My Fetid Nest

I spent two days in essentially the same 3 square feet on the couch. I probably should have stayed there today. In short I am morally opposed to my own illnesses. I think of myself as a generally hardy person and any chink in that armor offends me greatly. Though come to think about it, I'm the only person I know missing a gall bladder - so that doesn't seem too healthy.

Nevertheless, between naps, I had a lot of time to myself that I couldn't use to, say, do anything that involved a lot of movement or exertion. So I was able to use my thinky organ to make lists of all the ways in which I am currently failing as a human being (sickness really does not agree with me).

Issue #1: Laundry. I make no secret of the fact that among all the household chores that exist, laundry is my least favorite. And I have no excuse these days that I need to schlep anywhere to do laundry; after all, I have an entire room devoted to laundry. And still, the laundry room is a tornado of both clean and dirty clothing that I just don't want to get near. I don't know what about this particular chore haunts me so, I only know that it's the combination or sorting, washing, drying, then folding, and finally putting away that has always struck me as a step too many (the dishwasher, on the other hand, has three steps: load, wash, put away - far more civilized in my opinion). It seems devoted partner and I share this loathing as his attempts have always skipped over the folding and putting away steps. But I'm currently missing a lot of clothing and I assume it's somewhere in the laundry room - so that should be taken care of sooner rather than later.

Issue #2: Not eating. I seem to be having some difficulty with this one as well. I ate brioche ends all day yesterday not really paying attention to how many actual slices of brioche the ends may have made up. Devoted partner is making great strides (though I think he has an unfair advantage of being stressed out all the time) in not eating, whereas I am making very very tiny strides. There is no good reason I should be ten pounds heavier this year at this time than I was last year. None whatsoever.

Issue #3: Life planning. Yeah, not making a lot of progress on this one. I've attempted to identify things I'm passionate about, and travel and leisure pretty much take the cake each time. Perhaps I'm going about this wrong. Perhaps when I hear the word 'passionate' I take it too seriously. I sort of hear it as 'consuming passion' as opposed to, perhaps, 'dude, this is ok.' So now I will have to expand my list to things I consider ok. But that list needs to be cross-referenced with the 'profitable' list and those twains meet ever so infrequently.

Issue #4: Family planning. Is it ok that I'm now 33 and still eons away from even weighing in on this subject? "Oh, you're never really ready," is what all you people who already did it say, but I would wager that most of you went off birth control which is readier than I am or foresee myself to be. I feel like there are at least 127 more important things to talk about, but I'm not unaware of the fact that this one has an end date. Can we talk about it later?

Those are the biggies and they assaulted me for two straight days (which is probably why I got out of the house today even though I don't feel much better). Now I send them out into the world in the hopes that talking about them is kind of like doing them.

It is, right?

Sick Days

Just a quick note to let you know I'm bailing for the second day in a row cause I'm sick. And super pissed off that I'm sick. Please send soup.

Feedback and Follow Ups

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

I am trying to embrace small-town living (and by small-town, you should understand me to mean fewer than 3 million people or so). When I saw that there was something called Art on the Avenue in Greenwich, I knew I wanted to go. Local artists' work being featured in local stores and an opening night schedule of festivities featuring live music? Love it. And certainly that was what was on offer last night. But it was lacking for me. There was no feeling of community. The streets, while populated, were not packed, and people were guarded, insular, and unsmiling towards strangers. As devoted partner (sadly at work during my perambulations) said later, Greenwich is a bedroom community and, as such, not a TV-ready suburb of neighborhood pool parties and town hall dances. This evening of purported festivities merely highlighted the differences between my perception of all non-urban environments, and their reality.

I mention this here because I had waxed rhapsodic about the feel of Scarsdale. But Scarsdale is also a bedroom community and while the lady at the knitting store in Scarsdale was nicer than the lady at the knitting store in Greenwich (I later discovered the reason: the Scarsdale knitting lady reverse commutes from Manhattan), the vibe of the street wasn't that much different. So I told devoted partner that for our next move, I'm thinking the south where it is possible that the small-town community shtick that I think justifies not living in the center of the world exists.

Nut-allergic Ed and I ate dinner together on Wednesday - our annual fete-ing of me by him to celebrate how long I have been alive - and he commented that in my anti-special-needs-food post I made no mention of litigation; that is, I didn't mention that the reason people pussy-foot around the nut-allergic, especially when those nut-allergic are children, is that should the child have a severe allergic reaction to the smell of peanuts somewhere in its vicinity, the parents would surely sue. He's right. I didn't mention it. Mostly because I hope those people are consumed by righteous fire, but also because I was being idealistic.

What the parents who crusade for peanut butter-free schools don't seem to realize is that the trading floor on the NYSE won't be peanut butter-free. Eventually, when there's no one left to threaten with lawsuits, their precious little angels will emerge into a dangerous world where peanuts exist. Their workplaces will have peanuts, their public transportation, the streets they walk down. So one of two things will happen: they'll adapt or they'll drop dead. I don't see how preventing the inevitable helps anyone. I know if you have that severe an allergy your life probably sucks, but might I suggest going to a special school, like other people with severe physical disabilities do?

Finally, Aidan wrote about women and lingerie this week. I knew she was going to because we had briefly discussed it, but I was not prepared for the response. No one, but no one, was on Team Yelena. Of the 29 comments left on the post, mine was the only one that advocated fancy things. All the other women were of the, "I'll wear baby-vomit stained yoga pants cause they're comfy and I dare my husband to not want to make it with me," opinion. That's partial hyperbole, but none of the other commenters thought nice undies were a necessary component of a well-lived life. This made me really sad.

And only partly because I dream of opening a lingerie store (I thought I could get together with Kate, my most fashionable friend, and open a fancy bra/fancy shoe store and call it Tits and Toes). I maybe a holder of many minority opinions and sometimes this might make me feel supremely badass (i.e. Tom Jones rocks!), but when stared in the face with it, especially about something I feel passionate about, it kinda stings. I am forced to ask why am I so alone in my thoughts. These thoughts, however, did not make me abandon my quotidian habit of wearing supremely badass underthings. After all, today might be the day I meet Tom Jones!

Fundraising Opportunities

Back in the day, when I lived on 110th street, CNN was a part of my daily diet. I woke up, turned it on, went to the computer, and spent 20 or so minutes availing myself of information. Sure, Paula Zahn annoyed me, and the other guy, Blinky (I don't remember his name, I only remember that he has a serious blinking frequency problem) was distracting to watch, but I felt that it was the 1010WINS of national and international news: 20 minutes and you were pretty good to go for the day.

Then September 11th happened and, like others, I spent a lot of time watching television. But after two or three months, I became pissed off, "Man in Nebraska tells local radio station he is positive terrorists will next attack his corn field. We have him live in the studio to discuss his national security concerns." So then I stopped watching CNN. Apparently just in time. As the cable news wars heated up, the news became unrecognizable and the news I was interested in was replaced, a lot of the time, with missing white girls and tornadoes. I went back to reading my news.

But every now and again I'll tune in just for a quick refresher. And I'm so glad this morning was one of those days.

You see, fellow Nutmeggers, our esteemed Senator Lieberman has given me the greatest gift of all. He has said something so utterly preposterous as to make your donations flood my nascent campaign office. Our senator, the guy we keep electing despite compelling reasons not to, has suggested that citizens of this country, if arrested on suspicion of being involved with terrorists while abroad, should be stripped of his citizenship so that he would not be able to avail himself of our legal system and could, instead, be sent to military court. (And I'll link to the FoxNews story so that I can't be accused of unfairness and imbalance.)

Let's try that again:

Joe Lieberman has penned a bill that would allow the State Department to strip a U.S. citizen of his citizenship if it deems him affiliated with a terrorist organization (for the sole purpose of trying him without, for example, due process).

Lieberman claims that this is no different from stripping citizens of their citizenship if they serve in a foreign army (and I've never quite understood how the kids who go play soldier in Israel for a year get around this). But, as with many things, nuance is important. If you join, say, the Botswanan Army, there's probably a piece of paper that you signed somewhere pertinent to that assignation. If, on the other hand, you end up (stupidly, and possibly with criminal intentions, though I like courts and such to make those determinations) hanging out with some guys at a mosque in Pakistan, we don't really know what your intent is. Yes, the war of the future is not going to be between uniformed soldiers of sovereign nations, but might this not be getting a little out of hand.

I will freely admit that I'm one of those "100 guilty men go free so 1 innocent man isn't falsely imprisoned" kind of people, but let me be more bloodless for a second (and check out my logic, voters): if allegiance to a foreign terrorist organization (TO) is tantamount to participation in a foreign military (FM), don't we then need to extend Geneva Convention (GC) rights and responsibilities to our dealings with foreign terrorist organizations? If TO = FM and FM = GC then TO = GC. Idiots.

But we don't want to be bound by the Geneva Convention when dealing with terrorists - they aren't members of, say, a foreign army, whom we must treat humanely, they're, well, terrorists. And if you join up with them you will be stripped of your citizenship the same way people who join foreign armies are.

It is obvious that, contrary to perception, we are willing to sacrifice quite a bit of essential liberty for temporary safety, I just think the esteemed senator may have drunk an especially heady brew of Kool-Aid on this one. And that it's probably time for retirement. And that you'd be way better off with me as your senator. (Full disclosure: I am pro-Mexican and anti-"wo Sie Ihre Papiere sind.")

I know that terrorism is scary.

But Joe Lieberman is scarier.

I'm Not Quite Sure What You're Doing

This morning, at about 7:30am, my cellphone rang. Of course I assumed it was devoted partner's cellphone because no one calls my cellphone because the very few people in the world who have the number know a) I don't answer it and b) it's hardly ever charged. I didn't get to the phone in time and I didn't recognize the number so I tossed the phone back in my bag. This shocked devoted partner who is the kind of person who calls people's numbers on his phone regardless of whether or not he recognizes the number.

I told him that only about a dozen people have the number, all of those people have our home phone number, and that all would either leave a message or call the house having gotten no answer on the cell. That it was obviously a wrong number and why do I want to spend time calling a wrong number back to verify that it's a wrong number. Which I guess brings me to the crux of this: I don't much like talking to people on the phone.

Sure, Ed and I can waste several millennia talking about absolutely nothing (Dear blogger spell check: Really? You don't think "millennia" is a word? You're retarded!) And I'm generally happy to talk to the people I already know and like, but more often than not I'd prefer to be contacted by carrier pigeon. When the house phone rings and it is for devoted partner, 99 out of 100 times I'll toss him the phone as opposed to answering it and then passing it on. I think this might be rude, but I do have a lot of knitting to work on and I can't be all distracted by making small talk.

This lengthy preamble is, of course, to my complaint of every day: mobile communication on public transport. The thing is, all of you (general, not specific) seem to LOVE to talk to people on your tiny phones and go blind and carpal tunneled by typing emails on your tiny phones. And I don't get it. At you home or office, presumably you have larger communication implements, a more comfortable chair, and privacy. Wouldn't you like to do your business/complain about your redecorating/talk about how wild it was at the bar last night in those places? This morning it wasn't so much that people were loud, they weren't, it's that everywhere I turned people were heavily invested in clickety clacking their toys in a way I am just flummoxed by.

I love my train ride because it is neither work nor home. I actually find it relaxing (when I'm not elbowing people out of my way to gain access to the seats they were saving for their laptop bags). Either I am really mellow, or other people are really really not. The thing, and forgive me for harping on it, is that if my job was such that on the 9:04 train I needed to be doing so much work, that would indicate to me that perhaps I'm not getting to my office on time. If I took an earlier train, by 9:04, I'd already be at my office typing emails and fielding phone calls. Using the train as a makeshift office seems not only rude, but (and I'm really surprised we don't hear more of this) potentially litigious.

So I ask ye of clickety clacking habits to try and shed some light on this for me. My iToy is a last resort to entertain me when there's simply no elbow room to do anything else. All thing being equal, I just don't want to communicate or be communicated with at every moment of the day. So help me to understand what I am obviously missing.

And please don't ever call me at 7:30am unless we a) have plans or b) you know that a missile is headed for my house.

This Suburban Thing Is Getting Out Of Hand

I think you know the evil elves have taken control of your brain when you visit other tony suburbs and think, "this seems a delightful place to live." I know because it happened to me this weekend. Devoted partner, who sadly must spend a lot of time these days being devoted to his job, was at the office, I was bored, the car had gas. There was a knitting store in a nearishby town I was interested in checking out so I figured what the hell.

I arrived in town and was immediately struck by how much prettier it was than Greenwich. Greenwich Avenue, the main shopping drag is a sorry amalgam of completely socio-economically mismatched stores (Victoria's Secret should not share real estate with Tiffany's), and most, if not all, of the buildings are new. It has, in all honesty, no charm. Which saddens devoted partner who remembers a time when it did. This time must have been very very very long ago since in the 15 or so years I've known Greenwich Avenue, it looked like this. This other town's shops were located in a lovely set of at least 50 year old Tudor-style brick buildings. There were independent shops and there was greenspace. I was briefly in love.

The knitting store was not nearly as snooty as some I have visited and I walked out with a project and time still left on my parking meter. The wine store was having a sale and had a favorite of mine. I joked later that while devoted partner is at work, I merely knit and drink. The best part about the town, especially for those who enjoy buying things, is that the train station is right there. You get off the train and you're in the town - which is true for Greenwich as well (and Port Chester) but there's just simply less charm.

Well now for the reveal which struck both devoted partner and my mother as hilarious: Scarsdale. As I know really nothing about anything, I was unaware that Scarsdale was a punchline for where rich Jews go to have lawns, but damn it, even if it's true, then bravo to the stereotypes for making a lovely town. For all of the stereotypes about wasps and how proper they are, they certainly managed to hose up their shining beacon of a town (unless I totally misjudged Greenwich and it openly invites the velour clad to its DAR dinners).

So now I think I'm going to have to spend some time reminding myself of the joys of Manhattan before I become a totally different person. Thank god the suburbs are nearly devoid of decent food because they do, sadly, have a number of other things going for them. Ok. Now I'm going to go drown in my shame.

Courtney

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

This is Courtney. She is not our dog. I have spent the past 48 hours hoping/having anxiety dreams that some really nice couple or family have adopted Courtney. Because I couldn't.

Let's backtrack. Devoted partner and I attended the Adoptathon at the North Shore Animal League this past weekend. We first learned about it last year from an adorable 6 or 7 year old on the D train who was over the moon about the puppy he had just adopted and told us we absolutely had to go the next day because Cesar Millan was there. Not one to pass up an opportunity to window lick at the puppy palace and to get a photo with the Dog Whisperer, I used my best puppy dog eyes on devoted partner and off we went to Long Island (strangely not as bad as one is led to believe). We went again this year.

Now we live in a lovely house with a lovely landlady who, it seems, has had more than a couple of bad experiences with tenants and their pets. Both devoted partner and I think there could be some wiggle room, perhaps with the promise of additional security deposit/installation of invisible fence etc., but we just haven't gotten around to doing it because we know that once we do, we're definitely getting a dog and much as we would really really like to be dog owners, we also know it's a huge responsibility and one we are not willing to halfass. Still, we love dogs and the adoptathon is really really a nice time. (And thankfully none of the volunteers remembered us from last year as the people who fondled multiple dogs and adopted none of them).

The North Shore Animal League puts on a great show and they smartly ask would-be adopters to walk through the selection of adult animals before letting them at the puppies. This is a hard gauntlet to walk because it is immediately apparent which dogs are not destined for adoption. NSAL is a no-kill shelter, may they be endlessly praised for this, but some of the dogs are, well, broken. You see the eyes and you hear the growl and you know this is a dog that needs more help than most people are willing or able to give. And that is really really sad. I was heartened to see a number of families getting to know the adult dogs in the atrium, but most people came for the puppies including, frankly, us. As we rounded the corner I saw this dog and probably said something like, "ah, shit, she's going to have a hard time getting adopted," and we moved on, eager to see the puppies.

And there were puppies galore - lots of cute ones too. My early favorite was a fawn colored hound who liked chewing on my fingers; devoted partner liked a shepherd mix. We were pleased to see both of them picked up by happy families. Still, while there were many cute puppies, none of them was The One. We walked around a bit more, hoping to see the new puppies being brought from the back, and to kill time we walked around the adult dogs again. This time, I stopped at Courtney's enclosure. I like pits. I think they can be amazing dogs, provided you're willing to put in the time to temper their natural enthusiasm - they're a bit like boxers that way. You just have to be able to determine whether or not the one you're about to pet would like to roll on its back to give you access to its stomach which needs petting or if it would like to eat your hand. This dog wanted belly rubs. She came up and smelled our hands and let us pet her through the grate; then she got up on her hind legs and leaned her head over the top.

It was right around this time that I sort of lost it. I just knew in my heart of hearts that this was a good dog. That this was a dog who would love you forever. And that would be immediately dismissed as not suitable pet material by most of the people walking by. 2 1/2 year old pit bulls are not at the top of people's adoptable lists and this made me uncontrollably sad. I knew she wasn't going to be our dog, but I wanted her to be someone's dog because I could so easily see how she would seamlessly fit into our household and I knew we weren't the only ones. Devoted partner was a mensch - after all, I'm sure his idea of a fun time did not include looking for paper towels so that his woman could mop up her blubbering.

I've thought about Courtney a lot since then and even in my wildest fantasies - our landlady immediately agrees we should have a dog, doesn't mind that it's an adult pit bull who will be moving in next to her two grandchildren, Courtney is still at the shelter and we get approved to adopt her, she turns out to be the kind of wonderful pet that would eat neither Hogie nor Saunders - well, it still doesn't make sense. We're off to Miami for nearly a week later this month, and then to Nicaragua the next. We're truly not at a place where a dog makes sense - at least not for the next couple of months.

So I'm going to believe that someone fell in love with Courtney the way I did and that right now she's at her new home with good people and yummy treats. Cause just thinking about it is making me cry a little.