What, was yesterday April Fool’s Day again?

I’m sure I’m not the only girl who enjoyed playing this imaginary game [dressing up like a bride – ed.]. Unfortunately no one ever warned me that reaching my childhood fantasy was much easier said than done.

Let’s take this one slowly. In the Huffington Post, where one assumes grownups may be talking, this young woman complained that childhood fantasies didn’t come with warning labels. Maybe we should sew them into pretty-pretty princess costumes: Warning. Actual magic wand, singing mice, happily ever after not included.

My cousins who gathered around me then are now happily married, most with children and still living in Iran. On the other hand I have become a “therapist” and shoulder to cry on for every girl I know who can’t find Mr. Right or even land a date with Mr. Maybe. Some of these women are intelligent, beautiful and successful but spend half their time on dating website getting matched up with people with whom they have to force themselves to have “chemistry”.

Translation: I hate my friends. They are my social inferiors, but since they are less attractive than I am, I feign interest in their problems.

Others are at clubs and bars competing with tons of girls who are dressed in provocative outfits (read: slutty) in order to attract men’s attention.

Yes. We can all read slutty.

The last time I walked into a club with all my single girlfriends it occurred to me that I had just entered into a casting room and I was about to audition for some sort of sexy horror movie.

Well, duh. Who hasn’t walked into a club with all her single girlfriends looking their flaming red-hottest only to find that guy with the chainsaw on the dance floor isn’t going to take Piss off, doofus for an answer? Sweetie, that’s a Saturday night in the Meat Packing District.

Not only was[sic] every girl’s breast implants barely covered by their tops but their short skirts made me want to take off my skinny jeans because I seemed too conservative and felt the pressure to fit in.

Yes. Please take off your skinny jeans – for modesty!

At that moment I started to reminisce about the years I lived in Iran and how I witnessed so many of my relatives finding love in a level that is completely foreign to what we are familiar with in our society.

Amazing! I’m reminiscing about a time before I became acquainted with this wretched column.

A woman doesn’t have to go hunt for a man or stress about the possibility of never getting married; instead she finds love and courtship in the most relaxed, respectful way possible.

Not to put to fine a point on it, but Pegah Patra can kiss my fabulous ass – not a little bit of it, but in fact my entire ass. See:

Could this be the fault of women who for years were fighting for feminism and wanting to be free and equal to men? Of course we believe in equal rights and a woman’s independence but maybe the concept of feminism has also taken us to the extreme level of sexual freedom. By making sex so available and accessible for men it allows them to lose respect and not value courtship the way they did years ago in western cultures or as they still do in many parts of the world.

Listen, some folks think sex is something you let someone do to you – as opposed to something awesome you do with someone you like, love or just met in the hot, sweaty elevator on the way up here. Those people also think women in short skirts are asking to get raped. They don’t like, trust or value women, certainly not women who have an afternoon free and think, What the hell, that person of my preferred gender smells great. I could have some sex. If you’ve never done that, by the way, it is awesome.

Feminism doesn’t solve women’s problems. It is the outlandish notion that women are people just like men, and may even want some of the same things men want. No one studies feminist theory to find a husband. It’s not the fault of feminism either when women like Patra act as enforcers for the Patriarchy. Here she offers one more kick to the ribs.

To be clear, I love my independence, freedom and the power I have as a woman in this country which I am sure most other woman do as well, but we must admit that sometimes we all have the fantasy of old fashion respect along with the guarantee of one day having a house, husband and children. But it seems that the fantasy of courtships like the scene in The Godfather where Michael meets the virgin Appolonia in Sicily and conveys ultimate respect to her and her family is now passé.

Thank your lucky stars it is, sister, or you and your slutty girlfriends would have every reason to be nervous whenever a man picked up a rock.

Or to use another movie term, Gone With The Wind.

What? What?

And for many women, that is nothing to celebrate.

Actually, there is. If Patra’s friends back home are happy, good for them. If Patra’s happy living with her cognitive dissonance, good for her. If Patra’s friends are unhappy, let us hope they find ways to make themselves happy. I’m happy, quoting Gilmore Girls:

Miss Patty: It’s times like these that you realize what is truly important in your life. I’m so glad I had all that sex.

Except it’s not really about sex, is it? The column in which Patra claims to know the secret to women’s happiness comes off as sad; happiness is ultimately unavailable, she says. Women in America cannot have it as long as they’re slutty-slut-sluts, but if they stopped all that sluttiness, regained their virginity and moved to Iran, men would be respectful. I suppose that’s a plan, but it’s about as likely to succeed as the one with the singing mice.

Crossposted at Brilliant @ Breakfast.

Miss Sasha, Mr. Sasha and Panky will be staying overnight with us on Friday. We keep our house as clean as two people with multiple jobs can, which is to say that it’s tidy with cat fur tumbleweeds. That’s fine for us, but when we started thinking about what a two-year-old might pick up and sample for flavor, out came rubber gloves and the shop vac. Tonight, Pete boiled the bathroom. Tomorrow, he’ll set up a bed, I’ll clean the cat boxes, vacuum everything and we’re going to shampoo a carpet. At home in North Dakota, Panky lives with cats and a 125 lb. dog, so the little guy’s unlikely to nibble cat poop. I think. Anyway, it’s been awhile since I lived with a toddler, but I remember that no matter how clean the house, the child will find something that formed its own disastrous ecosystem.

You’ll be pleased to hear I made fresh yogurt. You know: to boost the immune system.

This is a guest post by Barbara O’Brien of Mahablog.

Health Care Reform: The Morning After

Many politicians and pundits warned us that the health care reform (HCR) legislation that just became law will destroy America. Government bureaucrats will take over health care decisions, we were told. The old and infirm would be hauled away by death panels. Everything about the way we receive our medical care will change, and change drastically, they said.

Medicare recipients have been frightened by stories that their benefits will be cut. Middle-age people are worried they will lose their jobs when the law’s dreaded regulations, or taxes, or maybe regulations with taxes, would destroy their employers’ businesses.

The truth is, very little will change for most people. If you were insured by employee benefits before HCR, you will be insured by exactly the same policy in exactly the same way after HCR. You will have access to the same doctors on the same terms. “Government bureaucrats” will no more be involved in your health care than they were before.

And the same is true of Medicare, which of course is a government program, although many of the people who opposed the HCR bill don’t seem to know that.

Here are the “cataclysmic” changes to health care that are now in effect, or which will go into effect within the next six months for people who are already in group insurance plans:

• The law says you can’t lose your insurance coverage because you get sick. Before, in many states, if you were stricken with a severe illness such as mesothelioma cancer that would be expensive to treat, your insurer could use just about any excuse to cancel your coverage. That is over.

• HCR has ended lifetime limits on coverage. As long as you are receiving medical care, your insurer pays the bills.

• Your children can be covered on your existing policy until they are 26 years old.

• In six months, insurers cannot refuse to insure people under the age of 19 because of “pre-existing conditions.” This provision will go into effect for everyone in 2014.

And if you are on Medicare, you will be asked to struggle with the following:

• You get a free annual checkup.

• The co-pays and deductibles on many preventive care services are eliminated.

• If you are in the Medicare D “doughnut hole,” you will get a $250 rebate check in a few weeks. The hole itself will be closed gradually and will be gone by 2020.

But what about all those terrible regulations and taxes that are about to drive businesses out of business? Um, there really isn’t much to report. Oh, wait, here’s one — a 10 percent tax on indoor tanning services that use ultraviolet lamps will go into effect July 1. That’s about it.

However, beginning this year a tax credit will be available for some small businesses to help provide insurance coverage for employees.

Soon the politicians and pundits will start trying to frighten you about the provisions that will go into effect after this year. I assure you they are about as scary as the provisions that go into effect this year, but I will discuss them in a follow-up post.

— Barbara O’Brien

Pete took this picture in the park yesterday. It rained all today and we’re expecting tomorrow a big storm or rain event, as the hysterical weather schnooks now say. I’d taken a vacation day to get tomato seeds into starter trays, but that didn’t happen. Instead, to cheer myself up, I took down the weighty winter drapes; then laundered, fluffed and hung the light summer sheers. They’re fresh and clean, and almost enough to carry me through the basement flood stories I will certainly hear all day tomorrow.

Winter kicked our asses and spring is sleeping with our girlfriend. Fuck!

Pete and I walked around Princeton in a spitting rain, looking for a pair of black shoes to replace scuffs I’d worn to shreds over the winter. We’d already been through shoe stores every weekend for a month and I was a little testy about it, so today, we went straight to what we knew would be an expensive source. Four stores later, we were about to give up again when The Walking Store lay between us and our car. We walked in, I fended off a salesperson and sat down to scan the shelves. By this time, the pain in my hip was screamy-scream-screaming, so when my eye came to rest on a pair of UC24s, I gimpy-gimp-gimped to them and found the salesman at my elbow. I came clean.

Tata: I’m having trouble tying my right shoe, so I’m looking for slip-ons. The filthy things I’m wearing were a terrible compromise, but they didn’t exactly succeed. I’d like to throw them away immediately.
Salesman: You’ve chosen a shoe that will support your feet and cushion properly. Let me put some orthodic inserts into them. Try this.

I limped across the store. I limped back. I limped to the front window and limped back. These shoes were so brilliant the screaming died down. The salesman brought me Obeo sandals that felt pretty good, but there was something else calling my name: the crazy, crazy, crazy Danskos in colors and patterns that were no laughing matter. I pointed to a pair and said, “Leopard print. My favorite color.”

Earlier, we’d stumbled around Stein Mart and found these badass Liz Claiborn kicks with a kitten heel on sale for 50% off. They reminded me of the shoes Sherilyn Fenn modeled for the first few episodes of Twin Peaks – not that these shoes resemble those. No way. But that character would wear these. Also: I hate plaid, but love the patent leather tassels. You can almost smell the Campari, the soda, and the brimstone.

I will wear these to brief special occasions where no one mistakes me for a nice person.

There, in The Walking Store, these shoes looked like the kind of moist temptation you’ve been warned about all your life. The priest, the minister, the rabbi all agree: you’re safer crossing the street before you look at the Dutch shoes, but I tried them on anyway. In 1973, Dad sent us kids sabots – Dutch wooden shoes – which I outgrew immediately. But today, I put these on and the sensation in my feet stirred an old, old memory. I limped to the front window and limped back. Then I stood up straight and walked evenly to the front of the store, free of pain. It was a fucking miracle with a good news/bad news component. On the one hand, I tell people all the time: buy the good shoes to protect your knees and spine. On the other: I bought the cheap shoes and paid for that. The salesman threw away the old shoes like he had freed me from the curse of stupid, crippling scuffs, and I suppose he was.

Then I had to call Daria and tell her I bought wooden shoes.

Pete and I spent much of the morning in the backyard cleaning out garden containers we will reuse this season. Pete took a pitchfork to the leaf pile and trucked the leaves, now mulch, to a garden bed planted with ornamental trees while I stacked pots and organized the little greenhouse. Later, I planted lettuces, herbs, fennel, pak choi and tomatillos in starter trays. Just before noon, Pete greeted neighbors on the other side of the fence I couldn’t see. They too were enjoying the sunny weather after a long, miserable winter. Okay, they might’ve been a little slap-happy about it.

“It’s late enough and nice enough that we’re having a glass of wine,” blurted Matt, while his wife giggled.
“That’s a GREAT IDEA!” I said.

At 3, we sat down at the picnic table with glasses of wine. In the distance, we could hear the thug kid down the street talking about his car, but the warm sunlight had a tonic effect on us and neither of us felt homicidal. A carpenter bee stopped by for a visit and buzzed away. On the side of the house, forsythias budded and promised to flower soon. Our stray cat friends Tom and Cream crunched kibble under the porch. Every once in a while, a breeze brought us new scents from near and far. The weather forecast for the next few days is gloomy; we sat still in the sun, soaking in as much spring as we could. After our morning of industry, for one afternoon: quiet.

Topaz and Drusy chase a moth from a strategic position atop the dining room table.

Open a bag of carrots. Cut off the ends, peel and slice on a diagonal. Heat a bigass frying pan and preheat oven to 350 degrees. Pour chicken or vegetable stock into the pan to a depth of about 1/2 inch. Sprinkle in: ground ginger, ground cumin, salt, pepper, minced dried orange peel. Add: one teaspoon honey. Toss in carrots and one can of mandarin oranges, whooosh around, cover and pop into the oven for half an hour.

You can substitute 1/2 cup dried cranberries for the oranges if you are so inclined. Don’t be shy if you like herbs: basil, thyme, marjoram or sage would be great, but don’t be afraid to try savory, cilantro, fennel seed, allspice, cnnamon…you get the delicious picture.

Staring at the blank page.

Staring. Staring. Geez Louise, sometimes I have nothing to say and sometimes I have something to say that is going to burn down the house, baby. My mother now emails me each time she encounters a libertarian propagandist with a cursory knowledge of YouTube – not that she believes in that reheated crap. She just wants to know if I am familiar with the individual mouthbreather. I should just delete these emails. They make me want to scour my cerebral cortex with Scrubbing Bubbles. This morning, I told her today’s frother was inciting viewers to commit federal offenses. She thanked me for this analysis. Then I had a squinty headache all morning.

Lately, my co-workers and I are having a misunderstanding. They come to my cubicle and tell me about themselves without taking a breath. I listen. They tell me things I can hardly believe and stories they probably shouldn’t. Sometimes, I try to steer the conversation to less revealing, more work-safe topics, but I am not always successful. Because I choose to say little about myself, my co-workers now assume my internal life isn’t worth talking about. I realized this the other day when Tabby, another woman in my office with hip problems, asked me a question about my hip, then talked for twenty minutes about hers.

At the moment, I’m struggling with my feelings for the bar. I love the bar. I hate the bar. I loved every brilliant show I remember and forgot. I wish I had known when to leave. I am sorry I learned the hard way who my friends really were, but I’m glad I know now. And the bar needs help, again. In November, we had a nervous few days when everyone searched under couch cushions for change to help the bar pay back taxes before someone came up with a certified check. Now there’s a benefit to pay back the good Samaritan, and the cycle begins again.

What is it worth to have your punk rock bar? Tickets went on sale last week and I did nothing. I looked at the website and did nothing. Yesterday, someone asked me about the bar and I told him what I knew and I did nothing. Today, I bought tickets. These are my people. As much as I would like the bar to be less fucked up and the people to get over their co-dependency, neither is going to happen. Good thing I love Patti Smith.

What to say? What not to say? I’m considering starting a Facebook group called IF YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN’T STOP YOURSELF FROM FORWARDING UNFUNNY RACIST, SEXIST, HOMOPHOBIC, XENOPHOBIC, CLASSIST CRAP, UNFRIEND ME RIGHT NOW. Then again, that’ll burn down the house and you don’t want to do that by accident.

That you do when you’re good and ready.