the neutral person

As I've probably mentioned, part of the metta meditation involves sending lovingkindness to a "neutral person," someone you have neither positive nor negative feelings about. The most fascinating part of this to me is how difficult it is to actually find such a person.

I tried at first to do it with the various guys who work at my 7-11. But, no. I've got definite feelings towards them solely from the one minute a day I might spend interacting with them. That guy's nice and friendly, that one's *really* sweet, that one's probably in Al-Quada... Similarly with bus drivers. She's a sweetie, he's always so nice, that one drives like a maniac, that one never acknowledges anyone... The only ones who are truly neutral make so little impression, I couldn't even conjure up a face to keep in mind during the meditation.

Forget anyone I have to spend any more significant time with than that. They all get categorized into love/like/like-but-they-have-the-potential-to-annoy me/don't like. Sometimes these people jump categories fairly fluidly (like the dad of my patient yesterday who was basically mocking me to his kid for saying "wicked easy" [douche!] but then later thanked me profusely for my help [you're forgiven, douche.]) But that doesn't mean they don't get slotted.

So mainly I've been doing people at work whom I see around and in the halls all the time but never have to deal with in any meaningful way. I have to give them nicknames for the mantra like "scanner girl" or "conference room key lady" since mostly I don't even know their real names.

Anyway, try it yourself. Not the meditation per se, but try to come up with a few people you have absolutely no feelings or opinion about. It's kinda fascinating.

xoxo

po'er than po'

So. I've been witnessing interwebz drahhhhma today about, of all things, charitable donations to Haiti. The crux of the drama is one person saying donate [material objects] to Haiti and someone else providing many links from reputable charities and so forth saying, no, we don't need your blankets, your food, your old shoes, there's no infrastructure, there's no way to distribute or transport this stuff, GIVE CASH. Well, original poster gets snippy and defensive, because, well, what else do you expect?, it's the internet. And original poster's supporters make the point that some people, like *them*, can't afford to give even five dollars. (But they've got tons of clothes that don't fit. Etc.)

Hint: shut off your high speed internet connection for a month and you'll have sixty bucks to give to earthquake victims. Hint 2: if you're protesting that, no, you don't in fact have internet access at home, but are instead posting from work--work harder, get a promotion, and send the money to Haiti. Yeah, yeah, pot, kettle, lazy ass.

But it led me to wonder about this. Is there really anyone in America who *isn't* actually physically homeless and eating out of garbage cans who couldn't come up with five bucks for charity if they really, really wanted to?

I mean, I have admitted in this very blog that in my youth, there were days that I might have had to ransack the apartment for change to get together enough money to get to work or school or wherever I had to be. But then payday would come along and I'd get my pitiful little minimum wage check and woohoo! money for peanut M&Ms even after the bills got paid. I might have walked home from work at midnight through some pretty sketchy neighborhoods to save cabfare, but I'd scrape up enough money to go out maybe once or twice a month. I might have had to make damn sure to show up at my mom's for Sunday dinner for my one actual substantial meat n' veg meal of the week, but on occasion there'd be a bottle of Kahlua in my house. What I'm trying to say is, I had next to no money left after rent and utilities and tuition and books and transportation, but I managed to find enough for those small indulgences. (Clothes and shoes were all tax refund, Xmas money, and the generosity of my mother.)

So color me skeptical that any American using the friggin' internet can't scrape together 5 bucks by giving up something else. Eat ramen for five days straight. No coffee! Walk somewhere instead of using your car or the subway or the prison bus.

I'm not saying anyone has to do any of that. No one has any kind of obligation to sacrifice in order to give to anyone else. I'm just saying, if you claim to me that you are devastated because you want to help those poor people in Haiti so much but, boohoo, no one wants your old sneakers and you can't possibly spare any cash, I'm not buying it.

xoxo

the things they publish

Here's an excerpt from a dating self-help book. For women. Naturally.

Edna Pollin, the divorce attorney in Denver, told me that in her experience, many women who divorce their husbands because they "want something more" aren't going to find it. What often happens, she said, is that her ex-husband remarries (someone much younger), and the new wife gets all of his love, companionship, financial support, and caretaking, while the wife who left him ends up in a one-bedroom apartment with a Netflix subscription and no sign of Prince Charming. Then she finally appreciates what she had, but even if her ex-husband is still single, she's caused irreparable damage and he won't take her back.

The premise of this whole book is, apparently: settle. Settle, settle, settle, settle. You'd best marry the first guy who asks you and then hold onto him by any means possible, because you aren't gettin' any younger or prettier, you know. You may very well be getting smarter, more mature, or more accomplished, but none of that is any currency that counts when it comes to hooking a man. And of course you want to hook a man.

Sigh.

I honestly don't know were to start. The fact that there's a whole industry founded on "relationship" books that push similar messages (and remind me that, as a middle-aged woman, I am basically worthless, so I should just start hoarding cats now, kthxbye) is too depressing to even delve into.

Then I remember that in the very same Borders or Barnes & Noble that has a huge selection of this tripe, there's also sure to be a shelf or three of Buddhism books that talk about kindness, mindfulness, and equanimity. And I am slightly appeased. Don't look in the wrong section and all will be well. Namaste.

xoxo

8 questions for our times

1.) Did my dad throw away a freakin $300 check that he cannot find? (Sigh.)

2.) Did my ex-husband mean every(or any)thing he said to me the other night? (Oh, yeah, he was awake, alert, knew it was not 1983, and is sorry for every bad thing he has ever done. Near death experience n' all, y'all.)

3.) In the Jay-Z song "99 Problems" (oh, Andrea), the chorus of which goes (in case you don't remember 2004)

If you're havin girl problems

I feel bad for you, son,

I got 99 problems

but a bitch ain't one

and one verse ends with the line, "We'll see how smart you are when the canines come", do you think the play on words is intentional? (I prefer to think it is!)

4.) Why do I think anyone cares about what I'm listening to on my iPod while I'm typing?

5.) Why was I worried about D switching to the psych nurse practitioner? (She's far smarter and on top of things than that cute little Indian psychiatrist who obviously graduated in the bottom third of her med school class ever was.)

6.) What does the "warrior card" from PF Changs they sent me in the mail entitle me to? (It better be a free order of those tempura-ish string beans. Or alcohol.)

7.) Why did I just pause to consider how Mr Barma would reword question #6 so that it doesn't end in a preposition?

8.) Why don't you get back to work, Andrea?

xoxo

how many random unrelated posts do you want?

Uh, yeah, and another thing. Since I drew you all into my life drahhhhmmmaaa, I need to update. D's dad is doing a little better. He's been off the vent since Friday, and is now conscious and talking for brief periods of time. A few minutes or so. However, I guess his girlfriend was extremely upset because he didn't know who she was. He did apparently know his sister, or was at least able to remember after being told. "S, this is J." And then, "Who am I?" "J" But even after being told K was K, he denied she was his girlfriend. J thought this was pretty funny, especially in light of K being a big pain in the ass.

Plus, you gotta laugh, or you'll cry.

Anyway, since I'm going to M2's house this afternoon, I thought I'd drop by the hospital afterwards for a few minutes since I'll be in town. It'd be kind of awesome if S thought *I* was his girlfriend because he thinks it's 1983. Ha! But I think that only happens to coma victims on the soaps and in Oliver Sacks' books. I think.

xoxo

and one more thing

So, did you know Neil Gaiman is now engaged to Amanda Palmer? (Do you know who either of those people are? If not, you probably don't care!) Anyway, I care, because Mr Gaiman is my celebrity writer pretend boyfriend, and if he was gonna leave his wife, I would have preferred it to be for me rather than some hussy who basically changed her clothes on the red carpet at the Golden Globes. God. I have a sense of decorum, yo.

But what was most hilarious about the whole Golden Globe thing was that (as related on gofugyourself) the pictures of Mr Gaiman and Ms Palmer were tagged by the photo service as Amanda Palmer "and companion" even though Mr Gaiman was the one who was nominated for an award. Ha! Poor Neil, no respect except amongst the geeks. It's very sad.

If he was in any way upset by this, or by the fact that his fiance is an exhibitionist, he's welcome to come cry on my shoulder. Or any other body part he desires. For real! And then we can collaborate on a novel that would be much better than anything I could ever write. And then he can introduce me to his BFF Tori Amos. Doesn't that sound like a plan??!!!

xoxo

and another thing

You know I don't expound on controversial issues in here. And when I do, I live to regret it. But, as a tiny itty bitty favor to me, would you take a look at this

http://www.thepetitionsite.com/takeaction/438866375

and sign it if you agree. Or you could just boycott watching the Superbowl and instead drink beer and eat chili and such without any of that annoying football to interfere. If you don't agree, feel free to write CBS and tell them they are doing a hell of a job. Up to you. Smooches.

xoxo

3 hours

That's how long I was at my PCP's office this morning. I'm not complaining. Much. D and I both had appointments and they weren't one right after the other, either, due to circumstances that are too long and boring to go into. Plus our PCP is always running late. Always. If you don't have the first appointment of the day, you can kind of take the time written on your little card as a "suggestion" rather than a fact.

So that meant a lot of time in the waiting room, together and separately. I continue to marvel--well, that's a strong word, but--at how well D does in these situations now, compared to two years ago or probably even last year. It's like I think he isn't making any progress or getting any better because it's so slow and incremental, and then he handles something with the grace a "normal" person would, and I'm astounded all over again.

But that's not what I set out to write about. That's just incidental. What I set out to write about involves watching the other people in the waiting room. Most of them didn't do anything or say anything particularly interesting, but, y'know, I people-watch. Anyway, I was just saying the other day that one should never disparage anyone else's parenting (especially if you don't have kids of your own, but also as a general rule.) So there I am, watching this (young) mother with a tiny baby in a carseat/carrier. She has the bottle propped up with a blanket, while she, the mom, is texting away. Do you think I wanted very badly to go over and say, "Put that fucking phone down and feed your child correctly"? Yes, I certainly did. And then I admonished myself and went on minding my own business and sending nonjudgmental lovingkindness out to the universe. Or something like that.

xoxo

P.S. Blogger spellcheck doesn't think texting is a word.

mouth of babes, again

I had this little patient this morning, nine years old, with a certain flavor of ADHD. She could shut up when it was time to shut up, but as long as it was okay to talk, she did constantly, and in a disinhibited manner. Every thought in her head came out her mouth. Most of them were very entertaining. She was also Haitian by descent, which will enter into our story shortly.

She started out by telling me she had her wallet with her, so I asked if she had a lot of money in it. No, she said, only a dollar, but she has money in the bank. However, they won't let her take it out. Well, that's good, I said, you're supposed to save your money. For what? she asked in a completely scathing tone. College? I don't want to go to college!

Why? College is boring. (Ed note: not when it's done right!) No, she was going, instead, to "find her husband." By this time I was, as you can imagine, dying. Oh, I said. You're going to find a rich husband so you won't have to worry about getting a good job, so you won't *need* to go to college. That's right. She then proceeded to tell me, in a charmingly racist manner, the ethnicity of the man she would marry, because her sister had informed her those people had money. Hint: Haitian dudes need not apply.

After a while, as she was watching what I was doing, she informed me she wanted to work at the hospital like me. Wait, I said, I thought you were going to marry a rich guy so you wouldn't need to work. She amended that--she's going to marry a rich husband *and* work at the hospital. I told her that was a fine plan.

Than she started asking me if I had seen Haiti on the TV, and I told her, yes, and it was very sad. Are you going to adopt a Haitian baby? she asked. Again, I was dying, but I did not feel it was appropriate to tell her I'd already been scheming to buy one in the DR for twenty five bucks. So I said, no, but I'd already sent some money to help the babies.

And this, people, is why I love my job.

xoxo

beautiful new things

I know this blog has been sadly lacking in entertainment value lately (I told Mr Barma the reason I haven't overheard any hilarious cell phone conversations lately is these kids and their damn texting), but to continue with the trend, I'm going to talk about my house again.

I did not sleep at my house Wednesday night, so yesterday morning I called my dad to check up on him, as I do. You haven't lived till you've attempted to have a phone conversation with an 83 year old man who's 75% hard of hearing, but that's neither here nor there. He told me that Wednesday afternoon the UPS man delivered me a wicked heavy package and I was like, oh my god! that's my cart. I was not expecting it to come so soon.

Isn't it beautiful? It's for the hallway outside my kitchen, to replace the disgusting cheap dusty plastic shelving from, probably, Caldor (because that's how old it is) that hereforto held a bunch of random appliances that never get used. Like that waffle maker I pull out once every two years. So I put it together last night, which was easy peasy, and took the old one apart and put it in the trash. This led to some difficult decisions re whether some of the stuff stored there should really actually be tossed. For instance, I have a breadmaker. It belonged to my mother. My mother knew how to make real bread (because, y'know, white trash Martha Stewart, y'all) but she used the breadmaker for quick and easy hot carbohydrates on occasion. well. My mother's been dead for 6 1/2 years and I have never used that breadmaker. I've thought about it (that counts, doesn't it?) but to be honest, I dunno if I even have the instruction booklet, and I'm not sure a breadmaker is the kind of thing you can learn to use by trial and error. (Unlike, say, a hot towel cabi. Oh, the private jokes, they never stop. Ahem.)

So, anyway, to cut to the chase, I put the breadmaker on the new cart. Be honest with me. This is how those people who end up on Hoarders started out, right?

I also kept a meat grinder, which also was my mother's. I suppose you could probably guess that, because you people do not, rightly, see me as the kind of person who could ever in any possible universe be arsed to grind her own hamburger. The meat grinder is still in its box, though it has been used. How can you throw away a perfectly good meat grinder still in its box? And I'ma guess none of my friends want to grind their own meat, either, so it's not like anyone wants it. But you can't throw it away. I'm sure the lady with the two tons of poop in her house would agree with me.

Anyway. My new cart is lovely. I also have some new Blik stickers that are going in the foyer, but they're still in the mailing tube. I'll report back on those. Whether you like it or not.

Peace!

xoxo

today's buddhism

I'm reading The Kindness Handbook, which is the companion to the other Sharon Salzberg book I read. She was talking about a program that was run for elementary school students to teach them "mindfulness", i.e. to stop and breathe and think before they act. At the end of the program, they asked the kids what mindfulness meant to them. One kid said mindfulness is "not hitting someone in the mouth" which Ms Salzberg thought was brilliant. I concur.

She was also talking about a study that was done, showing that babies develop the capacity for altruism by the age of 18 months. The experimenter would "accidentally" knock something to the floor and on video you could see the babies look at him to see if it looked like he needed help. If it appeared the experimenter was having trouble, the babies would come over and pick up the object and hand it to him. If it looked like he could get it himself, they wouldn't, and likewise if he clearly threw the object down purposefully, they wouldn't go pick it up. The experimenter would take the object from the babies without saying "thank you" to control against them being reinforced by praise or approval. Pretty cool, right? And begging the question of what kind of experiences in life extinguish that apparently natural human behavior to automatically help someone who is struggling.

Finally, a story about the Buddha himself. He came to stay in a town and the local big shot, who was not a fan, went down to him full of insults and imprecations. Buddha asked him whether he ever had guests come to his house and if so, did he offer them food and refreshments? The guy said, yes, of course. Then Buddha asked him if they do not eat the food and refreshments, who does it belong to? The guy said, if they don't accept it, then it still belongs to me. Buddha said, well, I don't accept your anger and insults. They're all still yours. I like that. Let's all start a policy that, if someone insults us, berates us, says shitty things to us, we just refuse to accept the "gift." They can just keep their toxicity, thanks!

xoxo

tee em eye

Talked to J yesterday twice, before and after she went to the hospital. Things not going well with S. More or less comatose. Still massive infection. Super low platelet count that led to bleeding from his nose and mouth and, oh yeah, in his brain. Renal failure. Liver not doing too well either. More tests planned for today, to help map out a plan of attack for the surgery they hoped to have him stabilized enough to do tomorrow.

Okay. Late this afternoon a woman from [big hospital] calls me while I'm at work, leaving nothing but her name and asking me to call back and have her paged. A million thoughts start running through my mind, mostly about why they'd be calling me. When I get her on the phone, it turns out she's a social worker. "In these situations" they like to touch base with the family members. And some anger I guess I didn't know was there bubbled up, and I told her that, well, I wasn't really family, I was his ex-wife and he hadn't see me or his son in four years. She asked me about D and I explained about his psychiatric illness. She then asked if D wanted to see S, and if he'd "feel bad if anything were to happen and he hadn't." And I realized that she was, of course, hinting that they weren't expecting him to make it. And some more of that anger bubbled up and I said something about S not ever seeing D when he was in the hospital for two months and karma being a bitch. But I promised to ask D what he felt. A little more chitchat and we hung up.

A bit later I was telling my boss all this (complete with all the anger popping to the surface again) and he agreed that when the social workers call you like that, it ain't because they're overly optimistic regarding prognosis. So I figure I ought to call J and find out what she's heard from the docs today and if she thought I ought to get D in there *tonight*. She agreed that what they said to her had seemed like they were hinting around that he might be dying and soon. So we decided we would all go in together tonight, and she'd try to get her dad to come too, rather than wait till it might be too late.

S wasn't totally comatose. He could hear us when we spoke to him: he'd move around a bit and his BP would rise. We were standing around the bed, and I dunno, I just slipped my hand under the sleeve of his johnny and started rubbing his arm. I'm a fucking massage therapist, we touch people, sue me. I stood there, looking at him in such a horrible state--intubated, jaundiced, edematous, urine bag full of what was basically all blood--and rubbing his arm, and he felt like my S. I mean to say, I'm so tactilely-oriented that I remember how people feel. And he felt like the man I once loved. It was like all the anger I might have felt or might feel in the future just fell away.

I want him to get better. I want him to live.

xoxo

P.S. D did so well with the ICU visit. Really, really well.

did you know today was a holiday?

You'd have thought the fact that the T was running on a Saturday schedule might have been a clue, but apparently not big enough of one.

I just sat down to make that phone call I needed to make today so that no one smacks me. I go through an automatic voice tree for literally ten minutes, hearing information that does nothing to solve my particular issue. Finally I go back and try another option which isn't *exactly* what I'm calling about but which seems more likely to get me a human being on the line. Good plan, Andrea! Yes, this set of options would eventually lead to a person on the other end. If anyone in the government of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was actually working today, that is.

Gah. I tried. I also found out that I really don't need to get this resolved until March 8. I'm still calling this week though, not March 5th. Really. Swear to god.

xoxo

speaking of unwanted phone calls

Last night I had a missed called on my phone. (Have I complained yet about my new purse, its horribly designed pockets, and my resulting inability to ever getting my cell out of it before the call goes to voicemail? Well, that's the gist.) Anyway, it was a local number, and a very familiar local number, as in "that used to be a number I knew by heart years ago, but whose?" So I didn't return it immediately, but instead waited for the voicemail to pop up.

It was my ex-sister-in-law J (whom I have mentioned several times lately I guess), calling from her home phone, rather than her cell as she usually would. Oh, yeah, that's whose number that is! Calling from her home phone seemed like it portended bad news, and indeed it did. My ex is in the ICU at one of the big Boston hospitals. J had gotten a phone call Thursday night from some woman who'd said, "You don't know me, but I'm So n' So, a friend of S's..." Who knew he had a new girlfriend? Certainly none of us! She told J that S had a kidney stone and was in one of the piddly local hospitals. J was kinda, "Uh, yeah, okay, thanks." It was a kidney stone, not a life-threatening emergency, and her brother hadn't spoken to her in like two years.

Well. Yesterday almost as soon as she walked in the door from work, her phone was ringing off the hook and there were a bazillion messages. S had to be transferred into town because he was septic, the girlfriend didn't have J's cell number, and she'd had to sign all the permissions to have him intubated and so forth because they couldn't get ahold of the family, and she was "very uncomfortable with that." J said she'd go down today to see him and find out what was going on. (Because she didn't rush to his bedside or alert all the relatives at the kidney stone news, she is now apparently the Heartless Bitch Sister.)

So she was calling to let me know and to ask if I wanted to go with her. I said I had to work. Which is true. But, um, am I supposed to want to go see my ex-husband whom I haven't spoken to in 3 1/2 years in the ICU? I've been trying to work up to feeling bad for him, but, really, my dominant emotional reaction is, "Oh Jesus Christ, please don't die, because if I have to put D through a wake and a funeral, he's gonna totally decompensate from the stress."

I suppose that's really evil of me. I mean I loved that man for ten years, hated him for two, then had some kind of friendship with him for another ten or so until it all faded into complete indifference with flashes of disgust. I suppose I should feel something about him being really, really sick. I dunno.

J's supposed to call and leave me a message today when she finds out more. Let's hope for D's sake, if nothing else, that it's good news.

xoxo

you're all masochists, part eleventy million and one

Immediately after I finished writing that last post, while I was attempting to finish my work, our lil MILF came over and started telling me that her boyfriend dumped her on Wednesday. No! Why??!?!

Because he's stupid.

Well, obviously. But why specifically?

He didn't like how she's gotten so sensitive lately.

Oh. Sensitive how? (I was thinking that, since she's perhaps a little prone to depression herself and since her grandfather died fairly recently and she'd had a hard time with it, perhaps she'd been moody or crying a lot lately. Some people can deal with that sort of thing in a relationship and some can't. But no, that's not it.)

It seems that it used to be when he did something that upset her, she'd yell and scream at him, perhaps kick his car. Hell, maybe even throw things, I dunno. He had no problem with that. Of late, however, she's been making a concerted effort not to do that. She's been trying very hard to calmly state when something bothers her and to discuss it in a reasonable, rational manner.

Her gentleman did not like that. No. All those talks made him feel, and I quote, like he was "dating his mother." As our MILF said, well no, your mother doesn't have sex with you, but whatever.

So, once again, let's review. Hot girl flipping out and going off on you=hot. Hot girl attempting to deal with conflict in an adult manner=like your mother=not hot. Jesus fuckin wept.

I repeat, I'm not trying to convert anyone to my worldview. I'm just presenting data points. You all will draw your own conclusions, as you do.

xoxo

free association friday

1.) I was all about to write a rantilicious post deploring the state of society, my place in said society, how all men are apparently scum even if the ones *I* know are pretty much cool, and blah blah blah, predicated entirely upon a jezebel article I read at lunch. But then I read the original article linked to in the jezebel piece and realized they (i.e. the jezzie blogger) were sensationalizing and referring to only small parts of the study the original article referenced. In other words, just another example of how the media exists entirely to get people worried or pissed off about stuff they wouldn't be worried or pissed off about otherwise.

2.) I had a little teenaged patient today, just about to turn 16, and her father was torturing her by trying to take a picture of her with his cell phone camera while she was set up for testing. "Noooo, dad!" she said, blocking her face with her arms. "Not with all this stuff on me, and I'm not even wearing makeup!" Well, you know what I wanted to say. Oh, sweetie, you're so pretty, you don't *need* makeup; you can wear it for fun, but you're beautiful without it. And then I'd have to go on and reassure her that she's not fat, because I'm sure she thinks that too, being a curvaceous kind of girl. Okay. Maybe that's my societal rant right there, non-media-prompted.

3.) How bad is it of me that as soon as I realize I have more money than I thought I would, I start thinking of how to spend it? Plus, I may very well be doing a little side job for someone, completely under the table (don't tell the feds on me!***), soon and I'm thinking, oh, yeah, then you can buy this and this and get that looked at and that fixed. Why is not my first impulse to save the extra money for six months or whatever, in case I need it for an emergency? God, I suck. That's my personal rant right there, non-media-prompted (but, yeah, maybe I'm picturing my friend Suze Orman smacking me.)

4.) I'm procrastinating on making a phone call I'm supposed to make, purely because I know it's going to be one of those bureaucratic calls that makes me so frustrated and anxious that it will totally make the week end on a sour note. Monday is another day and I will deal with this crap then! And that's my little gift to myself right there. (But if I don't do it Monday, you all are free to smack me. Hard. Because there's no excuse for that.)

5.) Okay, I'm going to go finish my work, because I should really feel guilty for getting paid to do *this*. Not that I do, but I should.

Peace!

xoxo

***never gets old

belated holiday present

I got my bank statement for last month in the mail today, a few days later than it usually arrives. I was not looking forward to it, having the sinking feeling I had perhaps spent too much money over Christmas between the presents and the holiday food and the going out (or staying in) to celebrate with various and sundry people dear to my heart. Imagine my surprise and delight when I opened the envelope to find I had ended the statement period with more money than with which I had started.

How'd that happen?

It took me a few minutes to figure out, but then I realized. The universe had indeed gifted me the month of December. There were five Thursdays! Woohoo!

xoxo

noble savages and so forth

Finally--finally--got to see Avatar in 3D IMAX last night, so I have been de-thwarted. Unthwarted. Free from thwart. Definitely the venue to see this movie in. The visuals and special effects were awesome. The plot, well, derivative doesn't even begin to cover it, and the bad guys might as well be twirling their moustaches and tying maidens to the railroad tracks, 'k?

And it suffers from a lot of the problems that bad, lazy science fiction writing suffers from. All the info-dumping at the beginning, where two characters have a spirited discussion of stuff they both already know, so that you, viewer, will know it too. And perhaps only a pet peeve for me, but I am totally thrown out of my suspension of disbelief when two aliens are getting it on and start kissing. Lazy, lazy writing. Alien foreplay ought to be a little more alien. You can look to the non-human animal kingdom and throw in some grooming or biting of each other and not even have to stretch your imagination. (1...2...3..."Oh, Andrea, it's only a movie.")

But my main problem with this movie is the whole "noble savages" trope. It's so offensive to portray the indigenous people as all good and pure and in touch with nature and so much more morally superior to us. I was trying to explain this to Mr Indemnity and he was like, "Well, it's better than portraying them as gooks to be killed" and I was like, not really. It's the flip side of the same card. It's objectifying them. It's making them Other, not real people with the same wide range of emotions and behaviors and thoughts as any of us. (So Mr Indemnity pointed out the indigenous people in this movie are 8 foot tall blue aliens and thus not just like us, at which point I gave up. *You* all will get my point and not torture me with specious argument, I'm sure. Symbolism. We've all heard of fuckin symbolism, haven't we?)

N E Way. I realize a lot of this stems from liberal guilt. In the movie, it's okay for the natives to make fun of Jake Sully, tell him he's like a baby and an ignorant child, and nickname him their word for moron. But would we as the audience think it was just as okay if they put Neytiri on a spaceship and made fun of her and called her stupid because she didn't know how to run a computer or use a fork? No, of course not. But liberal guilt will tell us we're supposed to be subliminally embarrassed because we no longer as a society know how to track a wild animal through the forest by smell or we're supposed to be willing to make reparations through shame because maybe someone made fun of Pocahontas for not being able to use a fork 400 years ago.

Okay, I'll stop dissecting the popcorn movie! It was fun. See it in IMAX if you haven't already. Plus, Michelle Rodriguez is so pretty and so badass. "You're not the only one with a gun, bitch." You'll be entertained.

xoxo

you're all masochists, part eleventy million

Hoarders last night! Woman in her early sixties, whose house is so crammed full of (figurative this time, thanks) crap that there are only little tiny aisles you can squeeze through to get from one room to the next. The woman's grown children, a daughter aged 23 and a son aged 26, are so fed up with her they are threatening to cut off all contact if she doesn't get some help. The woman claims things got out of hand 5 or 6 years before when her daughter left for college. Daughter disagrees and says from the time she was a freshman in high school she was planning her escape from that house, and that every time she would throw trash out when she was living there, her mother would go out and bring at least part of it back in. During the filming the daughter and mother fight constantly, and the mother is still unwilling to throw out much, even when confronted point-blank about whether her stuff is more important to her than her chance to save a relationship with her children.

So, who's the other family member being affected? Oh, the woman's husband. Her second husband. Whom she's been married to for only ten years. He says he really doesn't want to divorce her, but it's getting so he can't live like that any more. ("That" being a house in which the only places you can sit down are the toilet, the bed, and a couple chairs.) So, let's review. This woman is not, by the by, a particularly well-preserved or pretty 60-something. She's kind of a typical post-menopausal overweight, gray-haired woman with an old lady haircut and WalMart stretch pants. And ten years ago, according to he daughter who lived there, her house was, if not quite in the state it is now, well on its way. Her personality is such that her own children aren't sure they want anything to do with her. She is either so mentally ill or so selfish, or both! (because it's certainly not mutually exclusive), that it's apparently a difficult decision about whether she wants to accept free help to clean out her pit o' crap to make her children and husband happy.

You know where I'm going with this. This woman, with all of the above, has managed to attract and keep a second husband, a husband who is only making token threats about divorcing her under severe duress, but really wants to stay with her. What.the.fuck. That's what I'm doing wrong in my sad romantic history. Apparently once again it is proven that the way to make men want you is to take no care with your appearance, take even less care in trying to modulate your crazee, be a complete selfish bitch to everyone, and treat the guy like shit. Then they'll pursue you, marry you, and try very hard to hold on to you.

On a related note, I've seen first hand or heard of second hand two separate cases where the reason a guy was attracted to a woman is because of her volatility which is apparently "exciting." Yeah. I'm sure I was much less boring and predictable back in the days when I used to throw things atcha when you pissed me off. I shoulda stuck with what works.

xoxo

if they start selling this in sephora

I will kill myself.

Now, as you people know, I worry about very many things. I also have certain impulses towards being somewhat more critical of myself than I would ever be towards any of you or, really, anyone. And I like cosmetics and girly shit, all kinds of girly shit: lipstick, flat irons, mineral powder, seche vite and OPI, endless varieties of hand cream that do not actually work when you commit as much genocide by purell as I do, aveda blue malva shampoo, john frieda shampoo, paul mitchell shampoo, lush rehab shampoo--I own it all. So, y'know, one might just think I am *exactly* the consumer this advertisement*** is aimed at:

Q. “I used to be so “Pink” and healthy looking on my inside Labia Lip area. Now I am losing that fresh look. Is there anything I can do”?

A. Yes, now there is a solution! “My New Pink Button” is a Cosmetic Dye especially for the woman's genital area, to help restore that healthy vibrant Rosy color. Until now there has never been a solution for restoring natural pigment. This is a concern with many women and more than you can even imagine, and a frequent question that Physicians are asked. Check out the blogs on the Internet. You are not alone! This is a common problem and we now have a simple and safe solution, restoring sexual confidence to Women everywhere!

But one would be wrong.

Have I said "Jesus wept" yet this year? Jesus wept.

xoxo

***http://www.mynewpinkbutton.com/content/FAQ.htm

i was gonna tell you

...all about the stuff I read about karma last night that pissed me right the hell off. But then I said to myself, Andrea, no one cares about your philosophical disagreements with major world religions, so just let it drop. So that's the plan. I wish I had something scintillating to discuss instead, but the well's pretty dry.

So maybe we will have a tiny Buddhism discussion. Just not about the stuff that pushed all my buttons. (I haven't even *gotten* to the book Ms Crispix flung across the room yet, either!) But here's one thing. The hardcore Buddhist position is against killing any life. This means vegetarianism, naturally, and you know I'm not going there again, so that's already a fail. It also means, strictly speaking, not killing flies or other insects. I swat flies, but I've been known to liberate spiders to the outside, 'cause spiders are cool. And I kept those ants out of my house this spring and summer with cider vinegar, not pesticides. So I may be slightly ahead in my good works here. But my question is this. Every time I purell my hands in work, am I committing genocide? What's the Dalai Lama's position on antibiotics? How about on washing? I think it was easier for the Buddha to proscribe not killing *anything* when no one knew of the existence of microbes. That flu virus might be your grandmother, yo.

See why I said I'm not a spiritual person? I just cannot take logic and reasoning out of the equation. I am, however, definitely continuing with the metta meditation, because it does my heart and my brain good, and I don't see the downside to increasing the love and compassion I have for everyone.

In other news, I just got an email back from my ex sister-in-law and it reminded me of something I meant to mention in here but forgot. When they came over after Christmas and we were catching up on stuff, I mentioned that I had had the new roof done this summer. You guys remember I was surprised that it cost maybe half of what I had been expecting, right? Well, it seems that her dad (D's other grandfather) also had his roof done, and by my roofer. (Proving once again that he's the go-to guy in our city.) But he had had an estimate done the year before which was in fact about twice what I, and he ultimately, paid. He put it off because it wasn't crucial and it was a lot of money. And then this year when he decided he should go for it, our roofer slashed the price, because the economy was so bad and he wanted to make sure he had enough jobs to keep all his guys working. I kinda think my roofer has some good karma built up too.

Okay! That's all I've got to say about that.

xoxo

hipsters outta control

Thwarted--thwarted, I tell you!--in my attempt to see "Avatar" at the IMAX last night (indeed, it was impossible to get tickets for any time this weekend, which, *how* many weeks has this movie been out now? sigh), I ended up instead at Trina's Starlight Lounge in Inman Square. Oh, what a self-consciously "cool" place. The conceit is that it's supposed to look like a 60s era dive bar. I guess the building it is in *was* a dive bar. But they also serve food, some of which is Southern (grits, cornbread). Not sure exactly how that fits with the theme. And then some of the food is hot dogs, hamburgers, "pressed sandwiches." (Because all hipsters require paninis. Okay by me. I also like a panini. ) I guess the food is all supposed to be, y'know, "ironic." I had mac n' cheese, which was quite good. However! They did not have any desserts. How the fuck can they fail to have, like, some jello or Rice Crispie treats? Ironic desserts are not difficult. Total FAIL there.

But, yeah, good cheapish mac n' cheese and cheapish beer. I suppose I could put up with the outta control hipsterism and the lack of whoopie pies and eat there again. Our server was wearing a leopard print hoodie. That's gotta count for something.

xoxo

horrible secrets

I had a patient in my office this morning whom I have known for 24 years. She's been coming to our office since she was a little kid and she's almost thirty now. And I'm going to tell you a story that I honestly cannot remember whether I've blogged about before or not. I tell you people so many stories about my life, I just can't remember whether I'm repeating them like the boring old person I am.

When I first met this girl she had been fairly recently diagnosed with a seizure disorder, on top of several other known problems and disabilities. She wasn't, at first, stabilized on medications, so I saw her a number of occasions in a fairly short period of time and then, after that, every six months or a year. Both of her parents always accompanied her to her appointments.

Anyway, her father was involved in local politics. I think he was, at that time, on the school committee where I live. Somewhere around 20 or 21 years ago, a good friend of mine's family was having a benefit dance for my friend's cousin who was having an organ transplant. I attended this little soiree and I had, let us just say, a number of pearl harbors. It was a good time. Towards the end of the evening (read: when I was pretty annihilated), who should show up but the mayor and a bunch of other local pols, including my patient's father. Well. This guy started coming on to me, really really coming on to me, complete with the sob story about how once you had a child with special needs, your marriage disintegrates, and then an outright proposition.

I was like, seriously, dude? Seriously? I know your wife and your fucking handicapped child and you think I'm gonna fuck you because I'm drunk? I didn't exactly come out and say that so bluntly, because I was still, in my inebriated state, aware that he was a client and there was a professional relationship there, but I made it clear no way, no how. In the moment, I was just sort of astounded, but afterwards I was kinda insulted too. I mean, how much of a skank did he think I was, that I would just randomly have sex with him, even though I knew his wife and kid? I was young and cute then, but I certainly wasn't so freaking amazingly hot that he just couldn't help himself. C'mon now.

Apparently, though, afterwards *he* realized he hadn't made the wisest of all possible moves, because he never came to an appointment with me again. He was obviously a wee bit uncomfortable about what might occur if he did. But my discomfort? I have had to spend the last 20 years knowing, every time I saw or spoke to his wife, that she has a sleazy douchebag of a spouse who apparently fucks around on her every chance he gets. (I mean, people who proposition their children's healthcare providers are propositioning other people as well. It's a behavior pattern.) She's a perfectly nice woman who has always been pleasant, friendly, and cordial to me. Only I know something about her life I would really really really really prefer not to know. It's a horrible thing to know someone's secret when it's none of your business.

Moral of the story? Midori tastes better going down than coming up. No, no. Moral of the story--don't be a douchebag, and if you must be, leave me out of it.

xoxo

the karma express

In one of my Buddhism books there's this anecdote (and we all know I like an anecdote that supposedly proves a point, don't we, kids?) about a meditation student who continually complained to his teacher about his mom, her failings as both a parent and a human being. After some time of this, the teacher advised the man to simply love his mother. "She wouldn't let me," the student said petulantly. "She couldn't stop you," replied the teacher. I think I actually chortled out loud when I read this. Yes!

I don't mean to suggest I'm buying everything I've been reading (more about that later) but some of it is so brilliant and so simple and resonates so much I can hardly stand it. You don't need anyone's permission to love them. You don't need them to love you back. The sooner you realize that every emotion and every thought of yours doesn't *have* to be a reaction to other people's emotions, thoughts, and actions, the sooner you're going to be happy. That pattern of going through life reacting rather than choosing cannot be anything but toxic. Plus, love is free, love me, say HELL YES. Okay then.

Let's move on to something I'm having a harder time getting with. Karma. Everything I've read so far has gone out of its way to try and convince me that the actual Buddhist principal of karma has, contrary to the Western misperception, nothing to do with reward and punishment. If you live a shitty life, you are going to suffer, if not now, then in the future, or in your next existence. But not because you're being punished. Instead, because they believe that suffering and difficulty you live through leads to the development of the compassion and wisdom that brings you one step further to enlightenment. If you're living a shitty life full of anger and cruelty, greed and jealousy, you're stepping away from enlightenment and karma's gonna help you out by giving you a little kick back towards it. It's not punishing you, it's helping you grow. Or something like that. I have several problems with that, which we'll get back to.

I was reading last night about anger, in the context of beginning to learn to offer metta to your "enemy" (which doesn't need to be all that dramatic--it can just be someone who is a big pain in your ass or pisses you off every time you need to deal with them). The principal being that you can help let go of your anger by realizing that whatever wrongs, large or small, have been done to you by this person, karma's gonna take care of it. It's not your responsibility to seek vengeance. But, Ms Salzberg takes pains to emphasize, neither are you supposed to look at it as, "Aha! He's gonna get his!" That's still vengeance and anger. You're just supposed to let go of it in faith that the universe will work things out and it's not *your* concern. I agree that's probably the healthiest way to go about it, because I think we'll all agree that that anger you just can't let go of is the most soul-crushing and unhappy-making emotion there is. But! But you are not telling me that, no matter how they try to spin karma in the twenty-first century Western world, the original concept of karma as written down two or three thousand years ago *did not* carry that connotation of reward and punishment. All societies need that as a means of social control. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." There's got to be someone telling the common people that you just can't go around killing your next door neighbor because he stole your goat and impregnated your daughter. (Or vice versa.) That way lies societal chaos. Yet you have to provide hope to those same people that their shitty neighbor is gonna get his, preferably in both this world and the next, because that's how people work when they haven't learned to let go of their anger yet.

Okay, my next problem is with the concept that suffering and difficulty leads *all people* closer to enlightenment and increases their compassion and wisdom. Sometimes it does. I know D's illness has granted me more compassion and perspective. But there's a whole hell of a lot of people whose response to painful circumstances is more anger, hate, and bitterness, and they don't learn a damn thing. I haven't really seen, or at least understood if I have, how the Buddhists fan-wank that little detail.

Finally, for karma to really "work" you have to buy into reincarnation, because we all know that there are many, many spectacularly crappy people who have fabulous lives. Now, I know the Buddhists will say that they aren't *really* happy, because they're full of anger or greed or whatever. But, yeah, there are a whole bunch who do a good facsimile of looking pretty damn pleased with life, I gotta say.

I've still been listening to the hip hop (shut up) and I was listening to "Empire State of Mind" by Jay-Z, really paying attention to the lyrics. Mr Z (if I can be so presumptuous, ha!) seems to imply in this song that his former profession was, y'know, drug dealer. Now, I didn't know all that much about him, other than the obvious, well-known facts, so I looked him up to see if this was true. And, yes, apparently twenty or twenty-five years ago, Mr Z provided crack to the eager consumers of NYC.

Let's review how that shitty behavior worked for him, hmm? He had a successful career as a rapper. He was the CEO of a huge record company. He's got a clothing company that my own child may just have purchased from in his teen aged years. He owns the New Jersey Nets (wait...that might be a punishment). Basically, though, he's got more money than god. And he's married to Beyonce whom, though I may find a bit too Barbie-ish for my own tastes (in the female R&B-singer looks contest, you know I'm a Rihanna girl, right?), is widely regarded as an extremely beautiful woman. Plus she's got, if not more money than god, at least as much as. Perhaps Mr Z cries himself to sleep every night, wiping his tears on his lovely wife's weave, but somehow I don't think so. Without reincarnation working, explain the karma in that, Buddhists!

You all stopped reading four paragraphs ago, I imagine.

Peace out!

xoxo

the things you learn!

I went to see Marcy today and she was running a little late. Usually I'm only sitting in her waiting area long enough to take off my coat, shut my cell phone off, check to make sure I have correct change to pay her, and perhaps have a drink of water. Today, though, I finished all that and then started perusing the reading material. Oh, she's got the usual current Boston Magazine and Newsweek and Self that you'd expect in an up(per)scale waiting room (as opposed to, say, the three year old Martha Stewart mag I was looking at when D got his lab work done the other day). But she also had this:

In case you forgot your reading glasses, that's Tibetan Medicine Cards: Illustrations and Text from the Blue Beryl Treatise of Sangye Gyamtso (1653-1705).

OMG. I only wish I had a notebook with me into which I could've copied quotes, because...OMG. Lemme just share what I can remember. Prognostic omens: if the message is delivered by a hermaphrodite, a person riding a camel, or someone carrying a stone for no reason, the prognosis is NOT GOOD. Now, it was unclear. I don't know if the omen refers to, like, a dream or vision, or if it's supposed to be an actual messenger. I'm guessing probably the former, because seriously? how many hermaphrodites were there running around 17th century Tibet? But perhaps there was a lot of inbreeding. Birth defects n' shit. Also, I'm unsure what happens if the messenger was a hermaphrodite *on a camel*, but I'm thinking it meant you better draw up your will pronto.

Honestly, I wish I could remember more.

And, yeah, I know. Four hundred years from now someone will be reading a medical textbook from 2010 North America and laughing their fucking ass off. Truth.

xoxo

the back-to-reality post

Not really, because I still have two docs on vacation, which lends something of a lingering holiday flavor to the office, and because my Christmas decorations at home are still up. Shut up. I promised yesterday's dinner guest I would not take anything down till she saw it all. Now, however, that excuse is gone, so tonight fer sure. And if it's not tonight fer sure, y'all will never know, so whatever. No, seriously, I'ma do it! The lights on the back deck might just stay there, though, 'cause there's a lot of snow out there. I'm sure it will melt at some point.

Anyway. Now we just have to get through ten more weeks of winter and everything will be fab. I myself am wearing a dress today to counteract the four days last week I wore sweatpants. That's how it works, you know. I did the mathematical calculations, and one day of wearing a skirt in January nullifies four days of sweats. Truth.

In other news, I cancelled and did not resched Wednesday's appointment with eye guy. I'll live with the .1% chance my thin optic nerve is something to worry about. In other, other news, you know what happened to me yesterday that has never happened before? While I was cooking for company, no less? I exploded a baked potato! It had holes poked in it and everything, because, seriously, I'm not *that* stupid. But I was checking them to see if it was time for them to come out, and I gave it a lil squeeze, as you do, and the thing fucking exploded. What a mess. It was kind of hilarious, but it was a mess.

New paragraph! In yoga news, I think it's working. When I was getting dressed for work today, I went into the giant Rubbermaid tub I have in my closet with various out-of-season and not-worn-often clothes in it, because I was absolutely positive I had a pair of brown tights. (I do!) But while I was in there, I came across this really cute pair of jeans I bought last year around this time on super-clearance, then never wore. Mainly because they're too long even with heels and I never got them hemmed. But also because the last time I tried them on, they were too tight. They aren't now--they look cute--even though I just spent the last week eating the way you would expect a person who's wearing sweatpants to eat. I'm convinced it's because the yoga stretches out my QLs, giving me more space between my rib cage and my pelvis, thus making me look leaner. Not lean, mind you, but leaner. So I guess I should break down and get those jeans hemmed.

In Buddhist news, I think this meditation shit is actually making me happier. Either that or the pharmaceuticals are working. Ahem.

Namaste.

xoxo

little plastic animals

The Buddhist reading of the past couple days has been (as Pema would say!) juicy. Last night I realized that I've been deluding myself about the pureness of my motivation in something and, I gotta say, I was able to look at it in the proscribed Buddhist manner: not with self-blame or guilt, but in the spirit of friendliness towards myself and humor. Sort of like "Oh. Yeah. I do that. Hahaha. Oops."

Then today I read a little Sharon Salzberg, who is sorta the loving-kindness guru/expert of the Western world. And her very first exercise, before even the first part of the metta meditation I mentioned last week, is to meditate for ten or fifteen minutes about a time when you were kind or compassionate towards someone, or helped someone out, and the good feelings that engenders in you. It's to connect you with your own inner goodness. She's got further instructions if you can't come up with anything, but I really didn't have a problem.

When D was in the hospital for that two and a half months three years ago, and I was doing nothing but working, going to visitation hours or status-update meetings, or sitting on my couch, crying and watching baseball, two of my friends at separate times "kidnapped" me. Basically called, said "I'm taking you out for dinner, and it's not a choice," and showed up at my house to drag me out. (Benevolent L and Mr Indemnity, feel free to count that as *your* kindness episode if you ever start doing the metta.) Well, when Mr Indemnity dragged me out, we went somewhere and had summer cocktails, which were garnished with little plastic animals--monkeys and giraffes, if I remember correctly. I took mine, and his, and threw them in my purse. I don't know why.

Now let me tell you about D at the time. I cannot emphasize enough how absolutely terrified in his paranoia he was. He was in constant, mortal fear. He at one point told me and his clinicians that it would be a good idea if he were committed to an institution for the rest of his life, because "the bad people" would not be able to get at him there. He didn't even like to leave his room to go out to the common area. In fact, even though on the locked ward you are not supposed to have visitors in your room, the staff let me sit in there with him, because if he had to sit with me in the rec room, he'd send me away after five minutes, and they knew he and I needed to be with each other the full hour. (They, all of them, can count that as their metta too.)

So one night in the middle of the very worst of this, when the visiting hour was up, and I was hugging him goodbye (another thing that was strictly forbidden that everyone kindly let us get away with), he was getting teary-eyed, and so was I, and I could tell he didn't want to let go. He was so scared and so sad. And then I remembered. I took out the two plastic animals that were still in my bag and gave one to him. I told him to look at his watch and when it was ten o'clock, take out his, and I'd be at home holding mine, and he could know that I was thinking about him and that I loved him and that everything was going to be alright. For the rest of his hospitalization, almost every night when I was leaving, he'd take his plastic animal out of his pants pocket. He'd ask if I had mine, and I'd show him that I did, and we'd promise to think about each other at ten o'clock and remember how everything was going to be okay.

That's my meditation memory. If there's anything that proves to me that the power of the love inside me can do good in the world and grant me joy, it is that. Knowing that when D was so very sick, I was the only person he trusted and the only one who could give him any comfort, and that that was part of what kept him alive, proves that my love--and all our love--is a very potent force. It makes me want to grow it.

xoxo

notes

So, kids, seeing as I have an almost unprecedented, and somewhat unexpected, five days off in a row, I've been doing my little projects around the house again. Right now I am taking a break from painting the cat box office, while my first coat dries. Let me share a few thoughts with y'all.

First of all, I broke down and bought one of those paint edgers from the Home Depot. It sucks. I got more paint on the woodwork than I *evah* did using my blue tape. Plus I think it makes it harder to blend the line between the edges and the main painting. All this might be operator error, but still. Me no like.

Secondly, I of course am blasting the music whilst I paint. You know what kind of music Andrea likes to paint by? I'ma tell you. Hip hop. In particular, I seem to be obsessed with "Low" by Flo Rida, which I keep replaying. For all you old white people (oh, I crack myself up) here's how it goes:

Apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur
Whole club lookin at her
She hit the floor, next thing you know
Shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low

Baggy sweatpants, Reeboks with the strap
He turned around gave that big booty a slap
She hit the floor, next thing you know
Shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low

Okay, I'm not claiming this is great art. It's a party song. And party songs are good to paint to. Even in the cat box office, where there really isn't that much room to dance around. Not that it stops me. Ahem.

But it reminds me of something I meant to tell you all about our lil MILF. It seems every time she and her little group of girlfriends go out clubbing, their pictures end up in (what I am imaging is) the Spanish-language equivalent of "Stuff @ Night." Not always at the same club, either. They make the round of all the Latino nightspots (of which there are far more than we old white people can conceive, apparently), but no matter where they go on any given weekend lately, they get their picture in this publication. So this is what I'm thinking--do we know if the Red Sox are gonna have any new, unmarried Dominicans this year? Because if she's out in the clubs, and she's *obviously* hot enough to keep being photographed, why can't she meet an MLB player? That'd make my mission to get her married off to a rich guy all that much easier.

I foresee two problems with this, however. First, she's 26. Most of those baseball players seem to marry youngish, so the ones in her age group might be snapped up already. Secondly, to quote Kanye, who I also listened to while painting, "...and when he get on, he leave your ass for a white girl..." Big Papi has a blond wife, A Rod did and has shown no inclination to hook up with anything else since, and Manny's wife is Brazilian. Can we find this girl a Dominican major leaguer who *wants* a hot Dominicana? There may be holes in my plan! Ha!

(Did you think these blog entries were going to get any less ridic because it's a new year? You ought to know better. God.)

xoxo