You'd Think Saying "I Told You So" Would Get Old

Dear American Women Moderates,
I don't know if you remember me, but I'm the one who said that your lukewarm opposition/nonplussment/indifference to a woman's right to choose would have repercussions. I tried really hard to convince you it wasn't about the scarlet-A abortion, but rather about you, as a human being, getting to decide your own medical destiny. You didn't quite see it that way. You only saw abortion which you though was icky. And that is totally your right. Lots of lefter-than-you women think it's icky. You're the Tipper Gores if you will, the "it should never ever happen, but if it does, we should acknowledge the tragedy and work to prevent it" people. And with such a contentious issue, many on the lefter-of-you were content to let you think it was icky while you didn't press to make it illegal. That way no one had to have an uncomfortable conversation.

But somewhere in the liberal elite bunker, someone who looks an awful lot like I do (this was a while ago, so fatter), was saying crazy paranoid doomsday stuff like: one of these days some idiot is going to try to limit access to contraception. "Don't be ridiculous!" You ALL said, "that would never happen. They're two entirely different things. No one could ever think that contraception should be up for debate!" Both you middle-of-the-road Tippers and you coastal hedonists.

I am so, so tired.

It was too difficult for all of you to separate your personal feelings and choices from what the letter and spirit of law should be. Because you, personally, wouldn't choose to have an abortion, you thought it was important to tell people that, to get that moral superiority bump. You didn't think it was hurting anyone because you still allowed that other women, the morally inferior ones, could choose to do it, but an upstanding citizen like you wouldn't. And you needed everyone to know that. Otherwise we could have mistaken you for one of those abortion-happy 10-stamps-and-the-eleventh-is-free people. I hope you feel really superior. I hope you are pleased that you took the high road and didn't stoop to saying something like, "medical decisions are private regardless of gender." You know, the way we do for Seventh Day Adventists. You didn't see it as a medical issue because you were so concerned about what people might think of you.

Welcome to the slippery slope. Now you have people in nearly normal states like Virginia proposing that before you get an abortion, you need an ultrasound. You know, the same way as when you go to the hospital to get a nail removed from your foot, you need a chest x-ray; the way you need a prostate exam before you can get a scrip for penicillin for your strep throat. And, I mean, only a crazy tin-foil hat person could have seen this coming. To say nothing of the resuscitation of a fifty-year old argument that The Pill is only utilized by women of loose morals (who, by the way, need fewer abortions).

So, I kind of want to know: how do you feel now? Are you able to continue feeling morally superior because your abject laziness has permitted this? Do you feel any sense of responsibility for prizing icky over equality? I kind of hope you don't.

I know, you weren't expecting that. But I am so beyond apoplectic about this that I've gone in the completely opposite direction. Ban everything! Allow any state that wants to turn a tax-paying, voting woman into a second class citizen because she has a uterus. Heck, propose that a woman can't even see a doctor without a male family member (father or husband) present. We women cannot possibly be expected to make those kinds of decisions on our own. We might choose incorrectly. Much like the mandatory ultrasound, having dad or devoted partner come to the doctor with me will make sure that someone understands what is about to happen to me, whether or not it's cancer treatment or drops for an eye infection. Those are heady issues that are way too difficult for me, with my uterus, to understand. It's the chief reason I'm so glad to have a husband.

I don't know how many years it will take before you revolt - I'm guessing somewhere around a Qadaffi-number of years, but perhaps you've had it too good until now and you need some serious oppression to make you rethink your priorities. You didn't realize that every time you personally denounced abortion that you were arming the enemies of all women with the weapon of: "polls have shown that most women disapprove of abortion, so no one cares if we outlaw it." And you laughed in the faces of the people who pointed that out.

I look forward to laughing at you.

Yours laughing maniacally from a pharmacy in Montreal,

Yelena

What Have You Done During My Absence?!?

I know I don't live in Manhattan anymore. Even as I still consider hizzoner my mayor, and Mimi's my pizza place. But while I've been gone, something absolutely silly has happened, and you might not be aware.

I speak of something I discovered, purely by accident, yesterday: select bus service.

I attempted to board the M15 at 125th and 2nd and was told the bus did not accept metrocards. Wait for that to sink in. No. Instead, I was told to put my metrocard into a metrocard dispenser-looking thing outside the bus, by the bus shelter, and get, wait for it, a receipt. Then I could board the bus and, again, hold your breaths, not show anyone my receipt. Of course, by this time, I had missed that bus because, well, there was a substantial line of other people waiting to get receipts from the metrocard kiosk.

WTF? doesn't even begin to cover it.

I realize that I am of the old school that clearly remembers tokens and their phase out, but I also remember that metrocards were designed to be easier. Have metrocard, have access to public transport. Now, less than 20 years later, and the metrocard WON'T gain me access to public transport? Explain to me how this makes anything easier - to say nothing of the fact that I had no idea where this "select bus" planned on stopping and was just happy that I wanted to go to a two-way crosstown intersection which I felt sure would be a stop.

Devoted partner attempted to make sense of this by saying that it was, perhaps, designed to prevent long lines of people waiting to insert their metrocards into the slot on the bus - strangely enough, the MTA sort of agrees by claiming that you can now board at the front or the back of the bus. Hallelujah, praise jeebus. But explain one tiny thing to me: would it not have been ever so slightly easier to, I don't know - have a second metrocard reader at the back door of the bus? Wouldn't that accomplish the same thing and save me from a multi-step process to RIDE A BUS? After all, there was a second MTA employee on my select bus, presumably to check that I had a receipt (also, do you know how easy it is to misplace a receipt the second you receive it? Am I supposed to clutch this wispy piece of paper in my hand like it's a treasure map on the chance the receipt police come a-knockin?).

This is, easily, the silliest technological backstep I've seen in a while, and I can only assume it was allowed to happen because I moved away. And before you start to make it out like I'm the crazy one, how about this gem of information from the MTA website:

"Neither machine sells or refills MetroCard; they are not vending machines, and do not make change."

So to board a select bus you need to 1. Go to the subway station and buy a metrocard; 2. Walk to the bus stop and insert your metrocard into a kiosk that serves to only print a receipt; 3. Not lose said receipt because 4. Someone maybe perhaps will ask to see it.

Sorry, fellow New Yorkers, this is clearly my fault for leaving. But since I have no sway with your mayor, perhaps this is something you'll have to fight without me. Mention my name, though, I like to feel like I'm still relevant.

Because We Need To Finish The Veal Stew First

I had promised an ambitious food posting, but then there's still stew to be eaten and fish doesn't keep, so fish later, stew until there is no more, and something different for reading today.

Last weekend, we had brunch with my mother-in-law and devoted partner(husband)'s former minister whom I had only met once at a Border's in 19something and who wasn't able to attend our wedding. She asked us a question which, strangely, people have been asking: does it feel different to be married? And I don't want to belittle the question because it's a rather valid one in our circumstance. We were together a very long time before making it official and that perplexed people; as it perplexed them when, seemingly out of nowhere, we decided to go ahead and sign the papers and serve wine with them. I think if you had asked me to answer that question before marriage I would have given a flippant answer. Now, though, I have to admit that it is different. But in very specific, kinda cheesy ways.

I draw your attention to two things I've read about love and marriage in the past day, both courtesy of friend postings on Facebook. The first a story about a married couple whose lives were irrevocably changed when the husband suffered irreversible brain damage; the second about a single woman my age contemplating a lifetime with a man whose views on religion deviate so wildly from her own that crying is a frequent occurrence.

Both of these articles incited emotion from me; emotion that would have been different prior to marriage. I would have, without hesitation, assured you, in my pre-marriage state, that I was with devoted partner in sickness and in health. But I would have been under no moral, ethical, or quasi-legal obligation to do so. It was merely my love for him that prompted that response. Now, though, it's serious. It's real. Words are only words save for how you endow them with meaning, and when we recited our vows - our traditional, old-fashioned vows - we meant them. Literally. Irrevocably. I think it's why we wanted those vows. Those were the lessons of marriage that spoke to us and we wanted it to be absolutely clear that we were signing on for old-fashioned, irrevocable marriage. It wasn't just laziness on our parts. Or as Henry Rollins said, "Me and you until we die. For better for worse. You get cancer, I'm sticking with you, your tits get cut off, I'm sticking with you, you f-ing grow this melanoma lump out of your f-ing head, I'm staying with you. I gotta put you in adult f-ing diapers when you're 90, I love you and I'm going to do it every day."* We didn't think the guests would really get that, so we went with the book of common prayer. And this first article is absolutely heartbreaking because it resonates so strongly. Sure, we had gobs of years in the bag where that's what we thought, but being married feels different because we know we're going to do it now.

Which brings me to the second article where a woman is wondering if she should enter into what any rational person could see is a doomed long-term relationship simply because she's 34 and her pickings are slim. All the self-righteous crap I just spewed above, that's MY truth. MY life. MY stubbornness. And I do my level best not to judge how others do it simply because we decided on the Thunderdome interpretation of marriage. But it gets me in the gut to read and hear about this paranoia of being left alone and grabbing at anything vaguely compatible to avoid this. As if you get a medal for it, or that at your funeral they make mention that you lived your life summa cum somebody. Marriages are tough in the best of situations, but entering into one where you already have one of the three bellwethers of divorce checked off (the other two are money and kids) beggars belief. And doing so because you think it's the best you'll ever get (an outlook, by the way, which I believe dooms one to only getting the ok out of life)?

Listen, I'm now a big advocate of this whole spending-your-life-with-the-same-person thing, I like it, but the whole Big Capitalized Vow aspect? I never could have done that for someone who was just the best I could get. I'd like to think most people (or most of the people I know) get into marriage because they love the other person and think it's going to work forever, not simply so they can check "married" off on their bucket lists; it's terrible when it doesn't work out that way, but knowing it's not going to work out that way and having the party anyway? Ick. I mean these are the author's own words: "But if I decide not to be a part of this holy threesome, I could risk ending up on my own. That doesn't sound like a very good deal to make. In fact, that sounds rather like a deal with the Devil." Great, so marry someone with whom you have fundamental, intrinsic differences and enjoy the two years or so of getting to claim you're married before you kill each other or merely divide your stuff and flee to opposite ends of the country. Is there a prize for that?

So, yes, it feels different to be married. More weighty. More explicitly responsibility-laden. And while I clearly did judge the soon-to-be-married-and-then-divorced author, there are too many struggling marriages that deserve a chance for me to get worked up about a theoretical one that should never happen. We waited a long time, and I'm glad we did. Not because it is an amusing story to tell new people, but because, given our feelings about marriage, we wanted to be damn sure we meant it. Having set it down on paper? Yeah, that feels pretty damned different!

*Dear Henry Rollins, This is now the third time I have bought this album. Today I did it to find that one passage. Thank goodness for The Cloud because, theoretically, it means I won't have to buy it again. Love, Yelena.

The Time Has Come For A Reckoning

I freely admit that I don't warm up to your friends all that quickly except in rare cases. For the most part, I hold you in such high esteem that there's a pretty insurmountable bar for the other people in your lives. It's not that I don't expect them to live up to it, it's just that you deserve the best and I feel antipathy towards those of your circle who seem unworthy of you.

Which is why I am proposing a cull. You see, in the past couple of weeks, a number of you have sent messages to a large group of your friends via Facebook. And a COMPLETELY UNACCEPTABLE NUMBER of those friends have had the poor taste to reply-all. To my mind, reply-all is the Hindenburg of our technological age: ambitious, but ultimately a complete and utter disaster. The only only only time I have ever used reply-all is at work when, for example, I receive an email addressed to, say, 4-7 people about something we're all working on that needs a response everyone can read, and I maintain that's the only time it should be used. If you send out an email that says, "does anyone know a good place to get a taco in St. Louis?" I don't need to see EVERYONE's response. Only you need to see that. So my getting 5-6 million responses that range from "El Tacqueria on 7th and Main" to "nope" to "i like tacos :)" makes me a little homicidal.

Why are your friends like this?

Are they mentally challenged? Blind, perhaps? Are they all such egomaniacs that they think their little responses are of interest to the rest of the distribution list?

I propose a test: send out a mass email or facebook message and see which of your recipients replies-all; then unfriend those that do, virtually and in real life.

It will make my life much much better, and it will go a long way towards ensuring that you surround yourselves only with those people worthy of your company.

Because It's More Fun Than Tablecloth Colors

Given the number of changes that have occurred since we betrothed, I hesitate to say anything about our nuptials with certainty, but I think we have come to a decision on that most important of topics: the honeymoon.

If you've spent any time around us, you know that we're a little crazy when it comes to travel, a little adventurous, and a lot unconventional. This made the honeymoon decision a mite bit difficult. We pride ourselves on fairly frugal travel and a honeymoon does not lend itself to frugality. So, stepping into the world of imprecise math, we agreed that we would double the budget of our most expensive vacation to date, and that would be our honeymoon budget. Sounds about right, no?

This is, strangely enough, the one topic of conversation that we've had throughout the years. Yes, we were gunshy about getting married, but not at all gunshy about fantasy honeymoon planning. The usual suspects came up: the Maldives, Polynesia, but then when we start having to actually think about it, we realized that while we like the idea of one week at the beach, three weeks is pushing it. We just need more stuff.

When we have been to islands in the past, for a week, there has always come a time when we just had to get in a car and explore. Heck, when we went to St. Thomas for the weekend, we ended up hopping the ferry to St. John for diversion. The simple fact is, we like cars. Driving is relaxing for us. And you can't drive on an atoll. So, exit Maldives and Polynesia, and enter insanity.

We thought about Madagascar until I remembered that, in addition to some political instability, I was certain that I had read in National Geographic about how much of it was impassable. Armed with many positive memories of reading and rereading Redmond O'Hanlon's Into the Heart of Borneo, we started thinking about a trip to Malaysia. It would have stupid driving, lovely beaches, interesting culture, and that wow factor. We were pretty sold on the idea. But wanting options, we considered Myanmar. And, since it had always been my top honeymoon fantasy, safari in Africa followed by some scuba diving somewhere Africanish.

We entered the poorly stocked White Plains Barnes and Noble (remind me that I want to devote another post to the extreme differences between New York and suburban bookstores), grabbed as many books as we could find on our three potential destinations, ordered our fancy pants coffee drinks, and started to read.

At which point we discovered, or rediscovered, that different places have different weather. Since our last international trip to Nicaragua was such a monumental disaster, we were both very concerned about dedicating three expensive weeks to being rained on. And wouldn't you know it, November sees half of Malaysia in a monsoon. [INSERT EXPLETIVES HERE]! And Myanmar, as it turns out, has some issues of it's own, namely fuel rationing. You get 4 gallons of fuel per week and then you're getting the rest on the black market. And the books all said that if you were looking to dive the Myanmar territories, you were going to end up catching your boat in Thailand. [INSERT ADDITIONAL EXPLETIVES]!

Much as we like adventure, we didn't want this trip to be so adventure packed as to have us spending most of it haggling for fuel or avoiding mudslides.

Several years ago I had asked he-who-has-shot-animals-all-over-Africa where we should go and he said that if we only could go on one Safari in Africa, it had to be in South Africa. But devoted partner and I are avid nature documentary nerds, and the lure of Ngorongoro crater and the Serengeti was a powerful one. That was until we learned that the nice people of Tanzania really discourage self-drive safaris. I got some great advice from a former classmate who had honeymooned in Tanzania and looked over some tour companies and then went back to my fuzzy math and realized that there's a big difference between what you CAN afford and what you WANT to afford. We'd be going to Africa to see and do stuff and the organized safaris, even the private ones, put a premium on lodging and food - two things we would, if given the opportunity, choose not to spend on. I'm not saying we want to sleep in a communist-era poorly lit bunker (thanks, Nicaragua), but I don't need five-star accommodation while I'm on Safari. And I certainly don't need to spend for it. Even if it does look nice, I think we're more of a quantity vs. quality couple when it comes to travel.

So I googled DIY safari and found out that the nice people of Kruger National Park will welcome you in your own vehicle. You can stay in the park if you like, and there are many options for that, you can hire guides if you like, you can pretty much do what you like. I like. So then it was a question of where we go after we see our big five. Mauritius was a top choice because South African airlines fly there, but we checked out the diving and it's not brilliant (and, oh yes, it's not cheap). But look at your map and you will notice a little country quite near Kruger National Park that seems to have a lot of coastline. And our 50 Dives to Do Before You Die book mentioned something about Manta Rays. So much as we anticipate he-whose-country-used-to-own-this-country making fun of our choice to vacation in a former colony, we think we'll just take our car over the border to Mozambique, spend up a little on lodging, and dodge bull sharks in the lovely waters of the Indian Ocean.

This sounds like our kind of crazy. That being said, given border crossings, rental cars, and the out-there nature of the trip, I am seriously considering soliciting the assistance of a travel agent, despite the pride I take in planning our trips.

So while we still are iffy on appetizers, we are far less iffy on where we're going afterward. And frankly, the idea that our honeymoon will consist of an orgy of nature on land, in the air, and underwater, is pretty much perfect!

The Power of Repitition

We have a rather limited set of television shows we watch with any regularity and this leads us to, when we fail to fast forward, see the same commercials over and over again. My guess is that were we to watch some other shows on other channels, our view of the world and the products it has to offer would change, but for now, I'm convinced there are only about a dozen or so things tv tells me I simply cannot live without.

And I'm a little concerned about a couple of them.

Ad #1: Remember in that movie The Devil's Advocate where then-unknown Charlize Theron goes shopping with the other lawyers' wives and the wives turn out to be demons with scary faces? Well, they found other women like that and put them in an add for the Trojan Triphoria. These hens cackle in a most unnatural way that actually frightens me. They are at a bridal shower and apparently all of them have purchased a vibrator for the bride-to-be. Now, I like to be as sex-positive as the next liberal elitist, but even I am a little confused as to the message of this one: hey you're getting married, you'll probably need these three identical vibrators to stay sane. It's all downhill from here. Your husband will be working late and you'll have to make do with chocolate bars and buzzing. But, no, the bride-to-be goes home and shows her husband that she got three identical vibrators from her demonic friends and he fist pumps into the air. Which I guess could also mean that he's pleased to be off the hook. And that a Trojan Triphoria is less threatening than the gardener.

On a side note, you cannot (repeat: CANNOT) purchase this item if you live in Alabama, Louisiana, Kansas, Mississippi, Texas, or Virginia (kudos, West Virginia, for being the more enlightened of the Virginias). That's right, you cannot buy this product if you live in those states, sorry Abby and Danielle. Apparently, only a doctor in those states is available to treat your hysteria.

Ad #2: It's a tough world out there. With so many vibrators to keep track of, what options are available to the working person who simply doesn't have time for anything? I mean, have you considered how much time and energy it takes to get a cup of coffee. Apparently, it is a huge investment of time and mental energy. After all, you have to make it and/or buy it. The modern American simply cannot expend this kind of precious time-ergy on coffee when 5 Hour Energy is just a sip away. If you've seen this commercial, you know how preposterous it sounds. The pursuit of a cup of coffee has been likened to the pursuit of a driver's license renewal. or a Russian bread line. You would be a fool to waste all of this time just to get coffee.

Except, wait. I drink an espresso that I make each morning. And Jamie has coffee religiously. Furthermore, Jamie's a dad now which surely cuts down on his available free time. I wonder how he manages. Oh, wait, no I don't. For the exorbitant price of somewhere near 30 dollars, Jamie invested in the space-age technological feat of the programmable coffee maker. In futureworld, Jamie sets up his coffee before bed and it brews itself in the moments before he wakes up, providing him with a steaming hot cup o joe when he trundles down to the kitchen. It's simply flabbergasting that this technology is available, but I guess, only if you have 30 dollars (note: about the same price as two weeks' worth of 5 Hour Energy). My process is barbarically longer: I wake up, I go to the kitchen, I turn on the espresso machine, I go to the bathroom, wash my hands, turn on the computer, and return to the ready-to-go machine into which I feed, in succession, two pods of espresso and hit a button. Each pod takes about 15 seconds to brew, so I might have to spend 1 minute total (it takes several seconds to remove the first pod, put it in the trash, insert the second pod, repeat, stir the sugar into the coffee, etc.) to get my coffee. Decadent time wastage, I know.

But somewhere, focus groups were consulted and much money was spent to air these commercials for some of the most important things in our lives: sexual stimulation and narcotic dependence. I really must be more vigilant about fast forwarding through commercials - imagine how much coffee and vibration I could have time for if I did!

The Crazy That Lies Beneath

I think one of the advantages of being ridiculously wealthy (conjecture, I assure you as I am not) is that you get to a point where you can lose your mind publicly and it doesn't matter. It's what devoted partner refers to as FU money. Tom Cruise went absolutely retarded on national TV and we've all sort of just let it go now. Richard Branson routinely does crazy shit like piloting a rowboat from London to New Zealand and we just sort of shrug it off. If you watched The Colbert Report this week, you may have noticed a little tidbit on Ted Turner. If you didn't, I'll wait while you watch it.

Ok. Yes. Crazy. On the face of it. And yet so intensely brilliant. When you or I suggest that we buy the right to have babies from the poor, we sound insane, deeply unpleasant, and others ignore us. When Ted Turner says it, it sounds MASSIVELY CRAZY, and yet, this guy is a highly successful businessman, so you sort of assume he's thought about it. Which, in turn, leads you to think about it. Or about things like it.

As I am of the belief that we are merely a hop, skip, and jump from dystopia, I gave this more than casual thought, and discovered that, in theory, I wasn't completely opposed to the idea. And yet, much like the privatization of social security, it's just not practical right now.

Let me explain: let's say we allow all people to manage their own retirements. What percentage of those people, freed from the burden of forced savings, do you imagine will not save at all and end up at 70 without any money? 5%? 10%? I'll bet it would be higher. And then what? We're not really prepared to let people starve to death on the side of the road, so then the government would step in to take care of the people who need it; this, in turn, would cost money angering the very people who want to privatize social security. Similarly, the free marketers might see sense in the selling of reproductive rights. After all, if it's a saleable commodity, have at it. Oooooh, except, I'm not sure how they would feel about either a) government sterilization or b) arresting illegally pregnant women and terminating their pregnancies. We just don't do that sort of thing.

But I can definitely see a future where this sort of thing isn't frowned upon, and while I might not like to live there, it sounds like a fascinating place to visit. And I'll bet I run into Ted Turner there because this is a crazy man who is definitely going to be cryogenically frozen until they find a cure for being old. Maybe we'll grab drinks.

The Bachelorette

or While the Cat is Away, the Mouse Will Build a Pillow Fort in the Living Room

Devoted partner and I are separated by a continent for the week and I have been using this time to really get in touch with my 21-year-old self. The 21-year-old who routinely forgot to go to class, ate doritos in a chemise while watching the next-door neighbors play Goldeneye, and considered a trip to Cumberland Farms worthy of the word 'trip.' The reversion began on Saturday when, while in Whole Foods I remembered I was cooking for one this week, I bought several different kinds of frozen hors d'ouvres and some pre-made chili. And let me tell you, eating chicken taquitos as dinner with no one around to wonder why is the t!ts.

And when there's no one around to judge your television watching, it is oh so easy to end up watching something truly vile. Picture the scene: 11pm, last night, me in yoga pants and a should-have-been-thrown-out-years-ago petit bateau t-shirt beneath my Dive Dahab hooded sweatshirt, and my shearling moccasins (blogger, I'm positive shearling is a word - that you think it isn't is troubling); I am eating ramen noodles - the actual ramen noodles we ate in college; and I am watching, for the first time, Bridezillas.

I know that my reluctance to experience the same pop culture as everyone else is troubling, but I assure you, I had never flipped to this show before. Because its very title is repugnant. I have also not seen any of the housewives for the same reason. Reality TV, in general, leaves me cold simply because of its caricaturish nature and utter lack of originality. Case in point: the last time I got really into a relationshippy reality show - and by really into I mean Jamie and I watched every episode maniacally giggling and drinking beer - was a one-season-only juggernaut of disaster called, I believe, Paradise Island. In short a number of married or nearly-married couples (6, 8, who remembers?) were invited to a sultry resort some place warm and promptly separated from one another. In come an equal number of, respectively, Hot Topic and Frederick's of Hollywood-type people who, for the remainder of the show, will attempt to hook up with members of the couples in an effort to see whose relationship is strongest and can withstand the promise of VERY MANY STRINGS ATTACHED sex with completely waxed strangers. It was the best piece of Rome is Burning television I have ever been privileged enough to watch. Nothing else comes close. Which is why I don't want it. That show was mean-spirited and end-of-days-y from the get go; the others try to have points and morals and tidy endings.

Much as I would like to say that my first viewing of Bridezillas won't be my last, I think, sadly, it's just not evil enough. I mean, yes, there's the evil aspect of knowing that none of the marriages will last, but that's just not evil enough. And yes, there is some small enjoyment that can be derived by watching women disintegrate before your eyes over trivial things, except that none of the women I saw last night was stable to begin with. Following a spoiled brat as she becomes more spoiled is hardly entertaining. Following a previously sane person as she spirals into chocolate fountain insanity? That I might watch.

On deck this evening in the Pillow Fort? A classic. I'll be viewing Airplane and snacking on either grape leaves or something unique from Trader Joe's.

Come home soon, baby. I'm obviously unable to care for myself in your absence.

Darwin Comprehension Fail

Much like my complete inability to understand the great car equation, I frequently misuse, either intentionally or accidentally, Darwinian theory of natural selection. Oft times my mistakes are simply Lamarckian in nature, but other times, they're just utter fabrication yanked from the depths of a clearly troubled mind.

Take this morning, for instance. I arrived at the 125th Street subway station and was greeted by an unusual sound: good music. I seem to have particularly bad luck when it comes to subway music - the really disturbed people are always at my stations. 125th street has some regulars: crazy can't rap guy who makes up lyrics on the spot about the people who go by; mariachi-esque band that only knows two songs; sad lady with karaoke machine clearly not able to sustain Gladys Knight. I do my best to ignore these people and frankly, if it's a choice between them and the guy who shouts: "Jeee-Sus loves you. Jeee-sus is the love," I'm pretty hard pressed to pick a winner. But the guys this morning, a keyboard and a sax, were playing some pretty upbeat, not-at-all-off-key, happy music.

So I did something I never do: I gave them a dollar.

In the moment after this, I thought about why I had given them a dollar and realized, to my horror and great amusement, that I did so for reasons of natural selection. My reasoning was that if people gave the good subway musicians money, more good subway musicians would spawn and the crap musicians would be unable to respawn. Yes. I know. Utter shite. But I liked the idea.

Imagine if it worked that way. Imagine if you could control the quality of subway music, cab drivers, Starbucks baristas, simply through tip theory. Those who didn't earn enough tips would fade from view, taking their ilk with them, while those who earned many tips would prosper and thrive, bringing more of their like into the world. I think this development in not-at-all-science would be revolutionary.

And I do so like that it would have been my idea in the first place.

Even After the Explanations, I Still Think It's Wrong

Disclaimer: that blue box with the non-curving noodles and the cheese that was squeezed out of a packet? I've never had it. Add that to the list that includes Big Mac and is entitled: Yelena - Skinner Box Child. And before you go around accusing my parents of being hippies who deprived us of processed foods, let me remind you that our cereal consumption was obscene: froot loops, golden grahams, corn pops. No, we were deprived of Kraft Macaroni and "cheese" because it was a) entirely uneconomical and b) retarded. To my knowledge, you had to boil the noodles just as you would if you were making it from scratch. The only "time-saver" it afforded was that your cheese was already in goo form. WTF?!? I have no idea why people buy this crap.

This was brought into sharp relief this past weekend when I went to a truly awesome event at one of my fellow knitter's houses: a Pampered Chef party. If you are an urban gal, don't worry if you've never heard of this (though, since it's owned by Omaha's own Warren Buffet, I will guess that Amy has heard of it), it's a tupperware party of sorts. Your friend invites a person (woman) to her house to tell her friends all about the terrific things said friends can buy from the Pampered Chef catalog. And the catalog is filled with useful things like knives and pots and cutting boards and cookie cutters. While you're being pitched, you get fed recipes from pampered Chef cookbooks made with Pampered Chef mixes.

The pizza dough mix, while ridiculous to me (flour, yeast, salt...why do you need someone to pre-mix these items for you?), didn't get my panties in a bunch. After all, measuring is hard. I get it. (nb: I do not get it.) Then the dessert composition began. It was described as a chocolate tiramisu trifle. It started out well enough with the presenter whisking confectioner's sugar into mascarpone. Then things got ugly.

She added to the delicious and luxurious mascarpone Cool Whip and pudding mix. And then crumbled up brownie-like cake from, yes, a mix.

For me, this was an irony because as she was desecrating her mascarpone with cool whip, she was extolling the virtues of the Pampered Chef whisk and stainless steel bowls - 2 things that could be used to, I don't know, WHIP CREAM!!!!!

I have done it. It is annoying as all hell when you know that if only the mixer was working you could whip the cream in about 30 seconds. But there you are, in the freezing pastry kitchen whipping cream by hand - lots of cream. Way more than would be needed for a single chocolate tiramisu trifle. But you don't complain because hardcore mofos can whip their own cream.

Oh, wait, you're not a hardcore mofo? Sorry. Try this instead: pour cream into bowl of mixer; turn on mixer; wait 30 seconds; have whipped cream.

Cool Whip is made from orphan's tears. You know it, I know it, Kraft knows it (point of information: I have no idea what the cheese goo is made of - I'm guessing it's made of people). Cool whip should only ever be used ironically, preferably at the same party as cheese whiz and spaghetti-Os.

But I'm a working mom with 47 bratty kids and no time to do anything except sit on my couch and mow cool whip! you might say. I would then ignore you. Because I am not kidding when I say that, if you don't REALLY care about the consistency and perceived professionalism of the final product, whipping enough cream for one person/pie/trifle takes 30 seconds in a mixer. There will be no leftovers because every supermarket in America carries heavy cream in an 8oz. container. If you do not have 30 seconds to whip your own cream, you do not deserve whipped cream.

I had a fantastic time at the event. I bought stuff. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I thank our hostess.

But I cannot forgive the cool whip.

Chalk it up to my unconventional pinko upbringing.

Other Places

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Food issues aside, one of my favorite things to do in new places is stop by the supermarket. The world's travel writers have a million and one ways that visitors can dig on local vibe, but I have yet to see one emphatically suggest a sampling of local supermarkets - sure, they'll all tell you to hit the farmer's markets and bazaars, but I'm talking about the super pedestrian, industrial lighting, devoid of aesthetics supermarkets. I love them! I truly cannot go to a new place without stopping by a supermarket. When my parents were recently in Paris, my shopping list for them could be 95% dealt with at the Monoprix - a supermarket. Please bring sea salt and reusable shoppers.

I think you can tell a lot about a place from its supermarkets. Even in New York, the difference between shopping uptown and shopping downtown can alert the newcomer to micro-regional tastes (witness the tamarind vs. the dairy- gluten- taste-free crackers). So when we pulled off the road Sunday to grab coffee and carrots, I was thrilled to be taking in a little bit of the Pennsylvania/Maryland border culture as witnessed through the prism of the MegaMart.

And rewarded I was. For at the Halloween candy display, which we last-minute availed ourselves of for potential trick or treaters, I was overjoyed to discover Jesus Harvest Seeds.

It is important to note that the above package was ACTUALLY in the store. I did not mail away for this from some gag company. This is a product. People can buy it. At least at the Giant Supermarket somewhere in lower Pennsylvania.

And, as promised by the packaging, each snack-sized gem does, indeed, contain some scripture. I would have honestly crapped my pants had I ever received this as a child at Halloween! But apparently, not everyone in the country is as potentially bowel-incontinent as I.

I have oft been accused of having a warped view of The Rest of the Country, and some of that may be true. I enjoyed our time in the Carolinas greatly and could well see myself living there, but it cannot be argued that some cultural mores have varied levels of acceptance. And in Places Not New York, love of el Jefe, is an acceptable thing to shout from the rafters and plaster on your bumper.

I would venture to assert that ignoring these differences is just as dangerous as pretending they don't exist. But I will not lie: this sort of shit tickles me in all the right places!

Like Finding Kryptonite

If you were a child of the 80s If you were a child of the 80s exactly like me, two things were true: 1. CandyLand probably did exist and your crap parents just weren't telling you where it was and 2. You pretty much anticipated this kind of underground camaraderie to occur with frequency (NB: I realize this is a film made in the 90s, but taking place in the early 80s)



Now that I'm a grown-up, I understand that these youthful fantasies were arrived at after less than logical argument, but the little girl inside of me still hopes.

And, in fact, one frequently does encounter boisterousness on the subway, but the person singing out loud is either a) soliciting things or b) crazy. C'est la vie. Sometimes you want to shake your ass, but embarrassment prevents you. Also, if you're anything like me, the ass-shaking in question isn't exactly fly girl-ready.

Well, the other day, devoted partner showed me a video. Easily the best video I've seen since Oh, Son, Your Missus is a Nutter (worth watching, but there are bad words and adult humor if you're in on of those offices where people notice such things)



The song was so good, it made me spontaneously break into dance. So good that I gladly paid my 99 cents for the privilege of having it on my iToy. So good that I listened to it on the way to the station, walking from my car to the platform, and thirdly while on the train. It's the kind of song you can not help but tap your feet to.

Apropos of an earlier post this week, I am ready to declare a winner in the World Series of Poor Breeding that is the New Haven line. It's not gayporn guy, muddy feet on seat girl, nosepicker, doucheoncellphoneblabbingaboutderivatives, Fran Drescher soundalikes talking about how tacky cousin Morty's Bar Mitzvah was. No. All of those able contenders have apparently been left bloodied on the field of battle by

Excessive Foot Tapping.

I swear to effin jeebus, the overly tanned J Crew dad sitting behind me actually tapped me on the shoulder to tell me my foot tapping was bothering him. I stopped, obviously, but not before marveling at what does and does not pass for appropriate behavior. It also gave me powerful ammunition for the next time someone does something that bothers me: my foot tapping might well drive cellphonedouche out of his skull.

But that's not important. What's important is that I've won something. You might think it's not that special, but knowing that my, and only my, behavior was so detestable that it merited intervention is special to me. After documenting the truly tasteless behavior of everyone else, it's nice to know that it was I all along.

So rather than give a lengthy victory speech, I thought I would let the song that started this whole mess speak for me.

Fellow commuters, this one's for you (if your office is unfriendly to the f-bomb, please watch this at home - but WATCH IT, IT'S AWESOME):

Breaking Rule #1: Always Have Your Camera

Because when you don't, it becomes impossible to document the 70ish man on the Metro North casually thumbing through gay pornography during rush hour.

I'd like to think of this moment less as a first amendment issue, clearly any and all persons have the right to look at as much gay porn as is possible, and more as an etiquette issue. Leaving aside, for now, that I would have been ejected from the train for going without a shirt while this man could look at pictures of men without pants and no one seemed to be in a tizzy, I would say that pornography, like cellphone arguments, singing along with your iPod, spitting, cutting your fingernails, and examining what you just picked from your nose are at-home activities.

Now I would wager that this particular individual was hoping dearly that someone would notice him - you don't just look at porn in public for no good reason and my contention is that he gets off on people knowing he's looking at porn in public. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that, by not alerting the conductor, I was somehow shirking a civic duty. Had he been sitting near anyone under the age of eighteen, I definitely would have gotten the conductor - because while I'm not a 'won't somebody please think of the children' kind of person, my guess is that any child would feel both extremely uncomfortable and paralyzed to act.

While in Portland, I came to the alarming (for a registered Democrat) discovery that to date, I have only ever voted for Republican mayoral candidates. Sadly, Giuliani left office on a one-way ticket to Crazytown, but that doesn't mean I didn't like him at the time - predominantly because he too seemed to value basic etiquette and was in the position to defend his position with a truncheon. While Mayor Mike and I certainly didn't see eye-to-eye on the whole no-smoking-near-anything crusade, I DO like that he felt he could do it. Smoking was his squeegee man.

But to rein myself in a little (sort of), I would say that I would be happier if we could deputize our Metro North conductors. The smile that breaks over my face when I overhear one of them telling a passenger to get his dirty feet off the seat borders on the indecent. These guys have to put up with all manner of things and it appears that, short of fare-dodging and public vomiting, they have little enforcement capability. Also, the pictures of that enforcement would be priceless!

Practicing Self-Restraint

Last year at this time we had just moved and were eagerly enjoying all the exciting things that the suburbs and Greenwich had to offer. Turns out there's not as much in the offering as one may have hoped, but the quality of life is a big plus. There is one little event, though, that merits mention: Puttin' on the Dog.



As you can see, we've been before. And while it's still a big N-O on the can we please have a dog front, that doesn't mean I can't handle myself in a mature fashion around dogs. I has grownupness!

Furthermore, one of the women from my knitting group will be there volunteering and I will be most pleased to introduce devoted partner to her - after all, he needs someone to blame for my strange fiber habits.

And of course there will be dogs. Lots and lots of dogs. Some in silly hats, I think. And the point of this post is to allow me to get all of my dogcrazy out ahead of time so that I may comport myself as an adult tomorrow. You know the kind of crazy that took these videos.



I know devoted partner and I shall own dogs one day and that tomorrow is not that day. So I will do my best not to whine, whinge, or any other wh-words. Cause I'm a big girl.

Again With The Semantics

Sigh.

And we were finally getting used to devoted partner. Ribbing and teasing aside, the moniker was both cute and apt and I think we all started to enjoy it - even devoted partner himself.

In the first of the lucid moments after what happened in Maine, I remarked that we would probably have to change his name to something else. So we cobbled together the approved words and then, as is our most annoying habit, attempted to tinker with their pronunciation: B-Trothed (pronounced to rhyme with the planet Hoth), fee-ank-ee. While I prefer the former, devoted partner rightly pointed out that our pronunciation of troth sounded way way way too similar to trough.

Point taken.

I find it personally interesting that, after sighing with discontent for many years about the inadequacy of the term boyfriend, I am resistant to applying our new terms - those that adequately describe our relationship. Contrary as I may be, I always thought this would be the easiest of the transitions; now I feel sadness in giving up 'devoted partner.'

And I wasn't the only one. While it will make introductions easier, as in, "I'm Yelena and this is my fiancee, [devoted partner]," we both decided that we like 'devoted partner,' and I'll continue to use it herein.

Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry For Posting Photos of Him Kissing a Camel

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

While in Tennessee, we stayed at a B&B cum farm called Ocoee Mist. We affectionately termed it Llamatown due to the (unphotographed and kinda shy) llamas on premises. Also on premises:

two camels
some donkeys
a horse (maybe more)
a slew of goats
a potbellied pig
three dogs
a cat (or two)
two peacocks (one dead and stuffed, one alive and shy)
some parrots
some other birds not native to Tennessee
occasionally some guinea hens from the neighbor's farm

If this sounds a little crazy to you, let me assure you that it is. In the most wonderful of ways. I hope Kevin and Carole know they're a little eccentric and that if it ever gets back to them that I said as much that they take is kindly. Because they were amazingly nice people who ran a beautiful property and served one helluva breakfast, but it's not every day you encounter people with a hobby farm full of llamas, camels, and peacocks.

Mel the camel, took a special shining to devoted partner, even before we had the apples. My narrative couldn't possibly compete with the evidence, so please, enjoy the slideshow. In the interest of fairness, I included an unflattering picture of myself being gnawed by a donkey.

Just Because You're Paranoid...

I think my mailman may be dodgy.

Perhaps it's that we watched the first two episodes of Rubicon the other day, but I'm starting to agree with the tagline: not every conspiracy is a theory.

For a moment let me digress to express initial disappointment with the Rubicon. Leaving aside the fact that the principal character is neither interesting nor handsome enough to draw me in, the whole of the first two episodes smacked way more of the lazy stylings of Da Vinci Code and nearly none at all of the hyperbright (and sexily accented) Foucault's Pendulum. For suspense writers, and would-be suspense writers, let me just give you a small piece of advice: if I know what your character will do or say next, you haven't really achieved suspense. And it doesn't have to be highbrow. Read Agatha Christie. Please. I really want to find new television to watch.

But back to my mailman. I'll admit from the start that I do not hold the United States Postal Service in high regard. Wherever possible I pay extra for the nice professionals at UPS or FedEx to bring me things. Sadly, they do not yet bring me things like magazines and bills. For these, and certain other things that are not offered to be shipped via organized companies, I must still rely on the pedestrian mail. While in Harlem, I was frequently heard yelling expletives at the lazy SOB mailman who would NEVER ring my bell or buzzer to ascertain whether or not I was home and able to receive my package and instead would just slip a notice into my mailbox. I didn't pay the postage for my packages to be delivered to your office, sir, I paid for the package to be delivered to my home. On the rare occasions when said package was actually brought onto the property (I maintain that the mailman didn't even bother with the packages, he simply left them at the post office and did his rounds with a stack of info notices), he would leave them with my criminal neighbors. Not cool.

Now in Greenwich where my neighbors are only white collar criminals and not really interested in pilfering my amazon boxes, things have slightly improved. Unless the mail is registered it comes to the house. Sort of. Usually it comes to the driveway. Specifically right in front of my garage door in a way that would prevent me from getting my car in the garage without running over my package. Now, you might think this is a minor concern, but it's not as though the mailman drives down my driveway. He parks his car on the street and walks. The distance to the garage door and to the front door are nearly equidistant, and yet the mailman never puts my packages in front of my door, always in front of my garage (except for when he shoves and mangles items to wedge them into my mailbox - nb books don't like to be folded like that).

And yet, miraculously, both the gentlemen from houses UPS and FedEx are able to reliably find my front door (where there is a porch of sorts where boxes can be neatly stacked). Somehow it hasn't eluded those nice men that there is a place where mail goes and it isn't in the firing line of my tires. How can this be?

Furthermore, I'm convinced my mailman doesn't actually come by every day. It is just too coincidental that at least two days a week the mailbox is empty (and neither of those days is Sunday) and at least two days a week it is jampacked so full that the door can't close. I just don't buy that coincidence.

So, federal government, if you're reading, I know you don't give the post office my tax dollars, but I do know that you lend it money. Lots of money. Likewise, I know the post office employs lots of people and you're not really interested in getting people out of jobs these days, but perhaps a compromise can be reached. Why don't you SELL the post office to UPS or FedEx? I know there will be some details that need to be worked out, not to mention that UPS and FedEx know just how unprofitable it is to deliver pieces of paper at 40 cents a pop, but maybe you could sweeten the deal with incentives (off the top of my head, I'm thinking a gas tax abatement). Then UPS and FedEx could train your postal employees (who make your TSA employees look like out-of-work nuclear physicists) and I could get reliable delivery of all of the things that come to my house.

It's just a suggestion.

So, About That Whole Having Kids Thing...

No, please sit down, nothing to announce here.

Except that my position on the theoretical little monsters might have softened somewhat as I came across something this weekend that might make them worthwhile.

Now I have made my fair share of fun at the idea of birth gifts, the expensive baubles some wives expect and some husbands supply to offset the physical discomfort of childbirth (btw, ladies, your asking for a diamond as reward for having a kid doesn't make having a kid seem worth it - after all isn't the kid supposed to be the reward?). I have scoffed and judged, but possibly merely on account of my relative ambivalence to jewelry. But I saw something I want. Something about as expensive as a diamond whatever, but eminently more practical vis a vis the whole if-I-have-kids-I-will-become-a-washed-up-sexless-stretchmarked-milkbag dilemma.

First some more preamble:

Preamble 1: I forgot about this item because it has been in the neighborhood of 20 years since I had seen the movie at which time

Preamble 2: I figured I would never ever leave New York and therefore would never be in the market for one.

I have informed devoted partner that the price for my safely releasing his spawn unto the world is this.

This is clearly the perfect Yelena car, Yelena being very very similar to Steve McQueen in badassitude. I saw this at an auto auction on TV and was struck dumb - or as devoted partner described it, I didn't say anything lewd about my intentions towards the car which is how he knew I was serious. This car has pretty much everything I could want: it's hatchback-ey (see also my devotion to certain Datsun Zs, VW GTIs, and the amazingly hideous awesomeness of the Porsche 944), it's speedy, and it's a simply gorgeous retro shade of metallic pine. I love this car so much that I wouldn't even consider painting it orange.

And, for the practical bit, no one in his right mind could accuse me of being a washed-up-sexless-milkmachine if I picked up my kids from school in this. I don't care if their slovenly friends can't fit in the car - I do not exist to be a dirty child delivery service. If each of two children has one friend over, we can all still fit in the car; I don't really want to be responsible for more children than that. Once upon a time the fantasy had me in a Karmann Ghia, but where that is a Barbiemobile, this is a car that hews much more closely to Pam Grier than Audrey Hepburn and, in the end, which do you think I want to be.

I can see that you miracle-of-life people out there might shudder at this craven consumerism, but it is just an opening salvo: who knows, I might be able to get the car without having the kids thereby sparing them the kind of mother who would use them as negotiating chips in the acquisition of a car.

Perhaps Not the Criminal Mastermind I Thought

In theory, I think I would make an excellent superthief/superspy: moral relativist, flexible relationship with the truth, rationalizer. In reality, as devoted partner points out more often than I would like (though, to be fair, this is a stupid discussion to be having in the first place so perhaps he's right to put me in my place) I am not all that stealthy. I don't blend in with crowds and I haven't learned how to make myself forgettable (though I maintain that the cunning use of wigs would do wonders for my changling-ness). Also, and perhaps more troubling for the current monster.com resume I have in case SPECTRE is looking for new hires, is that there are certain scams, albeit minor ones, that just wouldn't occur to me, and I wonder if my big-picture attitude is hurting me or depriving me of lower-level experience.

Yesterday the conductor on my train, who I see at least twice a week, punched a ticket for me without seeing my train pass - several of the conductors do this because they recognize me (bad news for my covertness). This was all the more surprising because it was the first time in August I had seen him, meaning he had no guarantee that I had bought a monthly pass for August and I said as much to him, joking that had I known he wasn't going to check I could have saved myself some money. In reply, he told me that there had been a group of women who were regulars on his train that had done just that: they would buy their monthly passes and show them to him for the first week of the month; then, once they were sure he was going to punch tickets for them without verifying they had passes, they returned their passes for a partial refund and rode the rest of the month for free.

Leaving aside how rude that is - I don't know if conductors could get fired for that sort of thing - it's just the kind of petty crime I don't consider. I'm too busy wondering how far I could joyride in that Ferrari before apprehension and if I could find a way to talk myself out of it. And the sad thing is, as compelling a speaker as I believe myself to be, I absolutely FAIL at seeming pitiable.

I try not to speed beyond the average speeder in traffic because I know I'll actually get stuck with the ticket. Even if I was able to muster some tears for the highway patrol person, which I give myself about even odds for, I doubt I'd be believable, and this is a major failing in my criminal mastermind/secret agent ambitions. Women should be able to call on that, "I'm helpless/silly/don't know what I'm doing thing" at the drop of a hat. Feminists bear with me while I maintain that until we have salary parity it behooves us to use what ever tricks are at our disposal to level the playing field - consider the speeding ticket you talked yourself out of with eyelash batting as the first of many hundred dollars you are technically owed if that makes you feel better.

So, I'm checking local community colleges to see if classes are offered in this sort of thing because I figure, if I can't even scam Metro North out of $150, no one is going to invite me on that awesome diamond heist!

Taking Stock of the Things I Can't Do

My mother has been on vacation since last Monday (yes, my father has too), and her absence, though certainly not debilitating, has caused me to take a cold hard look at the things I'll miss, not most, but most unusually, when one day, far in the future, she takes the Great Vacation. My mom and I have a very close relationship. Aside from approximately years 13-14 where unladylike words were hurled, my mom and I have always had a very close relationship. Mostly cause my mom doesn't suck. While the if-it-makes-you-happy philosophy of parenting may have contributed to the fact that neither I nor my brother is a neurosurgeon, it did keep family strife down to a minimum even when, say, said progeny was caught: smoking and drinking at bar mitzvahs, improperly using school computers, failing out of college, etc. Again, though, no neurosurgeons.

But what I lack in medical acumen has more than been made up for in actually liking my mother and liking to spend time with her. Witness our trips to the USQ greenmarket most weeks and you'll see we're not like the mother/daughter paradigm so oft portrayed on television. I think it stems from an utter and complete lack of competition between us. Possibly helped by the fact that my mother is a tall slender Italian-speaking bikram yoga practitioner, and I am a busty scuba diving bibliophile couch potato.

And my mom's pretty nice too. I mean, when I think of the things I would have asked her to do for me in just this past week....well, those things are both embarrassing and worthy of sharing.

I don't iron.

Ever.

I don't know if we even own an iron.

Once or twice I've seen devoted partner iron over the years. Not a pretty picture.

Ironing seems to take a very very very long time especially considering how little one needs to pay SOMEONE ELSE to iron. Also, I own a lot of things that don't wrinkle. Those that do generally go to the dry cleaner's or are worn wrinkled. However, with this whole knitting thing, sometimes things need to be ironed so that I can determine if they fit/look right. On these occasions (and only these - I don't stop by my parents' apartment with an armful of shirts needing ironing), I ask my mom to do it for me. Am I really going to have to learn to iron before she dies?

Also, my mother is an expert at what I call not-letting-the-man-screw-you-out-of-15-cents-worth-of-toothpaste. This is a woman who can get the last gram of any substance out of whatever container it was once in. She cuts open plastic containers like it's a holy mission and, using a complicated collection of scoops, paddles, and sticks, gets out the last bit of whatever it was thereby depriving Big Plastic Packaging of its wasteful delight. Ordinarily I find this behavior odd at best, and other things besides. But I recently started experimenting with some hair crap I saw on TV and this stuff is not cheap (likely, it is not expensive either, more that if I ordinarily pay 15-18 bucks for shampoo and conditioner and now I pay 30 bucks for this fancy stuff, I consider that expensive). It also comes in a pump bottle, the least efficient of plastic dispensers. Naturally, there's about 1.5 inches of the glop in the bottom of the bottle that won't come out with the pump and is also kind of persnickety about coming out when I upend the bottle and whack it against my open palm. So now I kind of want mom to come home so I can bring her my bottle and have her mine for the last (literally) shower's worth. After all - that might be worth 60 cents.

Of course, there is a price to pay for this: my mother isn't exactly what you'd call computer proficient. Guess which child she calls to ask about her "why won't it click" problems?