typewriter.

Bonding Over Underpants

2011-02-05T10:26:00.003-05:00

Everyone else was going for the Barbi and Wonder Woman Underoos, but I knew better. I was holding out for the elusive 1977 Jessica Drew alter ego Spider-Woman. I knew it was there somewhere at UnderooCom 2010. I searched and I searched. From The A-Team to Yoda I stuck my hands in more underpants that day than most people do in a life time. And then - like a holy grail shining at the end of a quest - there it was! I heard a choir singing. Birds were chirping and circling happily. A few more steps... I found them! The magic underpants! (not to be confused with Mormon underpants) Spider-Woman in all of her Underoo glory! I stretched out a hand towards the holy of holies. It was like slow motion. Just when I was about to grab those Underoos...... another hand crashed into mine! How could this be??? They were meant to be mine! This can't be happening! I looked to see the owner of that intrusive hand and there she was. A. The Dream Shatterer J. We stared at each other for what seemed like a lifetime. She was taller than me, yeah, who isn't? Ain't no big. I'm spry. I set my feet in a Clint Eastwood stance and put my hand at the snatch ready. We looked each other in the eyes. I was short, therefore closer to the table haha! And just when I was ready to make my move, the sales guy said, "Hey, dorks! We have two! Sheesh all the freaks come out to these conventions." Deeeeeflated. We grabbed our respective magic Underoos, looked at each other, giggled like the dorks we were and headed towards the Slurpee counter. My tongue turned blue, hers, purple. We've been besties ever since :D

One Night in an Italian Hostel

2010-11-19T12:06:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago I went to a free concert in the park with a friend. There was a very good local cover band playing great songs from Kansas, Styx and spicing it up with some James Brown. At one point they fell into a neat rendition of Led Zeppelin's Stairway To Heaven. For a moment I was transported back to 1989. It was 3 a.m. and I was in an hostel in Livorno, Italy with my Army unit dealing with some jet lag. A group of us sat in the common area doing what musicians do best at 3 a.m. - have an impromptu jam session while drinking some house wine. We had a couple of guitars out, some drum sticks on a wooden table. I was singing. After a while we were joined by the Italians on the night staff, some Dutch and German backpackers and a couple from then Yugoslavia who had just arrived. I was tasked to learned some Italian before the tour to MC our concerts. I wish I would have foreseen a UN delegation over a bottle of wine in the middle of the night! Some of the backpackers knew a little English. Mostly they just listened to us and we exchanged lots of warm, tired smiles and blankets on the tattered, old couch.

Someone started playing Stairway To Heaven on the guitar and I began singing. A few words into the song I realized that everyone was singing along. Everyone. Here I was sitting in an Italian Hostel in the middle of the night with a bunch of strangers from all over the world who I could hardly communicate with, singing a perfect rendition of Stairway To Heaven. Needless to say, lots of wine was shared that night. Everyone made an effort to get to know one another. The Dutch were backpacking through Europe for the adventure. The Germans took a year off of college to see the world. The young couple from Yugoslavia... yeah I think about them every once in a while. They were in love. He was supposed to join the military when they got back. They were scared to death. I often wonder about their fate. A year after that trip the Yugoslav Wars broke out. There's been a lot of suffering. Still is. I hope they made it.

For one night, a group of strangers from all over the world spoke the same language - the language of music. I can't explain the immensity of what we shared, but I carry the feeling with me still.

LUCAAAAAAS!!!

2010-09-30T13:03:00.002-04:00

I don't support you in this, George! Not one bit! The Empire Strikes Back is perfect the way it is! You're gonna make me go to the theater anyway in a stupid old Star Wars T-shirt, aren't you? Just to be able to see Star Wars on the big screen again and share it with people who (gasp!) have never seen the original movies, aren't you? And just in case you're thinking about it, LEAVE THE INDIANA JONES MOVIES ALONE! You're a whore! I punch yo face! Call Steven Spielberg and tell him to make E.T. in 3d! That would be cool. But leave Star Wars alone!

I wish I could quit you...

A Sister's Heartbreak

2010-04-17T00:41:00.012-04:00

A few weeks ago I received a phone call in the middle of the night from my sister. Through giant sobs she managed to say, "...he didn't make it... I can't believe I lost my husband... I love him so much..." I sat in disbelief as I listened to her try to explain. My heart broke for her. She asked me to call our father and brother and give them the news. I could barely compose myself, but somehow I managed to pull myself together and do what she asked. I woke my husband to tell him what had happened. He comforted me until I convinced him to go back to bed. Then I spent the rest of the night watching him sleep. As I write this, my tears simply will not stop falling. I will hear the pain in my sister's voice for as long as I live.

My brother in law was only 47. He had a history of heart problems, but it wasn't his heart that had failed. We believe it was an aneurysm. An autopsy wasn't performed because he was a donor. He saved a few lives that night. He and my beautiful sister have a 10 year old son.

I flew up to be with my sister on the first flight I could get. When I walked into the house and saw her as she turned the corner into the front hall, no words were necessary. Her eyes said it all. I put my arms around her and held her for what seemed like an hour. Her body felt small and fragile as it heaved with sobs. The grief was too heavy for her. I took some of that grief and cried for her, for him, for their son, until she finally found her breath. Some hours later my brother arrived, and the three of us were together for the first time in a few years. We had planned to do something in the summer. This was not what we had in mind.

By the time I reached 28 years of age, my sister and I had already lost the most important women in our lives. Our female mentors, our mother, my godmother and our great aunt, and both grandmothers had been our guides through the feminine labyrinth that life places before all women. I called upon the strength of those wise women for the sake of my sister, for myself. I had never needed it more.

Night time was horrid. She would cover herself in his coat and try to sleep. Every hour or so I would hear her cry and I would just hold her or take her hand. This went on for days. I couldn't leave her side. Wherever she went I would follow her like a shadow and make sure I was there to hold her up or shoo people away. When I would feel inadequate, it was my 10 year old nephew who held his mother up with the strength of Theseus. Her pain was his boulder to lift. My little hero.

There was no funeral for my brother in law. Instead, my sister chose to have a Celebration of Life party. I'm so glad she did. It was beautiful. When we walked in we were greeted with the most unexpected surprise - EVER. A group of women stood at the entrance. I looked at their faces and could not believe my eyes. We had grown up in a small Connecticut town on a street with kids who were our playmates and dear friends. I hadn't seen them in years. And there they were, all grown up, waiting to share this moment with us. I was at a loss for words.

After a loving goodbye to my brother in law, we went back to the house. All of our dear friends and relatives joined us and we spent the evening telling stories and filling the house with laughter and tears. My cousin and I slipped out to get some much needed tequila, cause we're cool like that. We toasted to the memory of the man who gave my sister love, happiness and a beautiful son. I looked around me and realized that surrounding my sister was an entire generation of women. Our cousins, friends and sister in law stood with me and enveloped her with the love and strength of all of the women who came before us. In my mind I saw my mother give a loving nod and a smile. I realized at that moment that she would make it through this.

That same week there was a storm in the North East that left entire towns under water. Just about everyone we knew had damage. My sister's basement flooded and we spent two days bailing out water. It wasn't what I had in mind, but at least it was a distraction.

Here's what that hell of a distraction looked like: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2HZJSWXA5Q&feature=PlayList&p=EBB31E6E96DB6737&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=15

I decided to stay with my sister as long as I could and help her through dreaded quiet that would descend upon her life after everyone else went home. Her bedroom transformed from a place of subtle romance to a dark and dreary cave. She decided to change everything from the curtains and bed sheets to the arrangement of the furniture. We shopped, had lunch in odd places, bonded over silliness. Her darkness was lifting enough that she decided to go back to work. I stopped by with one of my cousins to give her some support while well meaning clients gave her their sympathies. It was tough, but she made it through her first day back, and through the devastating news that Ricky Martin came out in public as a gay man.

As much as I wanted to stay with her, I decided it was time for me to go home. Leaving her was heart wrenching. I'm grateful to the friend who accompanied her home from the airport.

Because of his heart condition, my brother in law was not able to get medical insurance. And now the hospital bills are arriving. Now my sister is left with one income, a son, a mortgage and thousands of dollars in medical bills. I have decided to help her by putting on a benefit. For the first time in my life as a performer I will use my voice to help my sister. She has only asked me for one thing: to record her favorite song for her. I wasn't sure how I was going to do it. Then a few days ago I met with a wonderful pianist who has agreed to help me with this project. It may seem like a simple thing to him, but I don't think I'll ever be able to express to him how much his generosity means to me.

Today my sister told me that she felt more positive about life. Because of his condition, they always knew they were living on borrowed time, and they lived every day as if it were the last. As much as she misses her husband, she is grateful for the time she had with him. I don't think I can ask for more than that.

Political Flashback

2010-03-22T11:59:00.003-04:00

The day after the inauguration I had a really sobering experience. I have a small vending business that I had contracted out that year to a construction site and was lending a hand that day. In the frenzy that was lunchtime I ran into a friend. I was so excited to see him because we had spent the entire presidential campaign season comparing notes and discussing the numbers and just hoping. When I saw him my first reaction was to hug him and jump up and down like a kid seeing a friend after summer vacation in the school yard. When he saw me his eyes lit up and his face showed what can only be described as glee - for a second. Immediately that face turned to fear. He put his hands in a "stop" gesture and looked around as if he were about to get caught doing something wrong. I was alarmed, to say the least. I said, "Hey! What's up?!" He said, "Can you believe it? But we gotta keep it on the down low, cause, you know, there's a lot of pissed off dudes out here and I don't want any trouble!" I took a good look around. There was rather large group of really angry looking white guys and all the black and brown guys looked like they were handling explosives. That's when I noticed how disturbingly quiet it was out there. I don't want to know what might have happened if ebony and ivory started hugging and celebrating in the middle of all that tension. Ever since that day I've been wishing for the President's safety.

Last night's passing of the HCR Bill jarred me back violently to that day on the construction site. Not that it hasn't been an entire year of obvious racial upheaval in politics, and if you don't see that all of this crap being thrown about isn't mostly racially motivated, look again. The lack of respect for this President is unheard of. Even when Bush and Cheney were wiping their asses with the Constitution, there was still a modicum of respect for the Office of the President of the United States. While Bush was "misunderestimating" his command of the English language, not a single person ever had the gall to stand up and hurl slurs in at him during a speech to Congress.

I am so grateful to have friends of so many different cultural backgrounds. We embrace our differences and celebrate them. We learn from and support each other and enjoy the culture that we have created together. Too bad a lot of our leaders can't do the same.

Dumbassism

2010-01-21T23:00:00.001-05:00

Every once in a while I come face to face with a form of racism that's like a benign tumor. It's painful and annoying, but not life threatening. You want to pop it like a giant zit, but it just isn't that easy. This racism comes mostly from those who either don’t know any better, or those who have a sense of entitlement that apparently comes with their skin color. Let's just call it Dumbassism.

For the past three years I have been judging vocal contests in town. What I like about these contests is that they’re an opportunity to introduce people to different types of music. This is important to me because I consider music to be the one language we all can share. What I have found is that most participants come out of this not only having improved themselves vocally, but also having acquired a new appreciation for music. Much like the American Idol format, this is done by having the participants learn a song from a different genre every week. It challenges people to sing things they never thought they could sing.

This week the genre was R&B. Everyone knows what R&B is, right? Wrong. Wrong as wrong can be. More wrong than a spam daiquiri. More wrong than a poopcicle. More wrong than Ray Comfort’s relationship with bananas. Here are a few shudder worthy examples of questions I was asked:

· Does R&B stand for Rap & Boy Bands?

· Is it true that Michael Jackson invented R&B?

· I don’t know any R&B. Can I just sing some Whitney Houston?

I’d go on, but it’s too painful. The people who asked me these questions honestly did not know what R&B was, just like they don’t know who Beethoven is. I took the opportunity to give a music history lesson, and to my great surprise, found that most people knew more than they thought they knew. They just didn’t know they knew. Well, now they know – ya know?

I suppose what surprised me the most was the fact that the people running the contest, who are professional DJs, knew even less about R&B than the contestants did. And to my dismay, did nothing to learn about it. How can one be a DJ and not know about different genres of music? How can they not want to learn? I have been working along side these people for three years now and until last night, I had no idea they thought this way. I tried to shrug off the thought because how could I be friends with them and not realize this until now? I was left with a feeling that, sadly, I knew all too well.

At the end of the evening the DJs were making a list of awards for the finale and asked my opinion. The first thing I did was correct a horrible grammar error before it made it to the engraver. I explained the mistake and was told, “I can’t believe a Puerto Rican is correcting MY English. I mean someone who speaks Spanish is correcting ME.” I’ll give you a moment to digest this, because it took me a moment as well………3, 2, 1. “Yes. I speak two languages fluently. I can communicate effectively in two others. You, however, can barely speak one.”

What angers me most is the fact that for them it was a normal reaction. They had no problem referring to me as a lesser human being simply because that’s how they’re used to thinking and they don’t see anything wrong with that. I can only conclude that the reason they didn’t bother to learn anything about R&B was racism. I would love for someone to prove me wrong.

I'm at a loss. I can usually tell within five minutes of meeting someone if they're an asshole or not. These are people who I welcomed into my home, people who my husband and I have helped time and again without reservation. How is it that all of a sudden my ethnicity is a problem? If my leg worked better I'd kick myself.

Ah... Wait. "I'm having one of those things.... A headache with pictures!"(Phillip J. Fry) Of course. Sigh.... As long as I'm giving critiques to other people, everything is honky dory. The second I criticize or correct them, yes.... that's it. Nice. I must have a weakness somewhere in my defense shields. I'll get right on that.

Not that this is my first foray into Dumbassism. I have spent my whole life dealing with it. From dumbass childhood school mates to teachers who discouraged me from furthering my education because, “Puerto Rican girls end up pregnant anyway. Why bother applying to a university?” to grown up bit... uh... women my own age who upon learning that I am Hispanic ask me to clean their homes. I have an education. I gave 21 years of my life to the military. I help people whenever possible. But it doesn’t matter what I have accomplished in my life. I am three of the hardest things to be in this country: a woman of color, a person with a disability, and an Atheist. I am so sick of this shit! Look, racist assholes, learn to play with others! Dumbasses!

The most important thing that I am is a Human Being. This is what we all are. Why is it so hard to look at people and see the Humanity? Why do we constantly have to treat people as if they have less value than others? I feel like I’m walking in mud. I’m incensed. There’s only one week left in this contest. I’m going to see it through, but unless minds are somehow opened, I don’t think I’ll be judging the next one.

Also, I discovered that certain vitamins make you poop different colors. J

Like Mother, Like Daughter, Turns Out...

2009-10-10T12:04:00.010-04:00

Last year my father had heart surgery. It was pretty grim. And I was, for the most part, alone taking care of him. See, I don't have children so everyone assumes I have to do everything, because only people with children have responsibilities. I have a husband, own a small business and teach private voice and brass instruments classes, but none of that counts if you don't have kids. Not that I minded taking care of my father. I'll do what it takes. The only person in my family who has ever made me feel loved just for who I am as a person, even when we bicker, is my dad. But after so many days straight of not sleeping or eating I was starting to get pretty cranky. If my dad's cousin hadn't stepped in and relieved me a couple of nights I would have gone completely nuts.

I have a rather large family. My father is the youngest of 8 children. So when my dad needed a third transfusion I figured they would step up. Boy, was I wrong. Before the surgery my cousin and his wife and I gave blood, but that was used quickly. There wasn't enough for a third transfusion. I called my aunt and asked her for help. She said she would call her church for donors. I waited and waited and no one came. So I called an Army friend for help and exactly thirty minutes later there was a person hooked up to a bag donating for my father, then a couple more, then they took more from me since I was the "Emergency Direct Donor". See, in Puerto Rico,I found out, whenever you go in for a surgery you have to bring donors to replace the blood that you are using because there is a huge shortage of blood. Luckily I have the same blood type as my father.

Crisis averted and two days later I returned to my father's room from getting some coffee and found a group of people from the church gathered around his bed. There was my aunt with a bunch of strangers holding bibles. My father looked at me with pleading eyes and clenched teeth. He was not happy and neither was I. They couldn't give blood or help me out with a little bit of a break, but they're here to pray? In Puerto Rico hospitals you also have to be there 24/7 to make sure your loved one gets the right medication and a freaking bath due to the serious shortage of nurses. Not to mention look out for well meaning morons who show up with food you're not supposed to give a diabetic, like dad's roommate's wife. All of this was going through my head as the preacher lady opened her mouth to spew her verbal vomit. That was it. I lost it. And all of a sudden, in front of my father, family members and a bunch of unwelcome strangers - I came out. Talk about a show stopper.

Although I've been calling myself an Atheist for over twelve years, I've been one since the day all the nuns in my Catholic school took all the girls to the basement of the building to explain to us all about the menstrual cycle we were going to have when he hit puberty, and how it was our punishment for being born sinful girls, and how there would be pain because of Eve and yada, yada, yada. I was like - are you fucking kidding me? Except for flushing bananas down the toilet, I hadn't done anything sinful! I had a lot of questions. And when no one would answer me I took it upon myself to read the bible and my brother's biology book to try to understand what was going on. It was the best thing I could have done. Aesop's Fables made more sense. This was no punishment. This was nature. Not that it still didn't suck, it just made me feel better that it wasn't inflicted upon me by some angry, woman hating, invisible man. But I digress.

The filter between my brain and mouth was broken. Before I knew it, I heard myself saying something like, "You couldn't pray and give blood at the same time? Don't do us any favors with your useless prayers now!", and ended with something like, "If your Jesus actually existed, he probably would have given some of that blood he's always leaving all over perfectly good linen!" My cousin's wife grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out to the hall. I told her, "They have thirty seconds to leave that room."

It's a year later now and after a painful recovery and lots of disillusionment, my dad now lives with me in Florida. I'm so relieved to have him with me. No more worrying about his health from afar, no more emergency trips. I also realize that this is an opportunity to learn more about my mother. The other day my father made a comment that pinched my heart. He said, "There's a lot about your mother that you don't know." Well that's the understatement of the year. There wasn't exactly an outpouring of family information thrown about when I was a kid. My mother in particular had very little to say about her family. Everything was always so secretive. My mother succumbed to brain cancer when I was only 28. And between school and the military I had spent all of my adult life away from home. When she passed I felt like I never got a chance to know her. Not really. I missed out on the opportunity to do things with her as an adult myself, the benefit of her experience as a woman and her views on life in general. There's not a void, there's a black hole.

I look a lot like my mother. I have her facial expressions and her sense of humor. When she died it was hard for my father to be around me at first. I don't blame him. But it sure was hard on me. To this day I can't even be around some family members without them staring at me. Freaks...

Dad told me a story about my mother sneaking a bunch of "For Sale" and "For Junk" signs on his cousin's crappy cars. I couldn't believe it - I had pulled the same prank on a drummer friend of mine who drives a really crappy car. He told me, "You are more like your mother than you know. She was an Atheist, too." My jaw dropped. "Yeah, she never believe in any of that. The only reason you kids were put in a Catholic school was because the nurse at the public school you were in wanted to have you admitted to a hospital for Palor, because you had white skin and red hair and since you were Puerto Rican, you were supposed to be black."

I remember that day clear as a bell. I was sent, along with my older sister, to the school nurse for a required exam. I remember she was looking at our paperwork and had quite the confused look on her face. She kept pulling at my copper hair, looking at it closely and pinching my skin. Then she would open my sister's green eyes really wide and flash a light in them, then back to my hair. So annoying. Finally she picked up the phone and called my mother. A few seconds later I distinctly remember hearing my mother yell, "What?!" I could hear her yelling into the phone from the other side of the nurse's room. She sounded even more pissed than that time she found the doll head I tried to flush down the toilet. (yeah yeah I used to flush all kinds of shit) The nurse turned pale, even for a "white" lady, and looked like she was going to puke. My sister and I looked at each other and figured someone in the room was in a lot of trouble, and thank goodness it wasn't either one of us. Then next thing we know, I swear, my mother showed up in a fairy godmother *POOF!*. My mother was as white as me with the same green eyes my sister had, and there she stood yelling at this woman who kept getting smaller with every word. I learned a few words that day: Ignorant, Racist and Bitch. We were then pulled out of school.

My mother was an Atheist who never came out, not even to us. When I asked my father why she never talked about it, he said she thought everyone had to figure things out for themselves. Then I asked him what he thought, he said "I'm not a fan of religion."

I miss my mother. Having my dad here sharing his memories of her gives her back to me in a way. So I guess I have them both. Thinking back I realize that I grew up in a home that was filled with all kinds of music, books, games, we recreated lots of things from different cultures like miniature pyramids, and discussed different mythologies. They gave me the tools I needed in order to become a thoughtful, reasonable person. Boy were they sneaky rents.

Reflections on 9/11

2009-09-11T14:49:00.003-04:00

I thought about writing about my experiences during and after the attack on 9/11, but honestly, I just can't do it. What I can say is that after 9/11, well, I just never felt the same in my uniform.

To my fellow soldiers in the Pentagon who didn't make it, it was a cowardly attack and as soldiers you did not deserve to die this way. No one did. Not in New York - not in Pennsylvania.

To my fellow soldiers and friends who went to Iraq, Afghanistan and Saudi Arabia, I hope that what little I was able to do Stateside was at least enough to provide some relief for you and help make you safer.

To my fellow soldiers and friends who didn't make it back - I thank you, I love you, I miss you.

To my Primo-Hermano Colo, I can't tell you how happy I was to hear your voice and know that you were safe after so many months without communication. I'm so happy you finally came home last month!

The last time I played TAPS in uniform was for the son of a friend who was killed in Iraq. That was the day I decided never to do it again for family or friends. It was even harder than playing TAPS for my uncle. It's the hardest thing I've ever done as a musician. I think if everyone in the world had a chance to do it and share that moment with the grieving family, we'd all be a little nicer to each other.

It's eight years later and we still can't figure out how to live together in this world. We can't even figure out how to live together as Americans. Maybe one day we'll figure out that kindness is the greatest weapon against "evil". That education is the greatest weapon against suffering. And that loving humanity isn't a bad thing.

One day.

Thank You For Your Service

2009-06-23T10:46:00.007-04:00

Before my official retirement from the military I had an interview with the HR office. All of my paperwork should have been up to date, but considering that the same documents were submitted three times and lost three times, I showed up with copies. To my surprise, everything was there. All of my retirement points were accounted for, and that's what I cared most about. I had already gone through my documentation with my Unit Administrator, so I didn't see a need to have a meeting with HRO. The person interviewing me, who we'll call Sgt Rivera, cause that's her name, and who was about seven months pregnant, had called me to her office because of my beneficiary papers. I changed them when I married a few years earlier to make my husband the primary beneficiary, and my father and nephew alternates. She insisted that I update it to add my children before my retirement date. The following is the conversation that ensued as clearly as I can remember, which is very clear because that bitch pissed me off so much I couldn't forget if I wanted to:

"I don't have any children to add."

"You don't have children?"

"No, I don't have children. Does my cat count?"

"No. But you ARE going to have children, aren't you?"

"Uh, no. I'm NOT going to have children."

She somehow managed to shrink her mouth into a pucker tighter than my cat's ass and elongate her face to look like my pissy 6th grade teacher, Miss Lynch. She got pretty darned snooty at this point and I was getting visions of turning her desk over in a fit of rage, but I didn't, because it occurred to me that my shit was tight, and hers wasn't, and that made me happy.

"But you HAVE to have children!"

"I don't HAVE to have anything!"

"You get married to have children. If you didn't want any children, why did you bother to get married?"

Now normally when confronted with a total asshole of a human being, I try to find ways of dealing with that person which will somehow end in peace, not pieces. But she was pushing it. I noticed a picture of her and her husband and three kids on her desk. And another on the way? I thought that maybe she was hormonal or having a bad day, but obviously, this was a thought out plan brought about by the assumption that every woman is supposed to pop out babies, cause that's our primary function. Well, fuck that! Wasn't she popping them out enough for the both of us? My husband and I were incredibly happy with our life and we wanted to keep it that way.

"I got married because I love my husband, not because I wanted to have children. Never in my entire life do I even remember wanting to have children. And besides having some physical issues that I won't get into, why should I do something I don't feel naturally inclined to do?"

"You'd feel differently if you had a child."

"No, you'd feel differently if I had a child."

"Well, that's your decision."

"Exactly. My decision and absolutely none of your business. Let me ask you something. Were you trained to be this rude? Or did you get the job for your natural ability? Because as far as I know, in the 21 years that I have served, Self Righteous Bullshit wasn't a requirement to wear the uniform. So if the inappropriate judgemental portion of this interview is over, I'd like to get on with my retirement. "

I always find it amazing how people who are pregnant assume that they should be treated like holy vessels doing the world the great favor of overpopulating the planet. A week before this conversation I was walking with my dad in the city. We were passing in front of the Hard Rock Cafe and the music was so loud that you could feel it on the sidewalk and through your feet. At that very moment a car pulled up in front of us and a door was thrown open. Out hopped a woman with a baby, a toddler and a magically opening stroller right in our way. It was all so fast that my dad, who has problems with sudden stops and turns thanks to a stroke, almost fell over. I imagine that the look on my face did not convey it's usual cheerful glow. I held on to my dad and stared her down. There she stood in front of me with her Diagon Alley stroller, ready to take children into the city's loudest restaurant and she had the nerve to look at us as if we were the ones in HER way. So I stood there and waited for her to get out of OUR way. Finally she moved and as I was guiding my dad away she said, "It's obvious you don't have children!". Oh no she di-int. I turned around and walked right up to her and said in the lowest most controlled voice I could muster, "No, I don't have children, but if I did, I wouldn't use them as road blocks and I certainly wouldn't take them to a loud and crowded adult place like this. If I owned this business I would ban people like you for the sake of the children whose hearing you put in jeopardy, and for the sake of the customers who come here to eat, drink and listen to Hard Rock, not miserable children screaming because their parents are assholes who care more about themselves than their children's well being. Have a nice day." She was stunned, needless to say, so my work there was done. She was lucky that my dad didn't fall. I honestly don't know what I would have done. But I digress.

Sgt Rivera closed my folder and said that my paperwork was complete. She didn't look at me, she didn't wish me a happy retirement, she didn't thank me for my years of service. It didn't matter how many medals, awards or citations I had. My accomplishments and dedication to my country meant nothing. I was a selfish human being because I chose not to have children. I got up, gathered my things and walked out.

There's a big difference between being a smart ass and being rude. I love being a smart ass. Probably because I can't help it, and it's usually in good fun. I don't like being rude. As a matter of fact, I'm totally against rudeness. It makes me crazy to have to defend myself as a result of other people's rudeness. I hope I never do anything that would force other people to flip out as a result of my rudeness. And I wish there was some kind of procreation law that said people had to pass certain requirements in order to procreate - like not be assholes or stupid. And if you insist on wanting a big family, you should be required to adopt kids who need a family. That's the kind of family I'd like to see on TLC.

I love my cat.

I vs. Me / Between you and me

2009-06-21T20:27:00.002-04:00

One of my biggest pet peeves is the improper use of "I" and "me" and "between you and me". It's especially annoying when used incorrectly by people who I know aren't dummies.

I vs. Me:

Simply put, "I" is a pronoun that must be the subject of a verb. "Me" is a pronoun that must be the object of the verb.

I is the first person singular subject pronoun, which means that it refers to the person performing the action of a verb.

David and I went to the store.

Me is an object pronoun, which means that it refers to the person that the action of a verb is being done to, or to which a preposition refers.

He told Judy and me to have a nice day.

The easiest way to decipher the two is to remove the other noun from the sentence and see if it still makes sense:

Incorrect

Correct

Me went to the store.

I went to the store.

David and me went to the store.

(Sound silly? Yes - and cavemannish.)

David and I went to the store.

Incorrect

Correct

He told I to have a nice day.

He told me to have a nice day.

He told Judy and I to have a nice day.

(Sounds silly and, I have to say, pretentious

and douchebaggy.)

He told Judy and me to have a nice day.

Incorrect

Correct

She brought I a drink.

She brought me a drink.

She brought Tom and I a drink.

She brought Tom and me a drink.

or reverse:

Incorrect

Correct

She brought a drink to I.

She brought a drink to me.

She brought and a drink to Tom and I.

(Again, pretentious sounding.)

She brought a drink to Tom and me.

Between you and me:

Between is a preposition like with, to and from. A preposition must be followed by an indirect object pronoun. Me is an indirect object pronoun, and I is a subject pronoun. Therefore, between has to be followed by me, not I.

Incorrect

Correct

He went with I.

He went with me.

He gave it to I.

He gave it to me.

It's a gift from I.

It's a gift from me.

The teacher wants to talk to you and I.

The teacher wants to talk to you and me.

The issue is between you and I.

The issue is between you and me.

Still confused about I or me? If I was doing something, I would use I. If I was doing something with someone else, I would use I. If something was happening to me, I would use me. If it was happening to someone else and me, I would use me.

Still confused about between? It's ALWAYS "between you and me", Never "between you and I". That's the rule.

Ow. My brain...

Sources:

The Blue Book of Grammar and Punctuation by Jane Straus and Mignon Fogart

The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language by Rodney D. Huddleston and Geoffrey K. Pullum

What's So Great About Being An Atheist?

2009-06-15T13:59:00.004-04:00

I wrote the following in response to a wonderful piece titled "What Atheism Offers Over Christianity", written by my friend, Dusty http://www.cultofdusty.com/.

I hope more than anything that there ISN’T a god because if there is, that would imply that he is a sadistic bastard who knew what awful things were going to befall humanity, but went ahead with the lab project anyway. And if somehow some religioutard can prove without a doubt that god exists, then I want to bring the bastard up on charges of cruelty and neglect, among other things. Sexist psychopath. I would like someone to explain to me what possible reason could there be to put a tree in the middle of a garden with fruit on it, and tell two people with maturity of a toddler, who have never dealt with the concept of consequence or right from wrong, not to eat from that tree, then leave them alone with it. That's like putting a child in a room alone with a bowl of broccoli and a bowl of M&Ms and expect him to only eat the broccoli and then punish him and humanity for all of eternity for eating the pretty red ones. Most of all, how it is that women all across the world accept Jesus Christ into their hearts, get baptized, forgiven of all sin to be Born Again clean in the lord, and still have massive cramps and total pain in childbirth and still believe. Wasn’t that the punishment of original sin? And weren’t women and men created equal before the original sin? Still second class citizens in all religions no matter how dedicated they are. I honestly believe that is the purpose of religion - to control people’s property and keep women in their place - under rule and subjugation of men.

A relationship with god is like a relationship with an abusive husband. In order to be treated kindly you have to do everything that he says, and even then you get your ass kicked - but he loves you and that’s why he punishes you. He gives you free will, but you can't use it. As far as following a religion, fear is the basic tool of recruitment. Manipulation is the basic tool of management and control. Stockholm Syndrome anyone? I fear and love my captor. How sick is that?

Want to know what is great about being an Atheist? I choose to be a good person and actually feel compassion for living things of my own volition. I don’t do it out of fear, or in expectation of great rewards. I don't do it to feel morally superior to others. This makes my kindness all the more worthwhile - because it comes from my heart, not my fear or duty. I also accept the fact that I am human and make mistakes. I am human - and part of the world’s evolution - the greatest part - because I am aware of the fragility of life and the world, and of the responsibility that awareness entails. That is what makes being a human being the greatest thing. If I hurt someone I answer to that person and try to make amends - to them - not an invisible man or a stranger in a booth. I was born without that which does not exist - sin. I choose to either do wrong, or do right. And unless I have some kind of mental or physical issue that I am incapable of overcoming, I am responsible for my actions. Me. No demons, no spirits, me.

I'm not ashamed of who I am. I've made good and bad decisions, but they were mine to make. And whatever bad things have happened to me, they weren't punishment for being a woman or a sinner. They were results of other people's or my own actions, or just shit that happens in life. They are a part of my evolution as a person, so I wouldn't be who I am without them, no matter how horrible some of them may have been. So when someone comes to me and says I have to believe in Jesus Christ or whatever the Deity du jour is, otherwise I will burn in hell, I’ll have to say “Pass the freaking sunblock".

Between Science and Religion

2009-06-01T16:35:00.000-04:00

The endless online debates on the origins of the universe almost always end up with someone spewing out the fact that a priest proposed the Big Bang theory. Yes. It's true. A Roman Catholic Priest DID propose the theory. Can't argue with the facts. But more often than not, when questioned about said priest, it's apparent that while they spout this fact with an air of superiority, they demonstrate a void of information. Most simply have no idea who he was. And I suspect that if he were alive today, he would be offended by the frivolity with which his scientific achievement is thrown about. If there ever was an advocate for the separation of science and religion, it was he.

[1]Monsignor Georges Henri Joseph Édouard Lemaître (1894-1966) had a classical education at a Jesuit secondary school (Collège du Sacré-Coeur, Charleroi), an afterwards began studying civil engineering at the Catholic University of Leuven at the age of 17. In 1914, he interrupted his studies to serve as an artillery officer in the Belgian army for the duration of WWI. At the end of hostilities, he received the Military Cross with palms. After the war, he studied physics and mathematics, and began to prepare for priesthood. He obtained his doctorate in 1920 with a thesis entitled l'Approximation des fonctions de plusieurs variables réelles (Approximation of functions of several real variables), written under the direction of Charles de la Vallée-Poussin. He was ordained a priest in 1923, and in the same year became a graduate student in astronomy at the University of Cambridge, spending a year at St Edmund's House (now St. Edmund’s College, Cambridge). He worked with Arthur Eddington who initiated him into modern cosmology, stellar astronomy, and numerical analysis. He spent the following year at Harvard College Observatory in Cambridge, Massachusetts with Harlow Shapley, who had just gained a name for his work on nebulae, and at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he registered for the doctorate in sciences.

Lemaître’s work put him in an impressive and exclusive league with brilliant minds such as Albert Einstein and Edwin Hubble. And in spite of his achievements, he still contended that cosmology and religion had no similarities. At the Solvay Conference it was suggested to him by theoretical physicist Paul Dirac that cosmology is the branch of science that lies closest to religion. In disagreement he suggested that psychology may be closest to religion. So strong was his conviction, that when Pope Pius XII in 1951 took the position that the Big Bang theory confirmed the biblical creation story, Lemaître was greatly embarrassed. He later met with the Pope and cautioned on drawing parallels between scientific theory and the book of Genesis. From then on he published no further research on the Big Bang.

What Georges Lemaître did was courageous and progressive. He maintained a rigid boundary between science and religion. Science asks how, religion asks why. He knew this and lived by it. He once said, “There is no conflict between science and religion”. If Webster defines science as “a system of knowledge covering general truths or the operation of general laws especially as obtained and tested through scientific method: concerned with the physical world and its phenomena”, and defines religion as “the service and worship of God or the supernatural”, then he is correct. The only conflict is the eternal one between people.

Additional source: The Pari Dialogues: Essays in Science, Religion, Society and the Arts, by F. David Peat

Hail This!

2009-05-23T22:19:00.000-04:00

Hail Ovaries full of Eggs

The Midol is with You

Blessed art thou among Stockholders

And blessed is the Cramping of your Womb

Jesus Christ!

Are you kidding me?

Holy shit!

Screw the fish and the bread!

Multiply Chocolate!

Now and at the hour of our Menopause

Amen

CONVERSATIONS WITH A STRANGER: THE SUIT

2009-05-16T13:58:00.000-04:00

“I hate flying.”

“You do have the option of getting off the plane.”

He gave me that look most people give when they hear unexpected honesty. He was in his forties. I bet if I asked him he would say he was in his thirties. He smelled of expensive cologne mixed with a non-compatible body chemistry. His eyes were a dull almost blue. His eyebrows looked recently waxed – something I could never put myself through. He had the beginnings of a receding hairline, light brown hair that had a bit too much product in it, and he had attempted to comb it in that carefree look boy bands wear in music videos. His hands were perfectly manicured. He wore an Armani suit, black with a painfully white shirt and a silk tie with black, blue and white diagonal stripes. His shoes were shiny. He probably had them done at the airport. I imagined him sitting in the tall chair assuming an air of aristocracy, never once looking down at the human being shining his shoes for a living, making believe he understood what he read in The Wall Street Journal. This man was a walking affront to my senses.

“Of course not. It would take forever to get to Hartford in a Limo.”

“Of course.”

We were in first class. He paid for his seat, I was given an upgrade. We were flying from Chicago to Hartford and the plane was completely booked. After we got settled in our seats the pilot announced that we were third in line for take off. Five minutes later he announced that due to sudden bad weather we were delayed for about thirty minutes.

“Double crap!”

I could see that this man’s dominion of the English language equaled his skill with hair gel.

“Can you believe this? Now we’re going to be late getting into Hartford!”

His deductive reasoning was also impressive. I couldn’t help but smile as I sat in witness of possibly the only person ever to fly out of Chicago in the winter expecting there to be no delays.

“I guess we’re stuck here for a while.”

“I guess.”

“I can’t believe it’s snowing.”

“And it’s only December.”

He busied himself by cursing nature for having the audacity to interfere with his plans, and probably his shoe shine. Out of obvious frustration he concluded that meaningless chit chat was probably the way to go. Shifting his almost blue eyes in annoyance from the window to me and back he began asking questions.

“So where are you headed?”

“Hartford.”

His waxed eyebrows attempted to meet in the middle to form a confused expression, but a recent visit from the Botox fairy made it an impossible feat.

“Well, yes. Hartford, but, I mean, will you be staying in Hartford?”

“No.”

“I have a big meeting, insurance business.”

“Hartford is the insurance capitol of the world.”

“It sure is!”

He seemed pleased that his destination was the capitol of something in the world. I wondered weather or not he knew Hartford was in the state of Connecticut.

The flight attendant offered us a drink. I chose ginger ale and he chose Champagne. Later I thought that alcohol would make this trip much more pleasant, but decided against it. Alcohol makes me more of a wise ass and this guy, as offensive as he was to me, didn’t know he was being offensive. I couldn’t punish his ignorance until we got off the ground and he had no where to go.

He took a good look at me for the first time in the forty minutes we had been sitting next to each other. I was wearing a black long sleeve shirt that had “WTF?” in pink across the front, a pair of jeans and my black Harley boots, inside of which I wore pink sox with the word “Groovy” around the ankle. My straightened brown hair was almost down to the middle of my back. I wore large silver hoop earrings that for some reason always make the alarms go off in the security scanner. (Me thinks a scam twas afoot at ye olde market.) I had pink lip gloss that made me look as if I had just eaten an Italian icy. I was sure his critical look wasn’t intentional, but I could tell he would have been happier with a tall blonde. It pleased me to disappoint him by not conforming to his Barbie standards.

The pilot announced his apologies for the delay and said he was sure we’d be on our way soon. The flight attendant freshened up our drinks and tried to keep a smile on her face when the suit with a person in it next to me complemented the way her uniform fit to the curves of her body. My skin attempted to crawl away from me, but managed to control itself. The flight attendant’s skin had a more difficult time with the task.

He chugged his Champagne like a college student at a frat party. It occurred to me that although he was trying to display a worldly demeanor, he was actually afraid of flying. I decided to use this information for entertainment purposes.

“Do you think the door to the cockpit can withstand gun shots?”

“What gunshots?”

“Terrorist gunshots.”

“Terrorists?!”

The Botox effect seemed to break and I thought I heard a “ping” come from his forehead.

"What terrorists?”

He looked around the plane, then at me and laughed nervously. He got his manliness back in check and began to study the door as if he were an engineer.

“I’m sure it’s structurally sound.”

“I don’t know. Is that a crack?”

“Where?!”

“My mistake. Just a shadow.”

He asked for another drink, this time a Scotch and soda. This he sipped slowly, much to the relief of the flight attendant. If he kept this up he would be cut off before we left the ground.

“I heard that a flock of geese got into an engine and took down a 747.”

He swallowed the Scotch in one big gulp and then tried to focus on the reflection of the lights off of his shoes. Thinking that my work was done, I took out one of my books and started to read. Fifteen minutes later we were finally headed down the runway. It took quite an effort for The Suit to maintain his composure, but the alcohol had given him just the right amount of courage to make it through lift off and later ask out the flight attendant.

He had lost his nervousness. I could see the silly look on his face people get when they are well on their way to getting hammered. After a while he started to get bored. I offered him one of my books, but when he saw that the title contained a word he could neither pronounce nor identify, he gave it back to me. Soon the finger tapping began and I realized that my suspicion that everything you do comes back to bite you in the ass was correct. Nevertheless, it satisfied me to know that his drinking would come back to bite him in the ass tomorrow.

I could see him mentally searching for a topic of conversation. After quite the struggle and some really interesting attempts at facial expressions he finally turned to me and spoke.

“If you were alone on a deserted island and could have only one thing to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“What kind of Island?”

“You know, surrounded by water.”

“Did you get geography lessons from Dan Quayle or George W.?”

“Huh?”

“Well there are all kinds of islands. The British Isles, Easter Island, Canary Islands, the Azores, Long Island, Treasure Island, the Island of Dr. Morreau, the island Pipi Longstocking’s father got lost in…..”

“A tropical island!”

“Caribbean, Polynesian…”

“Caribbean!”

“U.S. territory, British, French, Cuba, Hispaniola…”

“What does it matter? An undiscovered island in the Caribbean.”

“There are no undiscovered islands in the Caribbean.”

“O.K. Let’s make believe there’s one undiscovered island in the Caribbean and you’re stuck on it.”

“Is it in the Bermuda Triangle?”

"What’s the difference?!”

“That would explain why it’s undiscovered.”

“Fine. You’re stranded on an undiscovered island in the somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle.”

“How did I get there?”

“What?”

“How did I happen to become stranded? Was I on a fated three hour tour? A plaaaaane craaaaaash?”

“A cruise a cruise!”

“What type of cruise?”

“A Titanic type of cruise.”

“I would never board a ship named “Titanic””

“Not the Titanic, something like it.”

“Would I be the only survivor?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to everyone else?”

“They died.”

“How?”

“Look, just answer the question!”

“Oooookay. Well, let’s see. What was the question again?”

“Miss, can I get another drink please?”

She served him a drink which was more soda than Scotch, but by this point he didn’t notice. He took a swig and turned towards me, determined to get an answer.

“Let’s try this again. Okay. If you were the only survivor of a cruise not named the Titanic, stranded on an undiscovered island somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle, and there was only one thing you could eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Do I get a microwave oven?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Then there’s electricity on the island.”

“I guess.”

“Huh… an undiscovered island rich in tourism resources. So if there’s electricity and a microwave oven, is there a hotel?”

“How could there be a hotel on a deserted island?”

“Where else would you put the microwave oven?”

“Fine. Some one put a hotel there, but they’re all gone now.”

“Where did they go?”

“I don’t know! They’re just gone!”

“Bananas.”

“What?”

“My answer is bananas.”

“Out of all the food in the world you choose bananas?”

“If it's good enough for Ray Comfort, it's good enough for me, even if he has no clue where modern bananas come from.”

“Then what do you need the microwave oven for?”

“I don’t.”

He finished off the remainder of his soda and Scotch. Then he took off his jacket and rolled up his immaculately ironed shirt sleeves.

“Why bananas? Why not something like Lobster Thermadore?”

”It wouldn’t matter what I chose.”

“Of course it matters.”

“After week of the same food I’d hate it anyway.”

“Wouldn’t you want something more satisfying?”

“What’s more satisfying than a food that can keep you alive and entertained at the same time?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Kirk Cameron got it.”

“I would have chosen something else.”

“It’s your loss, Diddy.”

I thought I saw a slight crack form on his forehead. It reminded me of that scene in the movie “Superman” when the Hoover Dam begins to crack after an earthquake and young Jimmy Olsen stares at it in fascinated disbelief, then falls hundreds of feet to his death, only to be plucked out of the air by Superman just in the nick of time. Unfortunately for The Suit, Superman isn’t here.

This guy was a glutton for punishment. After about ten minutes he started talking to me again.

“Have you ever seen that guy on T.V. who asks actors that list of weird questions at the end of the interview?”

“Yes I have.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yes I do.”

“Um, well what is it?”

“What’s what?”

“His name!”

“James Lipton.”

“That’s it!”

“I’m glad you agree.”

For a moment he took an interest in his manicured hands. He whipped out a nail file with the disturbing grace of the newly discovered appendix in the male evolution, the Metrosexual (the definition of which is another subject worthy of a doctoral thesis). When he finished perfecting the nail of the index finger on his left hand he turned to ask me yet another philosophical question. I don’t think he knew how to spell “philosophical”.

“If you went to heaven and God met you at the pearly gates, what would you want to hear him say to you?”

“I thought it was St. Peter who met you at the pearly gates.”

“That’s not what James Lipton asks.”

“Maybe James Lipton should ask Mel Gibson.”

“But that’s how he asks the question on the show!”

“How does James Lipton know it’s God and not St. Peter?”

“I don’t know! That’s just what he says!”

“Did St. Peter take a vacation?”

“I, I don’t know! Maybe he takes a vacation once in a while.”

“So James Lipton is wrong.”

“I don’t know! That’s just how he asks the question!”

“Maybe St. Peter asks Mel Gibson permission to take a vacation, then he sends a fax of his schedule to the Pope, who then sends it to James Lipton.”

He picked up the napkin off of his tray and wiped his strained forehead. I could almost see the muscles of his face fighting to maintain their integrity, as if the Botox was some kind of force field being attacked by a barrage of photon torpedoes. With the shields at maximum, the pressure is just too much for the engines to handle. This guy is really fun to watch!

“Sorry about that PMS thing.”

“What?”

“That’s what I’d want God to say to me.”

“PMS thing?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s, uh, interesting.”

“Unless He’s willing to explain talking donkeys and public stoning to me.”

He stared at me in silence for a moment with a blank look on his face. He couldn’t seem to respond. Or maybe his face stopped working. Apparently he was expecting me to ask him the same question and when I failed to meet his expectations he spoke with a slight hint of pain in his voice. Or his face broke.

“Don’t you want to know what I would want to hear God say?”

I had to think about this. Here is a person who doesn’t seem to do well with the truth, so I lied, which for me was a highly unusual display of compassion for The Suit. If his answer involved any girl from Baywatch I was going to get a drink myself.

“Of course. Tell me. What would you want to hear God say to you when He met you at the pearly gates?”

“I’d want him to say, “Welcome, my son. There’s a seat waiting for you in the finest restaurant in heaven.””

“What’s the name of the restaurant? The Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe? No, that would be too ironic.”

“Um, I don’t know. Why would that be ironic?”

“Never mind. How do you know it’s the finest restaurant?”

“Cause God said so!”

“So God’s a food critic and St. Peter’s sub at the gates?”

“No, I dunno!”

“When does God have time to go to restaurants? You’d think He had more important things to do, like smiting and that whole wrath of Himself thing with hurricanes and tsunamis and Rush Limbaugh. I think God’s a Republican. ”

“Well I’m sure He doesn’t, but, what?”

“Maybe St. Peter is the food critic and that’s his second job cause God doesn’t pay him enough to be able to take a vacation.”

“He could be, but, wait. I’m confused.”

“Naw, if anyone in heaven would be a food critic it would be Uriel. I read somewhere that he’s getting a show on Bravo. That boy's as slippery as a cat fart.”

“Who?”

“You know, for some one who has dinner regularly with God you sure don’t know much about his home boys.”

“My drink’s getting low.”

“I bet that doesn’t happen in God’s restaurant.”

Two drinks later we were nearing Hartford. The Suit seemed so happy I could have sworn I saw tears of joy in his eyes. Or maybe his face really did break. It could also be that he was totally hammered. When we finally deplaned, he turned to me and hugged me and thanked me for the pleasant conversation. Then the nice men from security kindly escorted him to his luggage and a cab.

Nostalgic Musings

2009-04-03T16:15:00.000-04:00

I used to have a pencil box. It was purple, plastic and had few, but colorful stickers on it. Inside the box resided #2 pencils, color pencils, big fat pencils with big fat erasers, smooth sided pencils, chewed up pencils, pencils with points on both ends, a special pencil filled with rocks that I got at a school field trip to a science center, white erasers, pink erasers, green erasers, and a purple pencil sharpener. The weight of the box felt just right in my hand and it made a neat percussive sound when I shook it, but I tried not to shake it too hard for fear of breaking tips. I loved the way the lead, wood and rubber all combined to make a smell that always comforted me. And I loved the different way each pencil felt in my hand. That’s how they were chosen to be used, except the chewed one. That one was for math and other thoughtful tasks.

Now I have a pen which I use only to sign things with, a cell phone that I use to text with more than to talk with, and a computer to write things with on a screen simulating a sheet of paper, adding to my carbon footprint in the process. I use fonts instead of good penmanship and backspace or delete instead of erase. I open a new file instead of balling up paper and creating a pile on the floor that reflects my hard work and frustrations. I never break a tip and never sharpen a keyboard. I don’t doodle absentmindedly when I lose my train of thought, and instead of hand cramps I get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter or made an entry in a journal. I still have some beautiful stationary with a sage border and wild flowers across the top that my mother gave me many years ago. And I have a leather bound journal with only one entry in it. I think I’ll turn off my computer, find a pen that fits my hand perfectly, write a letter to someone I miss, and write my dreams in my journal.

Access Denied

2009-03-03T20:35:00.000-05:00

It's true what they say: "You'll never understand someone until you walk a mile in their shoes", or in my case, wheel a mile in their chair. I had a glimpse into the world of the wheeled when I ventured into the most dreaded of places - The Mall.

Knowing I had some serious cabin fever, a dear friend of mine kidnapped me for the afternoon and took me to the mall. There was the promise of a rental wheelchair so I figured what the heck. I managed to hop into her truck and off we went. Ten minutes later she dropped me off at the mall entrance and I waited for her to park. Good thing, too, because the doors were so heavy I couldn't open them and handle my crutches without falling over. Incredibly, there wasn't a single automatic door or button to push on the front side of the building. She arrived and we made it to the nearby customer service kiosk, where we were greeted by a very friendly older couple. And by very I mean creepy. After giving more information than the DMV requires, I got the chair. It was the flimsy folding kind that looked like it was made for kids. It was like sitting in a wheeled hammock. I tried to wheel myself, but it turned out it was made for someone to push you, not for you to push yourself. If I had been alone I would have been screwed, unless the old man was for rent. But hey, it was a chair and I was moving, so woo! And I dare say, a little hoo!

Rolling through the mall itself was OK. The kiosks down the middle of the main hall were cool because everything was in clear display cases. It was nice. After cruising the center we made our way to the world's best store, "As Seen on TV". We got to the entrance and had a heck of a time getting over the lip that held down an incredibly wheelchair unfriendly rug. Jeez, it was like a sand trap. Once we were inside I realized that there was absolutely no room for a chair, a person pushing it, and an additional customer in an isle. There were so many little tables and things stacked on the floor that it made navigation a nightmare. The items displayed on the wall were placed so high that I could only see them from far away, but that put me dangerously up against another display. When my neck could take no more we finally got out of there. That store should be called "If you're in a wheelchair, go home and See it on TV".

As well as getting me out of the house, my friend took it upon herself to help me find a pair of shoes I could wear with my swollen, stitched up, Frankenstein foot. Needless to say, every store we went to had the exact same layout as the first store we attempted. Shoe stores even more so. Boxes are stacked in the middle of every isle making it impossible to maneuver a chair or even crutches without getting stuck, tripping or knocking something down. I was starting to lose it. I couldn't see anything, I couldn't move, and to make matters worse, the employees actually seemed annoyed that there was a wheelchair in their precious anti feng shui environment. This must be what it feels like to be in quick sand. I had to get out before I said something rude.

My poor friend. She felt so badly that it wasn't going well. Not that we didn't have fun - we always do when we're together, but this sucked monkey butt! We decided to get some coffee and biscotti, cause that always makes everything better, and after we chilled the smurf out we returned the stupid chair and got the hell out of the mall. I realized that no matter how many laws were passed for wheelchair access ramps and specially equipped bathroom stalls, people in wheelchairs are simply not welcome in most places. It was weeks before I ventured out of the house again.

About a month later the state of Florida gave me a temporary disabled person's parking permit. I was able to drive short distances, but walking was still an issue, and I couldn't go anywhere alone unless it was the grocery store. Now there is a big difference between grocery stores and supermarkets, and the bastard small business eating mega stores. I'm talking to you, Walmart! The endangered species that is the Grocery Store is very disabled friendly and usually has employees willing to help. I have a new love for small town charm, lemme tell ya. But driving around has opened up a whole new savage subculture to me - Disabled Parking Space Stalkers.

Cue the theme to Animal Kingdom...

They come in all shapes and sizes, but mostly old white guys. They are a typical member of the Whitusrepublicanus family that is unique in it's speed, no more than 20mph in a 35mph zone, while lacking the ability to share with others. They can be found behind the wheel of a Lincoln Town Car, lurking near disabled parking spaces, or creeping slowly around the parking lot waiting for someone to leave.

Seriously. What the smurf? This is Florida, the Geriatric capital of the world. This is the reason there should be a limit to the amount of children people have. They all grow old and move here and take all the disabled parking spaces. Sometimes I'm lucky and score a space, only to feel the temperature inside my car steadily rising from the pissy heat ray vision emanating from the old guy glaring at me from the town car. It's not until I get out with my crutches that they chill out and realize, oh I guess she needs it. Once in a while I notice people who obviously are borrowing a vehicle that happens to have a disabled permit and take the space. That really pisses me off. There are people who need it more than I do.

Another thing I've noticed is the short distance between courtesy and rudeness. When people see me coming slowly but surely behind them with my crutches, more often than not they will open a door or try not to leave things in my way like a shopping cart. Most of the time, if they're walking behind me, they do everything possible to get around me, and when they can't, breathe an impatient huff and puff and give me dirty looks for making them take five seconds longer to get to their destination. Not my fault the Tardis dropped you off a block too far, you smurfhole!

I'm getting better. I'm now down to one crutch. I'm very lucky my condition isn't permanent like a lot of people. This whole experience has given me an insight into the world of the disabled that no matter how compassionate a person I consider myself to be, I would never have understood it without living it. It's humbling, and not because of it's difficulty. It's because, although it's shown me a side of people that's kind and good, it's also shown me a side of people that I hope I have never shown. I don't think I'll ever be the same, and that's a good thing.

For Whom the Door Bell Tolls

2009-02-27T14:17:00.000-05:00

I'm still recovering from a foot surgery that involved bone reconstruction, so walking to the door is sometimes a challenge. Lately I've noticed a rise in traffic at my front door. Sometimes I get as many as three people a day ringing the door bell trying to sell something. They sell everything from super environmentally friendly cleaners to chocolate to Jesus. Now if they bring a chocolate Jesus I may spare a few bucks.

Once there were two young men in white shirts, ties and khaki pants selling Mormonism. When I finally convinced them that I wasn't buying they asked if I needed any work done around the yard. Eventually they got on their bikes and left, but they seemed really bummed out. I actually felt bad for them. A few weeks ago I had an older woman and her grandaughter wanting to convert me to Baptist. Now, I am a Secular Humanist and proud of it, but I still think we should have the freedom to believe whatever the heck we think is best for us, but dangit, please don't shove it down my throat. It took me a while, but I finally convinced them that although I respected their right to their beliefs, I didn't share them. I don't think they knew if they should be appalled or what, so they just left. Magazines, house cleaning, oh yeah my fave - meat from the back of someone's van, jeez... I've just about had it.

Today was different. I had the mail carrier and a girl with a spray bottle wanting to demonstrate something in my house. I respectfully declined. Nothing unusual there. Then a couple of hours later the door bell rang again. I could swear it sounded different. My door bell rings a consistantly happy Major 3rd. But in my head I heard an ominous minor 3rd with a creepy fade. Immediately my scalp started tingling and I swear I developed Spidey senses. From where I was sitting I could see the front door and a figure through the frosted glass next to it. I could see that it was a rather large man and he seemed to be shifting uneasily from one foot to another. He rang the bell again and then I saw a light. After a second I realized it was a flashlight and he was shining it through the glass trying to look into the house. Even with a flashlight, the only thing you can see through that glass is an unidentifyable shadow, but he tried for what was probably only 30 seconds. To me if felt like an hour. I sat there and watched him and finally he walked away. I didn't hear a car door or anything indicating it could be say the meter reader or high school kids raising funds for a trip. It just didn't seem right and I was all flushed and my goose was totally bumped. I have no reason to assume there was a danger, but this was the same feeling I had the day I left my grandmother's house to go to the store, and half way there turned back for no apparent reason other than I had a strong feeling that I needed to be there. When I got there I found my grandmother in the middle of being scared out of her wits after she surprised an intruder in her own house.

I have the total heeby geebys right now. Guess I'd better get my cat those ninja classes.

Mother Smurfing Cell Phone Companies!

2009-02-24T14:20:00.000-05:00

The other day I was trying to find a text only device I could give my sister as a gift so that we could send eachother the silly random thoughts that one forgets at the end of the day. It would be like being kids again and we wouldn't have to worry about racking up a phone bill and still feel connected. She has her reasons for not wanting a cell phone, and she's so busy she doesn't have time to sit at a computer every day.

In my search I found a couple of things. The Sony Mylo looked pretty darned cool, but it depends on the availability of a hot spot. If you're not near one it doesn't work. Plus it's over $200.00. Most cell phone companies have text plans, but only in addition to a regular plan and a two year contract. T-Mobile had the best idea - a SideKick for around $200.00 with a text only plan for $30.00 a month. Again, it came with a contract. I hate contracts. Isn't it enough that you're buying a device and paying monthly to use it? I mean, if you don't pay they cut you off. It's not like you can buy any phone and use it with the provider of your choice like a home phone, but it should be. You have to take the company that comes with the phone you're in love with - kind of like inlaws. And if you decide after a year that it's just not working out, you get slammed with a high cancellation fee - like a bad divorce. You actually have to pay to stop paying. Even if I eliminate the voice plan on my LG Env I still have a $30.00 unlimited text plan, and I got rid of the unlimited internet plan because Verizon hiked it up to $60.00 for 5GB a month or $0.25 per MB! Are they getting advice from Exxon? Cause it's as if my cell phone ran on gasoline. Mother smurfers!

Then I came across the OGO. What a cool little device. Sturdy clamshell, large display and a comfy qwerty keyboard (say that ten times!). Text, internet, IM, all things data and no voice. A teenager's modern dream. AT&T had it briefly for $100.00 with a monthly plan for $18.00 - unlimited usage. For that price I'd marry them in a heartbeat and send one to both of my nephews as well. Then Cingular Wireless took AT&T over and the OGO went the way of the DODO. No doubt because they couldn't squeeze enough out of customers with only $18.00 a month. The Cingular marketing genuises devised a sneaky plan to make it seem as though no one liked the OGO, so it was disposed of. Turns out the OGO was hugely popular among parents with teens who texted more than they spoke on the phone anyway. The deaf and hard of hearing community loved it, and were very aliented when it was taken off the shelf and not replaced with anything even remotely similar. Considering there are about 32 million deaf or hard of hearing Americans, that was a really sucky move.

Enter Swisscom. This Swiss company originally launched the OGO in 2005, and it turns out the OGO is alive and well in Switzerland, Denmark, Italy, France and England. It's so popular you can get one at any Swisscom shop for 49.-*. The latest version has all kinds of features. So why can't we get one here? Verizon is in international business cahoots with Swisscom. They also happen to be my provider. It doesn't seem like rocket science to get the OGO back to the States. Don't these phone companies even know their market? Not only that, in this insane economic flushing toilet we're stuck in, wouldn't it be a great thing to offer people who simply can't afford a cell phone for each family member? I wrote to Verizon asking them just that. They told me they were sending my message to their marketing division. I'm assuming it's a room filled with "can you hear me now" clones talking to eachother on cell phones about how amazing it is that every grey jacket comes with a free helicopter thanks to the generosity of their enslaved customers.

All I wanted was a simple, affordable, fun way to keep in touch with my sister, who I happen to miss very much and lives very far away. I guess I'll just keep searching, but really, all this just makes me want to find a phone booth, fill it with all the old stupid cell phones I've been accumulating since the 90's and send it to the White House with a note that says "Talk is cheap my ass".

Incorrect	Correct
She brought I a drink.	She brought me a drink.
She brought Tom and I a drink.	She brought Tom and me a drink.

Incorrect	Correct
He went with I.	He went with me.
He gave it to I.	He gave it to me.
It's a gift from I.	It's a gift from me.
The teacher wants to talk to you and I.	The teacher wants to talk to you and me.
The issue is between you and I.	The issue is between you and me.