Jack the Jerk Bounces Checks at the Class Reunion

So, the class reunion.  Did I post about Jack?  Former super-suave, ultra-cool funny-guy jock turned grown-up loser.  Think Freddie "Boom Boom" Washington from Welcome Back Kotter.  

Now imagine Freddie's degenerated into a drunken junkie who manipulates the folks who persist in caring about him with bogus suicide threats.  

Yeah, 30 years down the line, and life hasn't been kind to Jack.  To be brutally straightforward, he's earned what he has.  I've been watching him with a somewhat jaundiced eye since he threatened suicide and then disappeared from Facebook for over a year back in 2011, ignoring the desperate pleas from old friends to please get in touch.  

Despite my misgivings I, of course, sought contact information for him for the reunion.  And he was contacted, and said he planned to go.  And then, out of the blue, maybe two weeks before the reunion, Jack says he's off to kill himself.  Says he's checking out, he's done with this life, see y'all on the other side.  And then off he goes, POOF!  All his stupid little friends begging him to call, to check in, to please, please don't do this.  

I say "stupid" because I've been the person who just keeps letting some creepy creature manipulate me because he likes the attention and it gets him off the hook.  And I was stupid.  No other way to put it.

Jack shows back up a week later, with no mention of his suicide threat, just saying yeah, he's going to be at the reunion, gonna kick everyone's behind at golf, blah, blah, blah.  Sanitizes his Facebook wall to hide the BS, and shows up to ALL the reunion activities.

And bounces checks for every one.

What a lowlife.  What a scumbag!  The folks handling it are, I guess, trying to be delicate.  I wouldn't be.  I'd post it on the reunion group page and then wait for the inevitable suicide threat sure to follow.

You suck, Jack.  We'll remember this next reunion, lose your address.

And no, his name's no really "Jack."  But it seemed more believable than "Jerk," and both end with "Off."

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Speaking of old schoolmates, I want to tell you about Kris B.  Really nice kid, he was a classmate in Mrs. Jordan's second grade class.  I didn't know him well, but he always seemed a good kid, I don't recall him ever being mean to me.  So many kids were, so that sticks out.  

Another thing that stuck out was how he spelled his name.  "Kris."  See, that stuck out, because I was "Kristy."  So many "Christophers" and "Christines" out there, but we were K-kids.  

One day, early in the school year, I . . . the dog ate my homework.  You know.  Out of the blue, I had this brilliant idea.  BRILLIANT!  I walked over to Mrs. Jordan's desk, pulled Kris B.'s homework out of her inbox, and added "ty" to the end of his name.  On every page, I did this, until all his homework was mine.

Understand, I didn't do this to be mean or to hurt him.  In fact, it never occurred to me that he might get in trouble!  Hey, I was seven!  I just knew that now my homework was handed in and I wouldn't get yelled at by my dad.  Of course, it proved to be such an easy thing that I took to doing it pretty frequently.  

I don't think Kris flunked second grade, but I don't know for certain.  I think about the grief this must have caused him and I feel really bad about it now.  Imagine this poor boy, insisting he's done his homework only to be told he clearly didn't.  

Ack.

I did this for a couple of months. my two best friends, Allyson and Kelly, being fully aware.  Now, I should have known that I was the spare part in that three-way friendship.  Allyson and Kelly had been buds before they ever knew me, and they were the thin, pretty girls.  And I?

Wasn't.

Anyway, one day, Allyson was standing before the class giving some book report/presentation. And she was rocking it because that's what Allyson did.  It's who she was, she was a performer, a brash, enthusiastic star who really did require attention.  That's not an insult, it served her well and she did good things with it until her untimely death in 2005.  But under all that brash, at least in second grade, was a whole lot of insecurity.  So when she sneezed and blasted this gigantic wad of snot out her nose, a wad that, attached by a stringy runner, snapped back like a bungee jumper and smacked her in the cheek, my sudden, raucous cry of laughter was unappreciated.

I wasn't being mean, I swear.  I was seven, a big booger smacked her in the face.  I laughed.  If I could take it back, I would.  If I could have taken it back that MOMENT, I would have, because, while I was clearly not the sharpest knife in the etiquette drawer, I was lethally quick when it came to catching emotional/mood cues from other people.  It was a survival thing.  I knew immediately I'd messed up, but there was no bailing it.  Allyson hated me from that moment on, and it was a deep, long-lasting hatred.  I don't think it ever really went away, in fact.  I never saw Allyson look at me without that curl of the lip, that heavy-lidded glare.  Last time I saw her was the end of 12th grade, and she clearly still despised me.

First thing Allyson did after I laughed was go to Mrs. Jordan and "narc" me out for stealing Kris's homework.  I wish I could say she didn't know what that would lead to, but Allyson knew.  The belting, the screaming, the crying, the devastation that was visited upon me when my father was called?

More than made up for the laugh.  

I don't blame her.  She was seven, too.  And poor Kris B.?  The most innocent of us all?

Well, a websearch tells me that Kris has done just fine.  Whatever damage I might have done him academically doesn't appear to have held him back in the least.  And that's good.  I have enough guilt in my life.

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I came across a headstone in my search for old classmates who've died.  An incredibly embarrassing, ironic mistake in the headstone that made me shriek with horror when I saw it.  And then, yes, laugh.  Part of me hopes desperately that it was intentional, that it was a little inside joke between the dead folks and those who come later to see.  But I know that's not likely the case.  I turned to my husband and cried, "DON'T YOU DARE GO GRAMMAR-STUPID ON MY HEADSTONE!"

And he said?

"That'd be one way to find out for sure if there's an afterlife, huh?"

Here's the headstone:

Give yourself a minute.  No screaming.  Yes, I could crack some "alot" jokes or link you to hyperbole-and-a-half, but this actually makes me very sad.  How embarrassing.  How heartbreaking.  It's not like it can be Photoshopped all better or erased and rewritten.  It is, in fact, carved in stone.

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While on the subject of bad grammar and dead folks, I came across a memorial the other day where someone shared that folks had gathered and  "recanted their many fine memories" of the deceased.

Well, that's sad.  Really sad, in fact.  

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Speaking even further on the subject of bad grammar, there's a Utah thing (happens sometimes in the South, too).  It's the whole "buy, bought, boughten" thing.  You know, like "get, got, gotten."  It's never affected me, though sometimes, when I'm tired and trying to say "gotten" and "bought" it slips out.  But the other day?  I was talking to my husband about making smoothies and I said . . .

Blent.

You know, like spend/spent and rend/rent?  Blend/blent.

Now I have a habit of intentionally making up words because it's fun and amuses me.  But this wasn't intentional--in fact, it took me a few seconds to figure out what was wrong with the sentence I'd just uttered.

Goodness.

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I have a thing.  On my arm.  In my arm, really.  It started back before 2010.  I spoke to my dermatologist then, when it was really just a thickening, with the skin feeling harder and getting rough.  She looked, said it wasn't anything.  I asked her again before we moved, because it seemed bigger, sort of.  Less rough, but thicker.  Again, she said she didn't see anything she was concerned about.

Last year, I went to my primary care physician because, at that point, it had become sort of a dent with a bump.  She referred me for an ultrasound, which showed exactly nothing.  The Radiologist said that she saw no edges, no borders, no nothing--it was just a dent and a bump that didn't show at all.  She said any further action would be up to my PCP.  

My PCP didn't feel any further investigation was necessary.

I haven't really paid attention to it for months.  I don't, you know?  It doesn't hurt, it doesn't DO anything, so I go months without really even thinking about it.  But I looked at it the other day, and really got in and explored it, and I'm sure it's bigger.  I feel certain of this.  

And suddenly I'm very worried.  

Am I just winding myself up because things are tight and stressful and so I'm obsessing?

I hope so.  Because it's going to be November or December before we can afford to have this looked at by . . . whom?  To whom do I take a weird arm thickening?  An orthopedic doc?  A rheumatologist?  What do I need?  An MRI?  

The fun really never does stop.  

It's hard to get a shot of--it's not well defined, but it's where the arm rises up instead of being a straight line.  And I have no idea what it is or if it's related to the various arthritic/rosacea-ic, various other things I have going on.  Knowing my luck, it's something horrid.  Scleroderma or sarcoma or some such crap.  

Or maybe it's nothing at all.  Just a weird, totally benign, not-at-all-a-problem growing thing under my skin.  Because those exist, too.

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And that's about it.  Except this:  if you ever find yourself tempted to name your baby "Quazarius" or "Tennzlee?"  Don't, because THOSE AREN'T NAMES!

Not QUITE Elizabeth Taylor

I've been on a frenzy of obituary/memorial gathering and creating for our alumni group.  Hundreds and hundreds, it seems.  Feels like there are more of us dead than alive!  I came across a wonderful name today--actually RE-came across--I originally found her a couple of years back, but am just now getting things organized into birth year folders.  Her name was . . . well, it was LONG.  Five marriages, six different last names.  Divorced twice, widowed twice, leaves behind her last.  She grew African violets and, hopefully, did better with them than she did with the whole marriage thing.

I wish I'd known her.

Speaking of names, Messiah.  No, really.  Messiah.

Some woman and her boyfriend wound up in court down south, hashing out which last name their baby would labor under.  Imagine their surprise when the judge said (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Last name, shmast name--that FIRST name's gotta GO!"  And BAM!  Little Messiah wasn't anymore.

So many issues here in this one little story.  On the one hand, yes, Messiah is a CRAP name, it's bordering on ABUSIVE, and those parents should be smacked daily.  Forever.  That said, the judge's reasoning ("There's only one Messiah and that's Jesus Christ") is garbage, and has NO place in a courtroom.  There's only ONE Messiah and that's Jesus?  Tell me, in SoCal, how many JESUSES are there?

A few thousand?

Get your religion out of my courtroom, thank you.

I really do think that Messiah is an atrocious name, and shame on the parents.  I hope he goes by "Si" rather than "Mess."  And I hope he keeps his full name a secret.  See, kids with stupid names?  Have a markedly higher rate of juvenile delinquency.  And kids who tangle with juvvie?  Are far more likely to grow up to be criminals.  So don't give your kids stupid names like "Messiah."

Or "Jermajesty."

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Speaking of stupid names, I came across one last night that, quite literally, made me scream.

Hey, folks?  THAT'S NOT A NAME!  THAT'S A HOMOPHONE.  Stop it!

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A quick revisit to our "Miracle Angel Priest."  Surprise, surprise--he's not.  A miracle, that is.  Or an angel, even.  He is a priest, though--that's one for three!

Here's the follow-up--while he is not longer an angel who "appeared out of nowhere," he is now being credited with inspiring Gosh to make the equipment suddenly and magically work.  You ever live in terror that people who believe in magic and miraculous interventions are in charge of saving lives?  Because it scares the daylights out of me.

Ack!  Danger!

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New crown seems to feel good, chewing-wise.  Too bad the garbage-and-county-fair taste and smell from between that tooth and the next persists.  TWICE I've asked Dr.Mendes's staff/dentists about it during visits, and twice I've been told it's nothing.  Just a little food caught up, I should floss.  Well, hang on, let's start from the beginning.  I had the temp crown put in around July 11th.  I was told, in NO uncertain terms, NOT to floss anywhere near the temp crown.  And so I didn't.  And the taste and smell got worse and worse, until, at about one week out, I called and said, "Okay, it's like a cow shat in a garbage can up there--is this an infection?"  They had me come in, and the dentist who saw me (a different dentist) said it wasn't an infection, it was just food caught up there, and I should FLOSS.  I said, "I was told NOT to floss."  He said, "Well, you SHOULD floss, but do a pull-through instead of yanking it back out."  I did, and it didn't really help.  Didn't hurt, though.  I went back in for the permanent crown on July 25th.  They pulled out the temp and the smell was horrid.  Oh, wow.  Worst smell my mouth has ever put off, and I'm pretty sure I've had cats take dumps in  my mouth during the night.  The dentist (a return of the first one) wiped at the area with a bit of gauze, but didn't flush it at all.  No water hit that tooth or surrounding gum.  I know, it would have been agonizing.  It also might have CLEANED the area before he put the permanent crown on.  I asked then (again) if it was infected.  He said it wasn't.  I asked when the horrid taste and smell would go away.  He said it shouldn't be long.  I should floss.  Which I do--every time I eat.

Okay, it's August 13th now, and guess what?

Stinky, stinky, cow shat in a garbage can still going on.  If I give a good SUCK I get more of it, and if I run a finger over the space between that tooth and the one before it, I can smell it on my finger.  Whatever's caught up there, I can't seem to get it out, no matter how much flossing, brushing, or rinsing I do.  So I call Dr. Mendes's office today and I'm told that they can't tell me whether or not they'll charge me for the appointment.

TWICE I've been in there, complaining about this.  TWICE I've asked, "Are you sure this is normal, are you sure this isn't an infection or something bad that needs to be taken care of?"  And TWICE I've been told it's not a big deal.  And maybe it ISN'T a big deal, but they can't even tell me if they're going to charge me for their screw up?  And it most certainly is THEIR screw up, because they could have taken care of this the first time I came back.  Or the second.

We have NO money.  If we go in and they ask for cash, we have nothing.  I made an appointment, but I'm not sure what to do.  Besides find a new dentist if they try to charge me.  And let my insurance companies know how things went down.

And write a scathing piece online, of course.  Because that's what I do.

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Oh, one fun little class reunion tidbit?  Shelly, the duck-lipped, immigrant-hating, Obama-slamming cleavage queen from the drill team?  Didn't come--apparently, she's been offending so many folks that even her old friends didn't want her there.  And a not so fun bit?  Debbie.  Debbie came all the way from Kansas, and she came to see me.  And I wasn't there.  Apparently she was very disappointed, and I feel terrible.  She was, without a doubt, the kindest, nicest, all-around "not mean" est person I've ever known.  When someone says, "Imagine the most rock-steady, loyal, caring, nice person," I see Debbie.  Boy, don't I feel like a heel?

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And here's an ugly house.  Just 'cause.

This would be an "eh" house, were it not for the freaky blobs on the wall

Atheists as Angels and Disappearing Priests

A couple of weeks ago, I received an invite to a private Facebook group.  A friend sent the invite, she and her husband (also my friend) invited my husband and me, though the group was set up by another friend of theirs, someone I only knew by name.  The point of the group?

We're discussing atheism, mostly.

"If you're atheist, why do you NEED a group?"

Why yes, that's exactly the sort of thing we're discussing.  That, and family members threatening to stealth-baptize our children, non-atheists trying to build artificial categories to describe "types" of atheists, parents who impose religion on the bodies of their unconsenting children (faith healers and circumcision leap to mind), and, of course, seeking out a suitable image for our group's cover photo.  I'm kinda partial to this one:

But I understand that may  not be the tone we're looking to strike.  But it pleases the daylights out of me.

Speaking of atheism and deep discussions, have you heard the one about the "angel priest" who "saved" the car crash victim and the miracle of new rescue equipment (which had already been ordered up by humans) showing up . . . as expected?

Oh, spare me!  

To quote myself:

I've BEEN that "angel." I have, quite literally, been called "a gift from god" and a "guardian angel" by grateful folks who can't seem to fathom that PEOPLE are capable of goodness, of kindness, of intervening without some super-hero ghostie in the sky. I stop at accidents--I've stopped at more than I can count; I have some medical training, it's only right that I stop to render aid. I don't give my name unless asked, and I POOF when my usefulness has passed. I have held the hands of frightened, badly injured people, I have nodded and smiled while they prayed and begged whatever deity for intervention. I have absolutely saved lives.  But when that girl stepped into traffic and was thrown 20 feet by the pick-up truck that smacked her? "God" didn't intervene.

I did. Paramedics did. Police officers did. Emergency room physicians, surgeons, nurses, and anesthesiologists did.

I wonder--of the "80 pictures taken," were any of them OF THE GIRL AND THE PRIEST PRAYING TOGETHER?  And if so, do any of those pictures show THE GIRL PRAYING ALONE AND A BIG EMPTY SPOT WHERE THE "ANGEL" PRIEST ALLEGEDLY WAS?  My money's on NOT--at least not without a little help from Photoshop.

Angel my backside. Goodness, the silliness never stops.

And you know what?  The silliness really does NEVER end.  Even though atheism is slowly gaining ground, even though religions are losing members, they make up for it with increased fervor, louder shouting, more egregious violations of basic human rights.  They see the ground being lost and seek to stem the flow by passing laws legislating their faith and punishing those who don't share it.

Oh, and in England, a wildly atheistic country, they hand control of thousands of secular public schools over to the church.  Here's another, in case that one wasn't agonizing enough.

Argh.

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Photos rolling in from the class reunion I helped set up but didn't attend.  Nice to see that Wendy was there--I have some very hard feelings there, yet I made sure to get her address down right and get that invite to her.

I hope someone let her know that was me.  That I went out of my way to make sure she and the silicone-chested, duck-lipped ex-drill team member with the stiffy against Hispanics and Black Presidents got their invitations.

Yes, I sound bitter.  No, it's not a leftover grudge from high school.  Instead, it's a recent blow up on Facebook, where Wendy treated me very poorly, dressing it up in "concern."  We managed to limp past that without too much blood, but then she posted something stupid and, I would have thought, beneath her.  Just some bit of misinformation that, even now, I find hard to believe she would have fallen for.  I gave her more credit on the intellect front than she deserved, apparently.  I corrected her in a very friendly, easy tone behind the scenes after doing the research and making sure of the facts.  She sent a snarky response, then posted to her wall that, after SHE had done exhaustive research, SHE had discovered that her earlier post had been wrong.

I don't require public acknowledgement.  I don't.  Had she offered up an oblique, "hey, it's come to my attention that . . ." that would have been plenty.  No mention of my name necessary.  It's when self-aggrandizing creatures take credit for my work that I get upset.

I should have let her smallness pass, I know.  And I admit, there was a hint of hurt when I posted, "You're welcome" with a smiley face.  But the bile-soaked garbage she threw back at me via private message?  Was astounding.  She accused me of being attention-seeking, credit-sucking, ego-driven, and even psychologically unwell --- she accused me of being her, in a nutshell. And then, true to cowardly troll form, she blocked me so I couldn't respond.

I should have seen it coming.  This is a woman whose entire life has been consumed by her quest to be the center of attention.  I still remember her high school brags that she had been cast as Fran in Stephen King's "The Stand."  That pursed-lipped, sneering, eye-rolling, hanging-with-all-the-right-people caricature she created in high school held tight. She's spent years hacking away at an acting career, and never has managed to rise above mediocre (and that's charitable) shorts and minor stage work.  And that last?

Isn't an insult or a slight, because she has TRIED, and I will never down her for that.  She even moved to LA and did her damnedest.  She worked HARD, and for that?  Kudos, and I mean that.

Too bad about the sick drive to be the star of every situation, though.  Too bad about the inability to give others credit when due, and the failure to empathise even a little with those around her in any sincere, meaningful way.

It really is all "the Wendy Show."

And I guess, when you can't be a star of the silver screen, being the star of your own small production is what there is.  I hope she was kinder to the folks at the reunion than she was to me. Because if she wasn't, that's on me, isn't it?  I'm the dullwit who made sure she got an invitation.

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Speaking of high school, I've been working hard on gathering obits and memorials for old students from my alma mater.  I don't know how many I have so far, but it comes out to over 900 pages worth of Word document and counting.  They're not easy to find, and I'll never find all of them, I know.  Some groups are very nasty about sharing, like somehow their alumni group is more entitled to information about passed classmates than ours.  But I keep hacking away at it, because . . .

Because dead sucks, and dead and forgotten sucks even more.  And for the folks who come by?  I hope there's some comfort and warmth arising from seeing their loved ones remembered.  

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One last thing--Epinions paid out early, and actually paid out a fair bit more than usual.  Not huge bucks, but it'll be nice to have that extra for groceries.  Thanks, Epinions!  

Epinions pays me based upon how many folks actually read my reviews, so if you're in the market for anything from a hand mixer to a juicer, some organic shampoo to effective tick repellant, give me a read!

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And that's all, except for this--something really ugly:

Whose Dabke?

Came across a picture yesterday.  A woman, sitting on the ground, breastfeeding her child.  In the background is an Enfamil booth at some "baby expo" disaster.  The woman in the picture said she was astonished and horrified that, while this "baby expo" had half a dozen formula company/bottle-feeding accessory booths handing out coupons, freebies, and "parenting advice" (ack!), there was not ONE booth for breast pumps, breast feeding advice, or even slings for nursing.

You know, it's no wonder women so often fail at breastfeeding--or worse, don't even try.  Even most doctors are abysmally bad at offering accurate advice and meaningful support to new moms looking to breastfeed.  Heck, most doctors (even pediatricians) have almost zero nutritional education under their belts, and have office walls plastered by posters and growth charts from formula companies.  And why do women struggle?  Why do they, so often, fail?  Well, the ill-informed docs aside, we have families with multi-generational legacies of formula feeding (like mine), so women can't rely upon their families for guidance.  In addition, no one can package or manufacture or rake in the bucks pushing breastfeeding, and therefor it's not marketed the way imitation milk is. And that's a damned shame, it really is--for all involved.

Worse than that was the response to the picture.  The number of women who squealed that it was insulting, that it shamed them because they don't nurse, that such things shouldn't be allowed BECAUSE IT MAKES THEM FEEL GUILTY ABOUT NOT BREASTFEEDING.

Seriously.  Women said that.  "Your public breastfeeding makes me feel attacked for not breastfeeding."

That is absolutely ridiculous.  If the science of breast milk vs formula makes you feel insulted, if the reality of a woman breastfeeding makes you feel attacked, you need to look INWARD and figure out what's going on with YOU.  Because someone relaying the scientific reality of breast milk's superiority shouldn't make you feel attacked.  It's not an attack, not a verdict on the quality of mothering--it's science.  And the sight of a woman nursing her baby?  Well that's beauty from the beginning of humans.  If you can't see it, you've got something else going on.  I hope you fix it.

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A story came across my feed yesterday.  One about an "Israeli Dabke" dance group performing in the States.

Are you familiar with the concept of "cultural appropriation by an occupying force?"  It goes something like this:

1. Occupy the lands of others, forcing them into foreign exile, camps, or small, walled or fenced-in remnants of their homeland.
2. Enforce apartheid laws oppressing the native population while raising up the occupiers to a higher legal and social standing.
3. Accuse natives who protest or resist of "terrorism," utilizing blockades, bombings, arrest (of children as well as adults), and indefinite imprisonment without charges as punishments for resisting (or being related to someone who resists, or living in a town where someone might have resisted).
4. Adopt the cultural heritage of the occupied/oppressed people, claiming it as your own.
5. Claim the occupied people have no culture, nothing about them that makes them unique (because you've already appropriated it for yourself).

Welcome to Palestine, my friends.  Where the Palestinian Dabke has been appropriated by an Israeli dance group and is now being forwarded in America as something uniquely Israeli.  You know, same way hummus, tabouli, couscous, sambusa, and a thousand other things have been hijacked.

Here, here's this:



And then here's this:




Go out online, you will find hundreds of Palestinian and other Arab Dabkes.  I remember my first Palestinian party/dinner.  Out of the blue, a man stood.  And then another.  And then more.  And then my then-husband stood.  And they danced.  They stomped and leapt.  It was such an amazing, beautiful, energetic thing, and it really drove home to me that my husband had a whole world of experience that was completely foreign to me.  Experiences that were so very exotic and alien (to me).   He said Dabke is an expression of life, of passion, and that no one takes "dabke lessons," that children just learn by seeing and wait for the day they can join.  He said it's second-nature, like hopscotch or jump rope, only with a very real tie to home and land and culture and country.

That country would be Palestine.  There are some who would have us forget that Palestine is and was a culture of its own, a homeland before highrise eyesore settlements and concrete walls through Palestinian olive groves "made the desert bloom."  Not all Israelis support that cultural demolition, not all Israelis support oppression and occupation.  Don't make that mistake.  Some turn out in support of Palestine and her people, and they do so at some risk to themselves.

Thank goodness.

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And now there's this.  Guys like this make it hard.  I always hear how this sort of thing is a rarity, but I've seen it more times than I can count--weaving in and out while speeding, popping "wheelies" in the middle of traffic, not signaling, traveling two and three to a lane, running up between lanes, between cars, racing along down canyon roads at near-twice the speed limit, riding 10 inches off the car ahead's bumper, racing down the emergency lane, stopping in the middle of the road to have a CHAT with their buds.  I see the "Start Seeing Motorcycles" stickers everywhere (and AGREE with them), but I'm wondering where the "START SEEING CARS AND OBEYING TRAFFIC LAWS" stickers are?  

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Now, if I haven't managed to piss you off with this blog entry, give me a few days, I'll bet I can come up with something.  No, that's not my intent, but I find that my refusal to pat heads and mince words tends to upset people.  I do love America and her Constitution, even if her Congress is a wingnut cesspool these days. 

Ooops.  There I go again!

No Bees, No Bats, but Fancy Feces Abounds

So, I was just reading the old local rag from Utah when I came across a story for a new kind of "beauty treatment," one gaining popularity.

Or "poopularity," in this case.

That's right, it's a feces facial.  A "fecial," you could say.  And not just ANY feces--this is bird feces.

And not just any ol' bird poop, either--no, no, there's no runs-of-the-mill (get it?  Runs?) house finch or boring pigeon poop here.  No, this is imported Asian Nightingale shit.

Apparently, shallow, bored, over-cashed women in New York City (which rhymes with--well, you know) are FLOCKING (oh, someone stop me!) to Shizuka (Shi-what?) New York Salon to indulge in this disgusting "treatment."  In New Mexico, folks are paying $129 a splatter for this.

Remember when I went nutty on the Civet Cat Shat coffee?  Well, same thing, only bird on the face instead of cat in the belly.

How decadent, how bored, how self-indulgent and desperate to impress does one have to be to drink coffee from beans shat by cats or pay 129 bucks to have bird feces smeared over the face?

Oh, the ennui!

How embarrassing!  Imagine someone saying, "Hey, here's 129 bucks--you can either fund lunches for 65 kids at the local shelter OR you can pay to have someone smear bird shit all over your face." Because, really, that's what this is.  And if that doesn't disgust you, I don't know what will.

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Blood sugar is still a mess--really can't afford the bills right now (we're just barely nostrils above water right now, no way a gaggle co-pays can happen right now).  I woke up to 138.  Ate a low-glycemic Builder's Bar and now I'm at 166.  But later in the day I'll be between 80 and 100 for hours.  Some nights I'm going to bed at 105 or less (was 103 last night).  I know, "Dawn Phenomenon."  I haven't been working out at all since early June because of my blown knee.  I may have to bite the bullet and start again, knee be damned.  Because there's a problem here, and I need to get it under control.

A small update on that--it crept up to 199, so I got up and spent ten minutes loading the dishwasher.  It dropped 96 points in ten minutes.  Back up to 115 now.  I have no idea what's going on.  I'd say I need a new monitor, but I have been testing on two different monitors, one brand new, and they agree.  What a freak show my glucose has become lately.

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With all of the things I've got to worry about lately, one that's really been howling has been the lack of bees this summer.  Our back yard is an explosion of flowers--from petunias to verbena, lavender to crocosmia, you can't turn around without crashing into something blooming.  Heck, even the grass proper is more clover than grass, with a profusion of puffy white blooms practically crying for bees.

And we have none.

Seriously, none.  I've been looking, I've been searching.  I've seen exactly TWO honeybees this entire summer, and only one was in our yard.  I've only seen two bumble bees.  All told, I've seen a total of three bees (one honey, two bumbles) actually gathering pollen.  

Not weeds between the stones, but thyme.

Cukes on the left, tomatoes on the right.

We've been hearing about failing hives and bees dead by the millions for years, but it really is coming home.  The United States is losing an average of 33% of its honey bees each winter. Colony Collapse Disorder, along with newer pathogens and parasites, are, quite literally, killing off our bees.  I've heard people say things like, "Good, I hate bees!" or "So?  Maybe my daughter won't have to carry her epi-pen anymore!"  

Oh, please, save us from ignorant people!

If you like almonds, cucumbers, tomatoes, macadamia nuts, strawberries, blueberries, apples, pears, broccoli, peppers, sunflower seeds, tangerines, or any other of a huge number of foods, then you need BEES.  Because without bees, there are no crops. 

Except CORN, of course.  Don't need bees for CORN.  No, I'm not going to go into a "Monsanto kills bees AND grows corn, wonder if there's a connection" rant.  Surprised you, didn't I?

We've been seriously considering hand-pollinating our cukes and tomatoes because--well, because we want more than three or four fruit in a season.

Another thing we need?  BATS.  And we're losing bats so rapidly to White Nose Syndrome (a fungal infection) that we could, realistically, see the total demise of various bat species in just a few more years.  Again, there are people who don't get what the big deal is.  "Who cares, they just carry rabies, they're just flying rats!"

I care.  And so should you.  Bats are the great nighttime pollinators, especially in the southwest and climes farther south.  If you like mangos, guavas, bananas (or any of 300 other tropical-type fruits), you like bats.  In addition to pollinating, bats eat bugs.  Your average bat will eat 600-1000 bugs (many of those mosquitoes) in just one hour.  And with the proliferation of disease-carrying non-native mosquitoes like the Asian Tiger Mosquito (which feeds all day and all night-no more sleepy-in-the-day skeeters), we need all the bug eating we can get.  

So, if you've been thinking that bats are gross and scary and awful, just remember:

These cute guys

Eat these disease-bearing bastards

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And that's about all.  I was going to write something about student loan rates, ag-gag laws, and the terror facing gay athletes at the upcoming Russian (Soviet?) Olympics, but tomorrow's anothah day.

Here, have something awful:

Not a fan of pools in the desert (what a waste of water!), but if you're going to have one, keep it CLEAN.  This thing is a breeding ground for mosquitoes!

It's Not Just Diabetes that Has Me Down

So, I'm feeling sad today.  Was so hoping to get our boy back to Higgins Armory again before it's gone forever.  It closes up shop in December, and I don't know if we're going to have the money. In the last two months, things have gone from hopeful to disastrous on the cash front, and right now we're doing the "calls to stave them off" shuffle until we can catch up.

Higgins Armory--have you never been?   If not, you want to get there while you still can--come end of the year, it's the end of a treasure.  An incredible adventure for kids and adults.  If you're into history, knights, armor, Danes, jousting, European and Asian military, weaponry, etc., Higgins is THE place in North America.

For just a little while longer.

Higgins Armory Museum in Worcester (that's WOOSTAH), Massachusetts

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Came across an oddity today, directed by my older sister.  She's researching Supreme Court Justices, and has hit a snag with Justice Arthur J. Goldberg.  See, some biographies have him married to a Dorothy Kurgans, while others Wanda Tompkins, and some?  Some have him married to both.  Apparently at the same time.

Arthur J. Goldberg-portrait in the U.S. Department of Labor "Hall of Secretaries."  Artist Gardner Cox

Now, seeing as Justice Goldberg (later Ambassador Goldberg) wasn't a secret Reformed Latter-day Saint, and likely wasn't a closet polygamist in the public eye, I'm going to run with one of three theories:

One, his marriage to Wanda Tompkins was short, embarrassing, and has been quietly dropped from the historical record. 

Two, someone at some point at Wikipedia or some like place made a mistake.  They made a mistake, threw the name Wanda Tompkins in there, and the rest is referential history.  You know, nobody does research anymore, they just quote someone else? Who quoted someone else?

Three?  That "art student" Wanda Tompkins converted to Judaism to marry Justice Goldberg, and when she did, she changed her name to Dorothy Kurgans.  You know, the ARTIST Dorothy Kurgans.  I'm personally acquainted with folks who've done that very thing--converted to Judaism and changed their names to more "traditionally Jewish" monikers.  

There's got to be some way to find out.  To borrow from Duchovny, the truth is out there.  If you know, if you can shed some light, drop me a line.  My curiosity is piqued.

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Caught some crappy story today about Kate Middleton and breastfeeding.  Specifically about how her fashion purchases of late indicate she's breastfeeding.  From some classy news source whose name escapes me.  Was it  . . . Totally Vapid News-ish?  No, no.  Perhaps Holy Cow, What Trivial Garbage?  Or maybe . . . Stylelist?  

Ah, yeah, that was it.  Whew!

Anyway, I don't normally read that sort of thing, but it came across my feed and, being something of a "lactivist," I was drawn in.

Drawn in, only to be pissed off.

It's a common misconception that women are advised to breastfeed for six months.  A common misunderstanding, really.  See, it's "exclusively for the first six months, then with solid foods for at least the first year, preferably longer."  The World Health Organization is even more expansive, calling for a minimum of two years (six months exclusive, then to at least two years with solids).  Not breastfeeding?  Sad and inferior, nutrition-wise, in modern, industrialized countries with adequate healthcare and access to clean water.  Sad, inferior, linked to numerous ailments and all-around increase in risk for various diseases and disorders, costing our governments a fortune, but usually not deadly.  Usually good enough.  But in third world countries?

A death sentence.  No, that's not an exaggeration.  Millions of infants die every year because they aren't breastfed.  Simple as that.  So when I see a story, even in some dippy rag like Stylelist, talking about a famous woman who is widely respected and likely choosing to breastfeed?

That's good.  That's good news.  And it's being shared in a format/venue likely to attract a crowd not usually given to deep thoughts about infant nutrition.

Sadly, Stylelist got it wrong, stating that breastfeeding is "recommended for the first six months of the baby's life."  No mention of that first six months being exclusive nursing, to be followed up by nursing PLUS solids for at least the first year.  And there you go--crappy information sprayed at women who will take it as gospel because, gosh, they read it on a star-stalking site.

A star-stalking site that goes on to get in a dig about nursing in public.  A dig that will, no doubt. discourage more than one woman from breastfeeding her child.

I feel I need to repost this.  It's important.

And before anyone throws a tizzy, remember this--I'm not saying that women who don't nurse are bad mothers or inferior parents--I'm saying that they're providing their child inferior nutrition known to contribute to a variety of physical ailments.  That's not a judgement call, that's science. All parents make bad calls or lesser choices--ALL of us.  No such thing as perfect out there.  However, I see zero reason to whitewash the truth or soften the science to spare feelings.  I don't see anyone nodding indulgently and saying, "Oh, it's okay, it's just as good" to moms who smoke, or who drink during pregnancy.  Don't say it's not the same, don't say it's a poor comparison--not breastfeeding is associated with everything from increased risk of diabetes to dental caries, cancers (in mother and baby) to GERD.  Look up Necrotizing Enterocolitis some time--a cruel killer of pre-term babies, and almost unheard of in exclusively breastmilk fed preemies.  Formula fed babies of non-smoking mothers are more likely to suffer chronic ear infections, respiratory infections, urinary tract infections, and other ailments than the breastfed babies of smoking mothers.  Not because smoking is okay, but because breastmilk is just that awesome.  Obviously, the best route is not smoking AND nursing.

Anyway, point is this--a good mom might wind up not nursing, and a not-so-good mom might breastfeed.  It's not the determining factor.  But to hassle a woman for nursing in public while nodding and smiling at someone putting a bottle in a baby's mouth?  It utterly screwed up from every angle.  How about we just keep our mouths shut when we see a mom feeding her baby in public, REGARDLESS OF HOW SHE'S DOING IT?  A smile, a nod, and then move the hell on.
Nothing to see here, folks.

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Blood sugar's been out-of-whack these past couple of weeks.  Actually clocked 220 the other day, which, for me, is really high.  REALLY high, though not a shock, considering what I'd had to eat.  My big concern, though, is the sudden spikes upon waking.  Normally, I'm below 100 when I wake up, but the past couple of weeks I've been at 110-140.  Doubly concerning because, when I go to bed, I'm around 103.  I know about the "Dawn Phenomenon" and the "Somogyi effect," but it's not normally a problem for me.  My fasting blood sugar isn't ALWAYS high--I came in at 98 yesterday before napping.  My post-dinner reading last night was 141, but that was after a pasta dinner with a lot of veggies, so I'm not surprised by that.  I don't like to be surprised by blood sugar.  141 after pasta isn't surprising.  138 after six hours of sleep?  That's a surprise.

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And that's about all.  I was going to post a horrible house picture, but I found this, instead:

Now, this photo was voted absolute WORST/UGLIEST in an online contest comparing awful decor.  But I think it's BRILLIANT!  I mean, folks filming Harry Potter would have paid someone thousands to come up with exactly this!  It's amazing!  No, I wouldn't want to live there, but I'll bet a character from Dickens, Order of the Phoenix, or The Golden Compass would be right at home! How can you not love it?

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Oh, yeah--new reviews up, if you're looking for a new hand mixer, curious about Burt's Bees Foot Cream, or in the market for some Honestly good shampoo, have a look!