1776 tells you everything you need to know about 2010.
Q: What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at midday and three legs at twilight?
A: Wrong riddle. Try again.
Q: How much hip pain would keep me from working at the food pantry?
A: Mmmm, exactly as much as I have now.
- while making dinner for my Handsome Husband, and as I was rough-dicing sweet potatoes the power went out. The only light in my kitchen was the flame under an empty pan into which I dropped chopped onions and diced sweet potatoes and dinner turned out fine, but if you’re ever in need of a little heart-pounding excitement, give some thought to dicing root vegetables in the dark.
Speaking of Nature, when is Nature like sharing a room with your sister? Buckwheat knows: when giraffes fight over a blouse!From inside my house, I could see two lights a few streets away behind the house and a street light two blocks in front, so I knew the outage was local. I lit some candles and protected them from curious cats with one hand while calling my sisters at the family store six blocks away and not in the dark with the other. Pete and I ate steamed pork bao dipped in fragrant sauces, washed the dishes and settled in to hours of talking, knitting and writing by candlelight in our living room. The lights came on as I dialed Siobhan to discuss jarring applesauce in the dark, which I was about to do. I was almost disappointed to be able to see what I was doing.
Thursday morning, I barked at my boss Gianna, who lives two blocks from me, “What did you do last night?” She looked at me quizzically. “Power failure from 6 to 9?” I hinted.
“We didn’t have a power failure last night,” she said, “but don’t feel bad. We have one every day. The power goes out and everything blinks. We stopped resetting our clocks years ago.”
Miss Sasha casually mentioned North Dakota was enjoying a blizzard yesterday, so it should come as no surprise that last night the power went out in the tiny New Jersey town just as I started dinner. I made dinner, then called Miss Sasha to tell her the depth of sympathy, which was insufficient. Panky had just tossed his dinner on the floor.
The vet says her weight is up and her symptoms have subsided for the time being, though I was prepared for news about surgeries and special diets.
My house is peaceful, and Topaz sang all afternoon.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to work, but my heart’s not in it.
I’m very, very tired. Topaz blinks gently, gently, gently.
Last time I tried stuffing Topaz into a closed room to protect her it took half an hour and Topaz clawed me in the eye. I was covered with scrapes; Topaz, Pete and I whimpered and cursed. We didn’t speak to one another for several days – and I do mean all three of us.
Tomorrow morning, Topaz has an appointment with the vet, which means I have to stuff her into a cat carrier. I started hyperventilating yesterday, but I’d been worried for a week, and I do mean varsity level, paralyzing, stocking-up-on-Neosporin-and-bandages worried. Is it too soon to don my helmet?
This is going to sound freaking unbelievable, but Pete and I just stumbled home from a PTO meeting, where we taught willing children and oblivious adults to separate garbage from compost while Disney movies blared at volumes that were no doubt turning our brains to Wheatena. I can barely lift an arm for my usual two-finger salute!
Previously on Poor Impulse Control, I waxed enthusiastic about credit unions and community banks. I fucking hate the big banks. No surprise there! Wanna read what I wrote? Yeah, me too. It’s a lot harder than it used to be now that I have to google my own blog posts. Anyhoo, in August, I flipped the pages in my checkbook and realized that for me, it was now or never, and never was not an option when it comes to getting out from under. With great trepidation, I contacted the credit union and asked them to body-slam Wachovia if the bank fuckers tried to direct deposit my check again, though not in so many words. I used far fewer words, and the delicate souls at the credit union flinch when I talk so I chose them carefully and signed up for online banking. Then I waited for hilarity to ensue.
At some point in the future, when I have recovered from spending more than six weeks cursing the ancestors of professionals who are supposed to know more about what I’m doing than I do, I will describe this comic battle through interpretive dance. Suffice it for the present to say the Greek chorus regards me with fear and won’t take my calls, but my bills are paid.
This morning, I closed my Wachovia accounts and when asked repeatedly why, I repeatedly answered, “Wells Fargo and Wachovia are a criminal enterprise. Please let me say that clearly, in case this call is recorded for quality purposes. Wells Fargo and Wachovia are a criminal enterprise – emphasis on the word CRIMINAL.” What, you thought I’d put on pants and go to the bank in person? Oh hell no. I was wearing flannel pajamas. I was happy in flannel pajamas. Even when Wells Fargo hung up on me twice I was happy. Fuck those guys!
What a relief it is to feel like I’ve quit aiding and abetting those craven motherfuckers!
* That I created a hostile and sexist environment. This is depressing if not insulting. I could only hope people who felt this way would ask anyone who I directly worked with at Tribune, Sirius-XM or anywhere else. I live my life to be respectful, honest, positive, optimistic and fair. There are those who don’t believe that, and again, the only recourse I have is for anyone who doubts that to speak to anyone I have directly worked with or for at any point in my career.
* That I was part of some ex-Clear Channel boys club. I have never worked for Clear Channel. I have known and competed against Randy Michaels for decades, but most of the other Clear Channel people at Tribune I had never met prior to arriving here. In my opinion, once you walk through the doors of Tribune Tower, you are a Tribune employee and your past is not an issue as long as you do good work. I have seen only good work from these folks. I do look at myself as an outspoken, driven and perhaps rebellious type and if that’s a problem in the world of helping re-invent media, then so be it.
A few days after the New York Times published the story that chapped my fabulous ass, Mr. Lee Abrams, then an employee of embattled Tribune Media, sent out a memo featuring videos from the Onion featuring half-naked women. I have seen half-naked women, and I love them to pieces, but unless we work at a strip club, videos of half-naked women have no place in the modern American workplace. That IS creating a hostile, sexist environment. Mr. Abrams deserves our collective boot up his ass for disproving his own point, but proving mine: pigs do not believe they are pigs.
Those of us who are absolutely DONE letting pigs be pigs to us know that when a woman says she feels harassed and unsafe in her work environment, talk is finished. Any I created a hostile and sexist environment. This is depressing if not insulting deserves no dignifying. Motherfucker, mothers know when they’re being fucked. He’s insulted? He has the motherfucking gall to be insulted after he passed around wildly inappropriate videos, then hid behind rock and roll?
You know what? He lost his job because in his estimation women aren’t fully human and their concerns don’t concern him. And I know a bunch of roller derby queens who would happily go fully rock and roll on his old boys’ club ass.
Some people will say any fucking thing that comes to their tiny, rigid minds. Witness this for yourself:
This is why I will never forgive the major repro rights orgs for sitting out the health insurance reform debacle. This is why I will probably never fully trust a man. This is why we can never turn another cheek to the rich, because their interests are not ours and cannot be. This is why the prayerful look to me like they spend too much fucking time with their Imaginary Friend. This is why all talk of liberty and freedom is bullshit: because it never means the freedom of women to determine their own destinies. The blatant racism alone leaves me speechless.
If you vote for this horror, you deserve what you get. Your daughters? They deserve better.
Because I am a genius, it only occurred to me two days ago that I might jar baby food for all these babies who claim to be my blood relations.