I. Two mornings ago, crossing the Albany Street Bridge: a brown slick two or three yards wide winding slightly off-center with the currents and eddies of the Raritan River. The river at that bridge is shallow. Fifteen or so years ago, a professor tried to commit suicide by leaping off the bridge, but the river was too shallow to drown in. I think he died of cartoon embarrassment. Or he lived, which might be worse. The river is filthy and contact with it should be avoided at all cost, especially if you are a fish. Or a person who eats fish. The greenish water is not a good kind of green but this time of year, falling leaves dance in the currents. That is kind of pretty. Two mornings ago, I was startled by a strong smell of gasoline.

II. I see the big picture.
Tata: Remember that time twelve years ago I wanted you to leave your wife?
Him: Yes.
Tata: Remember that time you didn’t leave your wife and it broke my heart?
Him: And mine, and hers.
Tata: You were right.

III. The first time we saw him or her, Daria said, “A groundchuck!” Her son said, “Doggy!” Outside my bedroom window lives a groundhog or woodchuck of exceptional taste and intelligence. Monday afternoon, the sunshine was glorious, the air was warm and perfect. I walked home, staring at the heartrending blue sky between the green, gold and maroon leaves; if I’d thought about it I probably would have tripped over nothing and broken my jaw but I was elated. At home, I threw open every window. The groundchuck of exceptional intelligence happened to be standing in the courtyard about ten feet from my bedroom window, pretending not to see me. I spoke to him – let’s suppose the groundchuck’s a him – gently. I told him he had nothing to fear from me and I thought he was oh so handsome. Wasn’t he handsome? He was very handsome, and had excellent taste in fallen apples from the tree. And wouldn’t he like to just have a lovely chat with me?

The groundchuck followed the sound of my voice and came to the edge of the concrete steps below my window, and he walked to the spot closest to me, turned and walked around to the other side, where he put his paws up on a pipe about six feet below me, and stared into my eyes. I told him I could see he was special, and he should remember not to be afraid of me. I was certain if I pushed up the screen, doves would land on my fingertips. I used to be the fairest of them all but my magic mirror is a fickle bitch.

IV. This man is a New Yorker.
He: A plane or helicopter hit a building on E 72nd Street. We can see the smoke. Internet is way slow, just like on 9/11 – probably just an accident.

I saw this just before I left my office and, pressed for time, didn’t answer his email. A few hours later, I felt uneasy. Even before I knew the plane crash was an accident, I was afraid for him. He watched the towers burn and fall from another office window. He calls after dinner.

He: Are you okay?
Tata: Yes, of course I was frightened but not for myself. I was never in any danger – I’m forty miles away. I worried about you, about the responders, the poor people who must’ve been killed. Are you okay?
He: What do you mean?
Tata: You sound a quart low to me.
He: What? I guess I am.
Tata: Quit it with the soda. No starches. Are you eating fresh fruit?
He: I ate an apple today.
Tata: So did the groundchuck. That turned out well. What’re you watching tonight?
He: Episodes 3 and 4 of The Six Wives of Henry VIII.
Tata: Hey! You know how that turned out, too!

…And we’re back. That was a whole week of misery and funny disguises for me. Paulie Gonzalez moved PIC to a new host-whatsis, which is great news for everyone but the poor beleaguered photo editor. I have learned enough that my giant brain is threatening a Tokyo rampage. Run, beloved main characters, run! The giant brain is lumbering this way!

Thank you for your patience. After about – I guess – a day of restoring, fixing and relearning stuff, I bet we can resume our bad behavior in a bathtub full of bechemel sauce. That’s where we left off, right?

When I say to you, “Hey there, you, I’d really like the pain in my right hip to stop, say on a par with my wanting the crane digging by the Route 18 overpass to quit before it reaches that load-bearing concrete pillar I treasure more with each passing day I cross the Albany Street Bridge and am not smooshed” I really mean that I want pain in my right hip to stop, but I’m not going to the doctor. That’s a huge waste of time. I am so special medical science insists I don’t exist, and since I refuse to work with that existential nightmare, I went to Costco to stock up on chicken soup.

Now, I am not saying these bulk shopping warehouses wear the tights and cape in the fight against budgetary Eeeeeeeeeeeeeevil, but I’m me and you’re you, and you’re probably just as amused as I am when you turn a corner and see bales of toilet paper. I don’t buy them since I switched to bales of recycled toilet paper and Costco doesn’t carry recycled brands, yet I am amused! In the Improbable Cures aisle, I found Joint Juice. Months ago, Georg urged me to start taking a Glucosamine/Chondroitin complex and I tried. I bought tablets. I stare at the bottle. I don’t take them. I looked at this case of 24 cans intended for once-daily consumption. I stood there. I thought about whining online about exercise and pain. I thought about whether or not I’d have the nerve to mention this lenghty interval on the blog. Then I thought about whether or not I planned to spend the rest of my life deliberating so I put the thing in my cart and decided I’d own up: if I feel better in 24 days, I’ll buy it again and try another 24, and we’ll see if this is the method that works for me. In the meantime, if I locate the case strategically in my apartment I can use it as a drying rack for my socks.

The other find was flannel sheets. Recently, I scoped KMart for flannel sheets and discovered I’d rather slit my wrists than install those drab, lifeless colors in my bedroom, because if I didn’t, I surely would afterward. I shopped online and was gravely disappointed in even sale prices and patterns that made me wish someone would dig up the Dadas and take notes. And I really almost walked away when I saw sets of queen size flannel sheets with repeating pine trees like a table runner with an inflated sense of tasteful importance. I stuck to the hunting and found simple, cream-colored flannel sheets, which I would never have picked for any other room I’ve ever slept in but for my current bedroom, cream-color isn’t the worst idea if lovely, verdant greens aren’t possible, and before you even think it, you can just forget about those damn pine trees. I looked at the price. I thought about what I’d seen in other places, at other prices. I hesitated, then put the sheets into the cart.

I shop to solve problems. Today, I bought light bulbs for the nightlight in the bathroom that before it burned out kept me from accidentally kicking my little black cat in the dark. Yep. That episode was so unpleasant the cat now runs from me after sunset since I am a dumb monkey, though I hope we can put that behind us now. Interesting to note that by 11:30 Sunday morning, I had spent the Gross National Product of Uraguay for chicken soup – don’t forget winter is coming and you’ll need broth once the vaccine hawkers lose their minds again, as they do every November – and juice, and at a reunion picnic of my erstwhile drinking buddies in Johnson Park that afternoon where people who’ve known each other for twenty inebriate years and never seen each other’s beloved faces in daylight, most of what I said was, “I love you but I bought flannel sheets and I can’t wait to walk home, washer/dryer ’em, and put yummy flannel sheets on my bed! I believe this will help my invigorating arthritis pain.”

For once, I was right.

Crossposted at Running Scared.

Poor Impulse Control is still a doorstop but Paulie Gonzalez has offered to help. We might have to switch host servers, which sounds to me like our Maitre d’ has developed a Continental attitude, but I’m no Tech Princess. No, I’m Princess Please Explain That Again It’s Only 2006.

Broken blog aside, I’ve got other problems. Yesterday in the morning, Mr. DBK and I met on the street in front of the train station, which used to be the kind of thing people said in quotes. “Yes,” you’d say to your wife, “I met her in front of the train station. Please don’t divorce me” is how it went, ” – for an affair I had in the parking deck stairwell.” But no, Mr. DBK was waiting for me next to the ticket machine he knows frustrates me, and he knows this because I spent the week prior whining about my frustration with the ticket machine. To spare himself early morning ear trauma, Mr. DBK bought our tickets before I arrived. Even so, I glared at the machine, for all the trouble it would give me another day. I am wary!

Our train arrived ten or so minutes later and we walked to the front of a car where we could sit next to or facing each other because comedy is much harder without facial expressions. I realized I’d left my charming umbrella on the platform and couldn’t figure out how I could’ve done it. I outsmarted me! Price: One umbrella. Mr. DBK and I amuse each other very much, and I suspect my cackling annoyed people all along the Northeast Corridor, at least in part because Mr. DBK bought tickets to Newark Penn Station, and we were waiting for the conductor to describe the joys of hitchhiking outside the Holland Tunnel, which is punishable by a wardrobe made entirely of secondhand Spandex. When this did not happen, we took a cab to the Carnegie Deli, during which Mr. DBK held on to the door handle for dear life and I squealed, “Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” I gave the driver a few extra dollars for letting us live.

We were expected at 10. We were early. The waiters regarded us with snarling suspicion when we said, “We’re here for a party.” Smiling sweetly didn’t help. The waiters opened a door I hadn’t seen until one grabbed it by the handle and the other pointed through, as if to say, “This way, monkeys.” Every square inch of wall space was covered by autographed celebrity headshots. I cringed, but followed Mr. DBK into an unnervingly narrow hall that opened to a dining room without another apparent fire exit. Feeling very flammable, I looked back to our waiter who wanted to sit us at a table for two. It was at this significant juncture that Mr. DBK forgot he was not with his wife, the single most capable woman in the world. Interrupting the waiter, Mr. DBK said, “I’m going to the men’s room,” and disappeared. And I said, “Oh, no. Our party is at least six.” The waiter moved to a four top.

Tata: At least six.
Waiter: This one?
Tata: That is still six. Listen, it’s not my party. I’m a guest. There will be more people, all of whom will be twice my size.

The waiter gave up and walked to the back of the room. He put menus on a table with eight chairs packed very close together. I sat down alone and pretended I could read the menu without my glasses. Then Mr. DBK returned from the Little DBKs’ Room, a strange man in a Skippy the Bush Kangaroo t-shirt walked right through the middle of the room and pulled up a chair. A few minutes later, Blogenfreude of AgitProp plunked down next to me. We were joined by three other charming people I could barely see and definitely couldn’t hear. The only thing missing was Tami, the One True. LaGuardia Airport called and asked us to keep it down. I felt like a genius!

Moral of the story: take opportunities to meet your fellow bloggers. Bring them presents. Admire their pets. This also reminds me I should go visit Casa JazzGeorg soon soon soon!

A few hours later at the family store, I opened a box and stabbed myself in the finger with a pair of dull scissors and I was so mortified I pretended I wasn’t bleeding on the December seasonal merchandise. So: all is back to horrifying normal.

Crossposted Running Scared; on PIC Monday, 16 October.

This is really a test post to find out if PIC is still hosed. I am standing in the fine-smelling family store, where seductive Lyle Lovett’s on the CD player and the weather ouside the glass wall is so fantastic I can barely breathe.

This morning, Mr. DBK and I took the train to New York. This afternoon, we took the train back to New Brunswick. In between, we ate breakfast.

I am still overjoyed!

Dad’s wife Darla offers exciting news.

Against all expectations, we have adopted another cat. I had been resisting the idea because I couldn’t bear to feel as though I were trying to replace Squidge. But this was a special circumstance.

Someone posted to our local freecycle list about a cat that was going to be put down if it wasn’t adopted. I held off for two days, then emailed, just to ask whether the cat had found a home. I was hoping he had, of course, but as luck would have it, he hadn’t, and the poster was desperate to find a good home for him.

I have a big red S on my forehead, which all cats can instantly identify, and which stands for Sucker When It Comes To Cats. I talked to Dominic and Dara and once they said they didn’t mind, the deal was done.

I picked him up from a small town about 80 miles away last Friday. His name (he was already named) is Atticus, and he’s about 10 years old. He’s a golden-yellow longhair (see pictures) and possibly the most friendly and mellow cat I’ve ever met. Bobcat was incredibly friendly, but this cat not only approaches any person with a rub and a purr, he doesn’t fuss when stuffed into a cat carrier, and he sits and looks bored when other cats hiss at him.

Which our other cats have, of course. We kept Atticus in the spare room for the first few days (I slept in there with him for company), then started letting him wander around the house. He’s explored everywhere and encountered each of the other three cats, all of whom have hissed, growled and called Atticus dirty names. He just looked at them as though he didn’t speak their dialect. Nobody tried to hit anybody else, so I’m hopeful that peace will eventually reign.

Atticus isn’t Squidge, but he doesn’t have to be. I still miss her every day, but he’s a darling cat and I feel good that we could save him.

The loss of Squidge was traumatic for Darla, so this is a felicitous turn of events, made even more interesting by the timing of Georg’s comment on the previous entry.

Have you heard of freecycle?

Last week, I read something connected to something connected to something else, then I had a customer in the family store and forgot everything less pressing than “in with the good air, out with the bad…” So wait, wait! This good news comes with more good news. Freecycle! There are rules for my local group:

The Six Big’uns:
1. EVERYTHING must be completely free. Remember to keep it relevant to the group – use http://newjersey.craigslist.org or a similar service if you’re not providing a good or other object free of charge to the first taker. PLEASE DO NOT REQUEST SERVICES!! Use Craigslist!! We do, however, allow the request of material objects. One of the purposes of Freecycle is to reduce excessive consumerism – please keep it that way.

2. No living animals, guns, booze, p0rn0graphy, tobacco, pharmaceuticals, anything involving U.S. currency, etc, etc. People have tried to do cat exchanges, but this is NOT allowed. Please use the SPCA for that.

3. Yes furniture bikes plants tools weights lawnchairs grills etc etc.

4. No spam. Do I really have to say it? This means that you cannot be sending links to free coupons or home refinancing or some such – you will be biggity-banned!

5. Multiple requests – Please consolidate your multiple emails into one so that your fellow Freecylers’ Inboxes aren’t flooded. Sometimes people send multiple requests in one day or for the same item, or request really absurd things like items that cost hundreds of dollars new that almost nobody would give away (i.e. an Xbox, flat-panel LCDs that work, camera phones). Don’t be offended if your message gets deleted because it falls in this category…just wait until somebody posts a free Xbox.

6. New users generally have a 2-week grace period on posting ability. This means a moderator has to clear your messages from the day you join until 14 days later. That being said, if you post a desirable item then you may get inundated with emails before your “Taken” post is made public. FYI.

I joined, so I’ve already had plenty of time to forget any passwords. That’s always thrilling. Anyway, the rules may differ from place to place or Darla’s in trouble. No living animals, it says. Oooooooooooooooooh!

Anwyay, though I have few real material needs, I shall never run out of reading material. Well, except for booze-soaked, gun-related p0rn0graphy. I still have to shop around for that.

Crossposted at Running Scared.

I still hab a cod ib bi dose ad lugs.

At work, everytime I blew my nose, I felt my co-workers cringe. They’re awfully nice about my sneezing and coughing. Tomorrow, I expect them to launch eucalyptus drops over the cubicle wall from desktop trebuchets, their battle cry: “Riiiiiiiiiiicola!” echoing over the ramparts. Someone will drop a cow, signalling the end of the sketch. CBGBs closes this month. I think I should feel that in my bones like the coming of winter, and a junkie bass player.

Amendment IX
The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

I’m no scholar, but that sounds to me like the defense privacy rights ought to get but doesn’t. You know, the amicus brief version of: Nanny nanny boo boo, it says we have the rights we say we have! I call no backsies!

Amendment X
The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

Hey look! We read the Bill of Rights and never broke a sweat. Things are looking up – not me, of course, my neck’s still a little stiff. But look at you go! Let’s all rest up and since it’s October, I’ll keep trying to make a the sukkos is in town! joke, but never mind that, we’re reading the Constitution. This is a very optimistic endeavor in which we are engaged. Like origami and breadbaking. I’ve decided this winter I’d like to learn how to bake good, crusty, rustic bread. Between now and when I succeed I will bake lots of terrible, inedible, insulation-like loaves.

Hungry?

It is my great fortune to have turned a corner in life where I can pursue learning things I’ve always wanted to learn. I am curious about everything! The mysteries of origami. The basics and beauty of breadbaking. American Sign Language. Tai Chi (Scout insists I will love Qi Gong). Why I can’t find bedroom curtains that don’t make me gag.

I think there are also other places where people have stuff they don’t need and people who need that stuff. Do you have wild ideas? I am an open book, a blank page, one thousand cranes.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, colds, origami.

I’m feeling much better today than yesterday, by which I mean that when I sneeze I don’t leap around like Baryshnikov, moaning, “…ow ow ow ow fuck.” Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, expressed a desire to see me knock off the acrobatics and quit falling asleep when I could be scratching him. What the pussycat wants, the pussycat gets. There’s one downside to my renewed vigor: I smell everything again, my apartment needs a thorough scouring and Mr. Cat is – pardon me! – stinky.

Here, hold this for a second while I consider my problem –
Amendment VII
In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

– and my options.
Amendment VIII
Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

See, as Siobhan blurts at every drunken opportunity, “Cats aren’t clean. They’re covered with cat spit.” Our friends with feline leukemia develop oral infections that rot their teeth and prevent them from eating. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, must be watched as addicts watch spinning roulette wheels. He must eat, and as to what he must eat, all bets are off. I put out anything and everything in little bowls all the time, and pray I find him rubbing his belly and making AlkaSeltzer commercials. The kitty in question is about a 13 lb. roaster when he’s eating well, which he is at the moment. Even so, if you think following, overstuffing and sniffing your cat feels like normal behavior even when you’ve been doing it for years, then you, sir or madam, are really, really mistaken.

In a way, all things boil down to compassion and empathy. Do we chose to experience the discomforts of others or do we not? Some situations cause us to reconsider our black and white worldviews, when our impulse is to clutch that unforgiving knot below our ribs. Providing such a stretch is AbortionClinicDays.

this past saturday included a nearly homeless 15 year old who had to be rescheduled so that we could seek funding for her to have sedation since she was too scared to have the procedure awake. one of her parents died when she was 7, the other a year later. four years after that, the relative who took her in died so this young woman has not had a lot of stability and parental protection in her life. the support person accompanying her was also 15. in another situation, we had been working with the police to collect the tissue for DNA testing since the pregnancy was a result of rape and the police were determined to prosecute even though the young woman did not want the stress of having to testify. two other young women, both under 21, each with three children, had tried to get their tubes tied but were refused because they were underage. so, rather than have a fourth child, each chose abortion.

outside on the sidewalk were nearly 150 protesters, mostly silent in prayer; still, in a crowd that large there are always the pushy, obnoxious, arrogant demonstators. luckily the police came to keep them in line. as you can imagine, we are too busy inside the clinic to pay any attention to the picketers.

Reading this, it is as if I awoke from a long, crazy dream where everyone was screaming and you, and you, and you were there. Every story is different and human and the reasons to honor each decision come to the reader only through a strenuous walk in another woman’s shoes.

a 41 year old woman with 5 kids said that she was done, no matter what, that she was tired, could not start over. she stated that when she was younger, she would never imagined herself feeling that way because she was strongly prolife. but, she said, when you are older, you come to realize that you do have limits, that you can’t punish the kids you already have. when there is not enough time, energy, money to go around, all of them suffer.

increasingly an emerging factor that leads to abortion is that the cost of birth control pills has jumped up so high, women who do not have either medical assistance from the government or else private insurance, are having difficulty paying for their birth control pills every month. some pills cost as much as $75 per month. not many women without insurance can afford that much so have stopped taking the pill. they revert to more affordable, but perhaps less effective methods.

while we allow room for the sadness some women and men feel with abortion, we also feel the sense of togetherness that many women develop while they are here. the media leads women who choose abortion to feel that they are a tiny minority, that they should feel terrible about their choice. but knowing that many many others also conclude that abortion is best for their families, for their futures, women can walk out of here with their heads held high. they are ready to deal with whatever emotional or spiritual issues that come up, but can move on with their lives knowing that their abortion was safe, that they did the right thing regardless of what anti abortion protesters might say or think. we value women; we trust them make the wisest decision for their own lives.

Cool heads can prevail, if we let them, but compassion doesn’t come cheap: we have to actually listen to the people affected by our actions – 1.3 million women every year since 1973. Our assumptions about who they are and why they choose this course of action help no one. We fail everyone when we refuse to humble ourselves before the difficult truths that lead women to the clinic. Most women my age have had some experience standing at that crossroads, but there’s always another, and another.

As for Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul: he has an infection, and the vet prescribed the same antibiotic as last month. I will feed it to him or dose him, if he won’t eat it disguised in cat food. Someday, he will be too sick to save, and I accept that in love and humility I will have to decide when to give him an easier end. In the meantime, he is snoring, and dreaming of delicious drumsticks, I hope and believe.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, abortion rights, compassion, cooler heads prevail.

Saturday, my sinuses opened like a dam burst, flooding a tiny desert town with moist hankies and snot. Oh, the humidity! I thought allergies were my problem and acted accordingly: I sneezed a lot and apologized. Yesterday, when the sneezing stopped, the aches, the sore throat and fatigue began. About 4 this morning, I woke up and couldn’t swallow. I hardly know what to say about that, sports fans. Most of the time, I prefer natural cures to medicines, but when my throat was so sore I was trying not to use it to breathe, I nearly hacked the childproof cap off the NyQuil. Here, while I doze a bit, read this intriguing bedtime story.

Amendment VI
In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

zzzzzzzzzzzZZZZ snort! Cough cough! What? I should wake up and watch daytime TV. There some folk wisdom suggesting I have no hope of feeling better without fluids and hours of daytime television to combat this plague. My co-worker took pity on me and sent this.

Watch out for this scam! READ CAREFULLY!

I don’t how many of you shop at Sam’s Club or Costco, but this may be useful to know. I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping, and I am sure it could happen to you! Here’s how the scam works:

Two seriously good-looking 23-year-old well-built guys come over to your car as you are packing your shopping in the trunk. They both are shirtless and start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their highly-defined chest muscles and rock-hard abs exposed. It’s impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say ‘No’ and instead ask you for a ride to another Sam’s Club or Costco.

You agree and they get in the back seat. On the way, they start talking dirty about what they want to do to you. Then one of them climbs over into the front seat and begins kissing your neck and begs you to pull over so he can make love to you! While this is going on the other guy steals your purse!

I had my purse stolen last Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday, again on Saturday and also yesterday and most likely again tomorrow!

It’s got to be the NyQuil straight up in a festive martini glass, but my heart feels light for the first time in a long time. Either I have a fever or it must be love.

Technorati tags: u.s. constitution, bill of rights,
bush, impeach bush, sinus pain.