Every now and again, we get some fascinating mail where I work. Yesterday, we received a missive exhorting us to sue the Department of Homeland Security for $500,000,000. For the warrantless wiretapping program? Nope. For abuses under the Patriot Act? Hardly. No, Homeland Security deserves to be slapped with a lawsuit because they have outlawed “regular can openers.”
Look! I have contraband! Soon the G-men will bust into my apartment, riffle through my kitchen drawers, and arrest me for possession of a regular can opener. I will be hauled before Congress to confess my crimes and turn in my neighbors. Then they will leave me to rot in a secret CIA prison. “But I just needed to open some cans!” I’ll cry hoarsely from my cell, as I scratch out the days and years I’ve been in the cell.
I gotta sign onto that lawsuit. I need to open cans.
Rod Stewart may tell us that “tonight’s the night,” but there are other proverbs, too. A particularly wise sage told us that “timing is everything.” And well… Friday was just not the right time for my chat with McI.
He’d had a very rough week and kept talking about how nice it was to just hang out outside and enjoy himself with me. One look at him told me that he couldn’t handle yet another thing on his mind at that particular moment. Attempting “the chat” would have been an exercise in bad timing.
He’d made a real effort to make time to be with me (he had to work this past weekend—criminal on such a wonderful holiday weekend). That effort spoke volumes, and I decided that was enough. Instead we had a long, wandering conversation about various and sundry things while reveling in the summer weather.
We also met some of my more interesting Somervillian neighbors (I love how “Somerville” is pronounced “Soumervle” by natives—it sounds like they have a mouth full of rocks), enjoying their backyards too. One philosophically interesting phrase that made McI and I laugh really hard after the guy went inside—“I’m a lawnmoah” (I wanted to photograph the stocky man, his fat head shaved, and caption it, “Ceci n’est pas un lawnmoah”). Then went upstairs to watch a movie (before we got a wee bit distracted). It was a great date.
Part of me still thinks that I just chickened out, but a much larger part of me realizes that I did the right thing. One of the reasons why I can be such a good schmoozer is because I read people well. Friday night, I read a guy who just wanted to relax with someone he likes to be with. So relax we did. I’d really rather broach the subject sometime when we’re both relaxed and happy and when we aren’t distracted by big issues in life.
So that’s what happened. Your good vibes were felt, and perhaps they also helped me to see the wisdom in picking the right moment.
Happy Friday! It’s a holiday weekend here, and I’m off soon to frolic in the hot sunny weather. Before I do that, I thought that I’d bestow upon you my review of the week.
Behold! The Sassy Sundries:
Thirty years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Star Wars debuted in US theaters. Ah, the memories of light saber tag with flashlights in the backyard… Star Wars is the first movie I remember seeing in the theater. I went running down the aisle at the end of the movie to have a chat with Luke Skywalker. Although the prequels nearly ruined the original trilogy for me (if you want to read a hilarious, if slightly blasphemous review of the last Star Wars movie, check out this old New Yorker review), I still have a deep and abiding love for Star Wars. On this day, May the Force Be with You. Plus Five
So the American people elected a Democratic majority to Congress to express their displeasure with the Iraq War. Initially the Democrats flexed their muscles and voted for timetables. But when the president, his approval ratings in the proverbial toilet, stamps his feet and demands that he be given supreme authority, Congress caves. I’m disgusted. Minus Five
Got together with a friend from the Week of Wrecked plans, and it was fun. Went a long way toward making me feel like less of a pariah. Plus Five
So Frist is going to replace Wolfowitz at the World Bank? The former Senate Majority Leader who insisted that poor Terri Schiavo’s brain was fully functioning and who wasted valuable legislative time grandstanding on a “life” issue? Doesn’t running an international organization require a functioning brain? Minus Two
Carissa, my dear friend and former coworker is leaving for Seattle. I will miss her. Minus Five
Monica Goodling’s testimony in front of the House Judiciary Committee casts further doubt on Gonzales’s leadership. Goodling testified that she screened candidates improperly for their neocon credentials and that she might have been coached by Gonzales before being called before the committee. Despite all the mounting and damning testimony surrounding Gonzales, I think he’s going to stay in power, because that’s what this administration does. Minus Three
In the words of Rod Stewart, tonight’s the night for my big chat with McI. I don’t think I could have asked for better weather for an outdoor celebration of the start of Memorial Day Weekend. Any and all good vibes would be appreciated. Oh, I don’t know how to rank this
Total Plus: 10
Total Minus: 15
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -5
Last Week’s total: +9
This sucks! I moved out of Smalltownland in order to get my life back. No sooner do I move here, I fucking tore a fucking muscle, resulting in my basically having to spend every fucking night at home for fucking weeks. My leg’s still not better, but this past week, I have been walking well enough that I made tons of plans. With the exception of a very fun Grey’s evening with Carissa and another new friend, every single fucking plan fell through. Here’s my week:
Casual date with McI Tuesday—Cancelled on account of illness. Poor guy is still sick.
Dinner with friend—Double booked.
Drinks with another friend Friday night—Sister had her baby.
Saturday night/Sunday with out-of-town friend—Forgot she had made other plans.
Backup plan to go to art museum with sister today—Poor girl got a nasty allergy attack.
Result—Wind up in Casey’s last night chit-chatting with the middle-aged ladies and gently fending off the advance of a late-middle-aged guy and some other poor soul who couldn’t pronounce the title of the book I was reading while claiming to be really interested in the subject. I love Casey’s. It’s a great bar. Wonderfully close by, casual, comfortable, chock full of some of the most amazing characters. It’s a people watching extravaganza. They have good pizza, and they give you free popcorn. It’s a genuine townie bar—an endangered species these days. But it isn’t where I want to be on a Friday night.
Today I’ve done my best to amuse myself. I hung out at a café, had a late breakfast in a fantastic diner, went to a used bookshop and a couple of vintage clothing stores, and read. I’ll probably wind up going to some foreign film tonight.
I’m OK with doing things by myself. I enjoy it a lot of the time. But right now I’m so fucking frustrated that I feel like collapsing into a puddle of tears.
Oh, did I mention that it’s freezing cold and raining and it has been since Wednesday?
Or that Carissa, my dear co-worker and fellow Grey's addict, is leaving me for the Promised Land of Seattle? GAH!!!!!!!!!
It’s Friday again? This week flew by for me. Here’s my numerical tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical. I stole the idea from Boston’s Weekly Dig. Imitation is the best form of flattery.
Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: This post contains a Grey’s spoiler):
You know you’re in the midst of strange days when John Ashcroft comes off looking like a defender of liberty. Testimony from the former deputy attorney general reveals that Alberto Gonzales attempted to take advantage of the gravely ill Ashcroft back in 2004 to authorize the illegal domestic wire tapping program. Who know where this will end up, but these revelations have caused more Republican senators to call for Gonzales to resign. Plus Three
Holy McCrap! Grey’s season finale might not have had dead bodies, but it still unfolded in a most Shakespearian fashion. Poor Christina. Loses her eyebrows and her man. And George. Poor, poor George. WTF about Callie getting chief resident? Oh, and Meredith’s half-sister is the McSlut (thanks, Conortje) who hit on McDreamy (OK, I’ll back off a bit from McJackass—he’s still self-absorbed, but at least he still loves Mer)? I thought last season ended “dramatically.” Now we have to wait how long to find out what happens? Even
I’m not going to assign points for the death of the racist, homophobic, sexist, intolerant, and generally reprehensible Jerry Falwell, but I will assign points for some excellent coverage of his demise. This article from Salon.com nearly made me wee. For more serious coverage on Falwell’s racist past, see this article from the Nation. I’ve written a bit about the role of race in the rise of the religious right and the Republican party too. Plus Five
This week marked the one-month anniversary of my effing leg injury. My effing leg is much, much better, but I’m still among the walking wounded. Minus Two
Bye bye, Sugar Daddy. Wolfowitz resigned as president of the World Bank. He manages to get some concessions from the executive board (it’s such a wretched institution that I’m not surprised), but he’s outta there. Plus Three
So things with McI are going well, but I need to figure out how to talk to him about what we’re doing. I suck at this. I’m terrified. I was going to talk to him on Tuesday, but the poor guy is sick (for real—I’ve talked to him). The healthy part of me is fairly certain that this will go just fine, but the uncertainty has me in a bit of a tizzy. Minus Two
Total Plus: 13
Total Minus: 4
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: Plus 9
Last Time’s Total: Plus 7
Let’s talk about the McJackass that is Derek Shepherd. I mean, seriously. What is he thinking treating Meredith this way?
To wit: Meredith is the woman who forgave him for forgetting to mention that he had, a, I don’t know, um, WIFE, and then for choosing said wife over her. She said, “Pick me” for crapssake! Then, when Derek was free, Meredith walked away from a good thing with Finn, only to have McJackass waffle over being with her. It’s only when she was nearly in the arms of McSteamy that he came to his senses.
THEN… Meredith’s nightmare of a mother comes to her senses for a day and says horrible things to Meredith. This leads to Meredith nearly drowning, because who wants to live in a world where your own mother doesn’t love you?
THEN… “Miraculously” (OK, ridiculously—I’ve already talked about how that whole triad of episodes crossed the International Cheese Line) Meredith comes back from the great operating room in the sky, and her nightmare mother is dead. And Derek takes this and makes it all about him and his nastiness with McSteamy. When it looks like he won’t be made chief because of Meredith, McJackass starts to think that he shouldn’t be with her.
THEN… Meredith’s fake mother dies, and Meredith’s father, the guy she was just beginning to know, blames her. He not only slaps her in the face after she tearfully tells him the news, but he also comes back before the funeral to tell her off again. Who’s this about? McJackass of course. He’s all upset that Meredith won’t leap into his arms and tell him all her problems. He’s so ego driven that all it takes is one slutty girl to come onto him in a bar, and he’s all ready to jump McShip.
Seriously.
Meredith should get it on with McSteamy just to put McJackass in his place. He doesn’t deserve her.
If I had my way, that’s how the season would end.
One of these days, Fluff will be making a pilgrimage around Fluff's hometown (Somerville is the birthplace of Fluff). Until my leg is all better, though, I will leave you with photos of my view from my front window.
Happy Friday! It’s time once again for me to give my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical (idea stolen from the Bean Counter column in Boston’s Weekly Dig).
Here are this week’s Sassy Sundries:
My effing leg caused me to miss Grey’s Anatomy last night. One of these days, I should become a real American and get cable. Don’t tell me what happened. I’ll watch it online tonight, Friday night, while in bed with an ice pack on my appendage. Hrmph. Minus Ten
Congress hands Bush the Iraq War spending bill with a timetable for withdrawal on the fourth anniversary of the Mission Accomplished speech—a very nice bit of timing, allowing everyone the chance to snicker at the image of W in his flight suit. Plus Five
Bush vetoes the Iraq War spending bill, saying that he’s “the Commander Guy” (I thought he was “the Decider”) and that we can’t set a deadline for failure. Ummm… didn’t failure already happen about four years ago? Veto sustained in Congress, but message still sent that the American people are no longer behind this war. Minus Three
Before the return of the leg injury, got to do some dancing with McI. Plus Ten
Things just keep getting worse at the halls of justice. That Monica Goodling. No wonder she pled the fifth. It might work, too. In exchange for her testimony, she may avoid prosecution. Minus Two
Have discovered Casey’s, a most excellent local watering hole and contender for my favorite alternate parallel universe. Expect a post about Casey’s soon. Plus Three
Former CIA chief George Tenet tries to explain his actions in the days leading up to the Iraq War. While anyone paying attention knows that the White House was hell-bent on going to war with Iraq with or without the “slam dunk” quote, Tenet still comes off sounding self-serving and disingenuous (and not a little crazy). Even
Sometimes, wonderful things arrive through the mail. While I fear for the little old ladies of the world, I really needed the laugh. Plus Ten
Total Plus: 28
Total Minus: 15
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: Plus 7
Last Week’s Total: Minus 25,000,000,005
Something good is about to happen!
My leg will be healed, because I received a paper prayer rug in the mail.
If I return it in a special envelope, my leg will get better, I’ll get $46,000, AND a new car.
Here’s how it works.
I take this paper prayer rug, on LOAN to me from St. Matthew’s Churches of Tulsa, Oklahoma, and stare at the purple picture of Jesus. His eyes appear to be closed, but as you stare intently into the picture, they open and start looking at you. It’s true! They do open. And it isn’t an optical illusion; it’s the power of the paper prayer rug.
After you see Jesus’ eyes, you go and kneel on the prayer rug, being careful to touch both knees to it. I’m afraid I can’t kneel right now, but I’m hoping that by sitting in a chair and holding the paper prayer rug up to my knees it will still work.
Then, I need to fold up the prayer rug and return it in a special envelope, along with a sheet of paper detailing my prayer requests and how much I’d like to donate. I will receive a free spiritual blessing in return.
Remember! This is the next morning!
Oh dear. I broke the seal on my prophecy before I returned the prayer rug. Do you think my leg will still get better? Maybe I’ll only get $23,000 and a Yugo. Help me, paper prayer rug!
Pity Party the Second
Pity Party the Second is in full swing—c’mon over. My effing leg hates me and wants to see me dead. I went to the doctor, but there wasn’t much she could do for me, aside from telling me that I might need to get a cane. I have a surgery consultation scheduled for next week if it doesn’t clear up. If it doesn’t clear up BEFORE next week, I might have to die. Or at least cut off my leg with a hacksaw. It might make a nice cane.
Just to be safe, my doctor sent me to get tested for blood clots today—an unpleasant exam if there ever was one. It’s an ultrasound that starts at the crotch and consists of having a tech pressing down with this little reader all the way down the leg. It tickles, and it’s incredibly embarrassing (having a little towel tucked into one’s panties like a dinner napkin makes one feel foolish). Sure it was cool to see my blood vessels and to hear what my blood sounds like, but all in all, I don’t recommend the experience. The upshot is that I don’t have blood clots, but I do have a motherload of pain and aggravation.
This sucks. Pass the rum and Moxie and Kool-Aid pie. Pity me!
Grey’s Anatomy as a Shakespearian Tragedy
In anticipation of tomorrow night’s two-hour episode of Grey’s Anatomy, Carissa and I tried to come up with some over-the-top things that should happen during the show. I think this could make for an excellent drinking game (if someone’s over-the-top plot point actually transpires during the episode, the others have to drink). Mine reminded me a Shakespearian tragedy.
Burke and Christina's wedding is off.
Izzy eats all of the red velvet cake to try to get over George and requires emergency MacGyver surgery.
Meredith and Derek are quits, and Meredith does McSteamy in a fit of drunken self-loathing. She then jumps back in the Sound. She dies. Derek finds out about McSteamy. They kill each other. Callie finds out about George and Izzy, and boots George out on his ear. George returns just in time to find Izzy on the operating table, her innards a mess of red velvet cake. Izzy dies. George commits suicide. Burke gets shot again. He dies. Christina delivers a depressing speech and then goes on to perform some kickass surgeries in her wedding dress.
Your suggestions are welcome.
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