Blog posts may be slim pickins till Sunday because I am at a dear friend's wedding in Atlanta.
He is standing right behind me as I write this, so I want to tell America what a hot, sexy, rockin' smart, charming, deee-licious---and humble---man he is. His name is Notorious B and I remember deciding that he and I would be great friends after he and I ate 25 cent ice cream cones in Athens, GA at Hodgsons, one of those old-time "soda fountain/lunch counter in the back of the pharmacy" places. We shared ice cream cones and an issue of Cosmo and discussed "Women: Friend or Foe?" We agreed: FOE. Except me. Big time friend.
But the real reason I love Notorious B is that he is quite simply Genius At Work. He is a lawyer who writes screenplays that win awards, who makes me laugh and who has the most astonishing command of the language of anyone I've ever met. He really is going to be famous someday, and he has promised me a plum role as Crack Ho #2 in his first film...and I'll only have to sleep with three key grips to get it. (Only three! Sweeet!) So this is your advance notice to join Netflix and get that queue ready for my silver screen debut.
Okay--so: short story long~Notorious B--dear friend, smart, funny guy. And astonishingly attractive for multiple reasons--most particularly because he is smart enough to be marrying a smart, funny and take-no-crap woman who doesn't mind him having a female friend who calls him deee-licious on a public blog. ;)
Reports from the wedding to follow.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
On Lying
Lying is such an interesting behavior, because we all do it even though it is perhaps one of the first habits that our parents teach us is wrong. When you are young, you just know that lying is wrong and that if you lie to your parents you will be in double trouble: first for the transgression and then for the lie. I learned early and definitively that it was best to be in only one kind of trouble with my parental units, especially as I sensed their disappointment in me for being untruthful. I could live with the guilt of smacking my sister in the face and getting busted; I could not live with the disappointment in my parents voices when they found out I was lying to their faces (and doing a convincing job of it to boot) about having started the melee to begin with.
As we get older, we realize that there are nuances to lying. There is the Social Nicety lying, such as “I love your dress!” or “Have you lost weight!?” as well as “Oh I can’t make it tonight; I”ve got to shampoo my hair.” There is the Saving of Feelings lying, “It’s not you; it’s me.” These are socially acceptable in many circumstances and in fact contribute to civil human relations in our society.
In the other corner, there are the lies that are never okay, but that sometimes masquerade as the benign lies outlined above. There is the good old outright A**-Saving lying such as, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman--Miss Lewinsky” or “I did not smack my sister in the face for no reason.” There is the Actively Evil Narcissistic lying such as, “I would never sleep with your sister/friend/a random woman on my vacation and then come home and sleep with you! I love you!” There is the Avoidance lying such as, "I was out with friends last night {one of whom is a woman I plan to dump you for as soon as she gives the signal}" or finding ways to not mention that you have a girlfriend, even if it means leaving out entire sections of anecdotes and details about your life in conversations with others.
I’m sure I’m missing a whole slew of categories, like Diplomatic lying which countries do every minute, and Insecure lying, which people tend to do on internet dating sites as if the person will never find out that you don’t actually own a dog or have an athletic build. Any others I'm missing?
By the time we reach adulthood, I think we have all found ourselves in situations where someone in our life just can’t help him or herself, and simply lies all the time about matters great and small. On one level, it is unfortunate for them, because it shows that they don’t possess the confidence in themselves or the faith in you to hear the truth and be okay with it. Even if they are telling you something really terrible, in my case at least, I’d always just prefer to know the truth and work toward a solution from there. On another level, having a friend lie to you constantly can only make you feel disrespected and expendable. After all, if a friend can’t trust you enough to be honest with you and know that you will still love them, if perhaps a bit angry at them, what kind of friendship do you really actually have, right?
In any case, lies are so unfortunate because they strip away the foundation of any friendship, which is trust. A good friend of mine just ended a friendship with someone she has known for many years for that precise reason. It became impossible to know whether anything the friend said was truthful. No one is arguing for complete honesty in human relations, but she realized that the “benign untruths” her friend was telling her were not benign at all. The difference being that benign untruths are designed to spare your friend’s feelings. “A**-Saving Lies” are designed to spare YOURSELF some hassle, agro or natural consequences for your actions. It can become easy to convince yourself that your a**-saving lies are benign untruths in service of a friends’ feelings, simply because it is often easier to pretend that the absence of conflict with a friend is a favor to the friend rather than a favor to yourself.
Whenever I am tempted to tell an a**-saving lie, I remind myself that I will then have to come up with—and remember—ten more lies to cover this one lie, and if I’m discovered, I’ll never be able to convince my loved one that my intentions were good. After all, one lie can be forgiven on the basis of erring is human. Ten lies indicate a commitment to the lies, a need for the lies, and a shocking ability to tell a host of them without blinking…all of which will dismantle your relationship (and your friend’s trust) piece by piece. C.E Montague said it best:
A lie will easily get you out of a scrape, and yet, strangely and beautifully, rapture possesses you when you have taken the scrape and left out the lie.
So where does this leave my friend? I had no real advice for her other than to know that she did the right thing for herself—and perhaps for her friend too. Because sometimes we can only learn the value of honesty by losing the very things that we thought our lies were preserving.
As we get older, we realize that there are nuances to lying. There is the Social Nicety lying, such as “I love your dress!” or “Have you lost weight!?” as well as “Oh I can’t make it tonight; I”ve got to shampoo my hair.” There is the Saving of Feelings lying, “It’s not you; it’s me.” These are socially acceptable in many circumstances and in fact contribute to civil human relations in our society.
In the other corner, there are the lies that are never okay, but that sometimes masquerade as the benign lies outlined above. There is the good old outright A**-Saving lying such as, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman--Miss Lewinsky” or “I did not smack my sister in the face for no reason.” There is the Actively Evil Narcissistic lying such as, “I would never sleep with your sister/friend/a random woman on my vacation and then come home and sleep with you! I love you!” There is the Avoidance lying such as, "I was out with friends last night {one of whom is a woman I plan to dump you for as soon as she gives the signal}" or finding ways to not mention that you have a girlfriend, even if it means leaving out entire sections of anecdotes and details about your life in conversations with others.
I’m sure I’m missing a whole slew of categories, like Diplomatic lying which countries do every minute, and Insecure lying, which people tend to do on internet dating sites as if the person will never find out that you don’t actually own a dog or have an athletic build. Any others I'm missing?
By the time we reach adulthood, I think we have all found ourselves in situations where someone in our life just can’t help him or herself, and simply lies all the time about matters great and small. On one level, it is unfortunate for them, because it shows that they don’t possess the confidence in themselves or the faith in you to hear the truth and be okay with it. Even if they are telling you something really terrible, in my case at least, I’d always just prefer to know the truth and work toward a solution from there. On another level, having a friend lie to you constantly can only make you feel disrespected and expendable. After all, if a friend can’t trust you enough to be honest with you and know that you will still love them, if perhaps a bit angry at them, what kind of friendship do you really actually have, right?
In any case, lies are so unfortunate because they strip away the foundation of any friendship, which is trust. A good friend of mine just ended a friendship with someone she has known for many years for that precise reason. It became impossible to know whether anything the friend said was truthful. No one is arguing for complete honesty in human relations, but she realized that the “benign untruths” her friend was telling her were not benign at all. The difference being that benign untruths are designed to spare your friend’s feelings. “A**-Saving Lies” are designed to spare YOURSELF some hassle, agro or natural consequences for your actions. It can become easy to convince yourself that your a**-saving lies are benign untruths in service of a friends’ feelings, simply because it is often easier to pretend that the absence of conflict with a friend is a favor to the friend rather than a favor to yourself.
Whenever I am tempted to tell an a**-saving lie, I remind myself that I will then have to come up with—and remember—ten more lies to cover this one lie, and if I’m discovered, I’ll never be able to convince my loved one that my intentions were good. After all, one lie can be forgiven on the basis of erring is human. Ten lies indicate a commitment to the lies, a need for the lies, and a shocking ability to tell a host of them without blinking…all of which will dismantle your relationship (and your friend’s trust) piece by piece. C.E Montague said it best:
A lie will easily get you out of a scrape, and yet, strangely and beautifully, rapture possesses you when you have taken the scrape and left out the lie.
So where does this leave my friend? I had no real advice for her other than to know that she did the right thing for herself—and perhaps for her friend too. Because sometimes we can only learn the value of honesty by losing the very things that we thought our lies were preserving.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Delusional DeLay Devotion
Primary sign that George W. Bush has gone off his second-term political rails: Supporting Tom DeLay. What? Is Rove on vacation? Off to a spa for a back wax?
Next we’ll hear that Bush is checking out the thongs of zaftig interns…
The White House denied that DeLay's appearance with Bush at a Social Security event here was a way for the president to give the House leader a political boost. But while the president has steadfastly backed DeLay, Tuesday's appearance took Bush's public show of support to a new level.
"I appreciate the leadership of Congressman Tom DeLay in working on important issues that matter to the country," Bush said before he began plugging for Social Security overhaul.
DeLay, an influential conservative on Capitol Hill, is facing questions about money used to pay for some of his foreign trips, about political fundraising for Texas elections and about his ties to a lobbyist, Jack Abramoff, who is under federal criminal investigation.
DeLay, who rode with the president in his limousine, on his Marine One helicopter and then on Air Force One for the return flight to Washington, has said he's willing to defend himself before the House ethics committee, but the panel is essentially shut down because of a deadlock over new rules imposed by Republicans.
Upon landing, and after a goodbye handshake at the bottom of the Air Force One steps, DeLay said the president's very public show of support for him Tuesday "felt very good." "The president was very gracious," he said. "We feel very humbled by that kind of support."
Next we’ll hear that Bush is checking out the thongs of zaftig interns…
The White House denied that DeLay's appearance with Bush at a Social Security event here was a way for the president to give the House leader a political boost. But while the president has steadfastly backed DeLay, Tuesday's appearance took Bush's public show of support to a new level.
"I appreciate the leadership of Congressman Tom DeLay in working on important issues that matter to the country," Bush said before he began plugging for Social Security overhaul.
DeLay, an influential conservative on Capitol Hill, is facing questions about money used to pay for some of his foreign trips, about political fundraising for Texas elections and about his ties to a lobbyist, Jack Abramoff, who is under federal criminal investigation.
DeLay, who rode with the president in his limousine, on his Marine One helicopter and then on Air Force One for the return flight to Washington, has said he's willing to defend himself before the House ethics committee, but the panel is essentially shut down because of a deadlock over new rules imposed by Republicans.
Upon landing, and after a goodbye handshake at the bottom of the Air Force One steps, DeLay said the president's very public show of support for him Tuesday "felt very good." "The president was very gracious," he said. "We feel very humbled by that kind of support."
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Passover Greetings
Tonight is the first night of Passover, which marks the commemoration of the Israelites exodus from slavery in Egypt. It's my favorite holiday for one primary reason: The whole point of the holiday, to me, is to remember that we were once slaves in the land of Egypt and therefore slavery anywhere is empirically our concern. It reminds us to help those who do not share our physical, economic or spiritual freedom and bounty today--right now.
The other, less rabbinically-authorized reason I like Passover is that it is the quickest 5 pounds you will ever lose. Trust me. Passover is The Original Atkins Diet. No leavened foods: No bread. No cereal. No beer. No pasta. No oatmeal. No cookies. Nada. It's 8 days and nights of protein-tastic livin'.
Now, be assured, you can also GAIN 5 pounds during passover if you satisfy your hankering for coconut macaroons, brisket for breakfast or flourless chocolate cakes. But how much of that can you really eat when all you really want is a slice of whole wheat toast with peanut butter at 7am? So what I end up eating is eggs for breakfast, salads with chicken for lunch, and some meat-heavy dish for dinner. And buh-bye 5 pounds.
The real key to surviving Passover (at any weight), however, is to lay off the matzoh. Matzoh symbolizes the fact that the Israelites had to quickly escape from Egypt and did not have time to let their dough rise. Sounds meaningful, which it is. But here's a news flash for those of you not in the Passover scene: you won't be doing *anything* quickly after a few boxes of those harmless-looking crackers. You see, matzoh helps in driving home the point of Passover that we were not always living such lives of freedom and leisure, with its...erm..well...its "binding" properties. If you want to taste the "bread of affliction" then eat a box of matzoh. You will not be "running" anywhere. Trust me. It will be long days and nights of rigorous pondering of all the blessings you usually enjoy when your colon is appropriately fibered.
I tell you this not to be gross, although that would be a good enough reason, but to simply prevent you from suffering the same deleterious effects I did in 1999 when I went crazy eating matzoh with everything, substituting it wherever a bready item was called for. Matzoh in the morning, matzoh with the salad at lunch, brisket on matzoh, matzoh with butter and cinnamon sugar, I could go on and on. But "go" I did not--for days and days. It was ugly and uncomfortable and worrisome because I had just seen the Seinfeld rerun where Kramer "misses his window" and needs an enema. I spent the final 5 days of the holiday praying for peace for all peoples, freedom for those oppressed, religious harmony for all...and for one, simple, Passover Poop.
The other, less rabbinically-authorized reason I like Passover is that it is the quickest 5 pounds you will ever lose. Trust me. Passover is The Original Atkins Diet. No leavened foods: No bread. No cereal. No beer. No pasta. No oatmeal. No cookies. Nada. It's 8 days and nights of protein-tastic livin'.
Now, be assured, you can also GAIN 5 pounds during passover if you satisfy your hankering for coconut macaroons, brisket for breakfast or flourless chocolate cakes. But how much of that can you really eat when all you really want is a slice of whole wheat toast with peanut butter at 7am? So what I end up eating is eggs for breakfast, salads with chicken for lunch, and some meat-heavy dish for dinner. And buh-bye 5 pounds.
The real key to surviving Passover (at any weight), however, is to lay off the matzoh. Matzoh symbolizes the fact that the Israelites had to quickly escape from Egypt and did not have time to let their dough rise. Sounds meaningful, which it is. But here's a news flash for those of you not in the Passover scene: you won't be doing *anything* quickly after a few boxes of those harmless-looking crackers. You see, matzoh helps in driving home the point of Passover that we were not always living such lives of freedom and leisure, with its...erm..well...its "binding" properties. If you want to taste the "bread of affliction" then eat a box of matzoh. You will not be "running" anywhere. Trust me. It will be long days and nights of rigorous pondering of all the blessings you usually enjoy when your colon is appropriately fibered.
I tell you this not to be gross, although that would be a good enough reason, but to simply prevent you from suffering the same deleterious effects I did in 1999 when I went crazy eating matzoh with everything, substituting it wherever a bready item was called for. Matzoh in the morning, matzoh with the salad at lunch, brisket on matzoh, matzoh with butter and cinnamon sugar, I could go on and on. But "go" I did not--for days and days. It was ugly and uncomfortable and worrisome because I had just seen the Seinfeld rerun where Kramer "misses his window" and needs an enema. I spent the final 5 days of the holiday praying for peace for all peoples, freedom for those oppressed, religious harmony for all...and for one, simple, Passover Poop.
Happy Birthday, Bill Shakespeare!
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Size Matters
Having cured cancer, AIDS and diverticulitis, scientists in Hong Kong have been conducting the following study with the following results:
HONG KONG (Reuters) - Chinese men have no reason to feel inferior about the size of their penises, according to a Hong Kong study which showed local men measured up to others elsewhere in the world below the belt.
"Our conclusion is that Hong Kong people are no smaller than Western men, where their penises are concerned," said Chan Lung-wai, director of the Urology Center at the Union Hospital, who headed the study.
"There has always been the myth that westerners have bigger penises and their (sexual) ability is better." A group of scientists in Hong Kong spent five months from October last year measuring 148 ethnic Chinese volunteers aged between 23 and 93. The average length of their flaccid penises was 3.33 inches, which compared favorably with similar studies on other men overseas.
Germans have average lengths of about 3.4 inches, Israelis 3.27 inches, Turks 3.07 inches and Filippinos 2.89 inches. Italians were the longest at 3.54 inches, and Americans averaged 3.46 inches.
The study did not measure the penises when they were erect. It found that a man's height bore no relation to the length of his member, but those with higher body mass indexes, or fat content, appeared to have shorter penises. "It seems that as someone gets older and fatter, his blood vessels change, so the penile size is not static. It may be a reflection of the condition of the person's blood vessels," Chan said, adding that this could spur yet another study.
My favorite part of the article is, “The study did not measure the penises when they were erect.” That would be a whole different study, wouldn’t it? But I would ask the esteemed doctor whether his measurements are the “average” or the “mean.” After all, if you don’t throw out the outliers, you’d just need one or two very luckily endowed men (you know who you are) to boost your country’s overall average into the…threes of inches? Could that be correct? Three? Really? Is that the average? Were the men cold? Just out of the pool? Or perhaps nervous at being measured?
In any event, we can rest easy in this Age of Terrorism and Environmental and Economic Upheaval that one of the planet's most pressing questions has been answered by science. Thank you, Science.
HONG KONG (Reuters) - Chinese men have no reason to feel inferior about the size of their penises, according to a Hong Kong study which showed local men measured up to others elsewhere in the world below the belt.
"Our conclusion is that Hong Kong people are no smaller than Western men, where their penises are concerned," said Chan Lung-wai, director of the Urology Center at the Union Hospital, who headed the study.
"There has always been the myth that westerners have bigger penises and their (sexual) ability is better." A group of scientists in Hong Kong spent five months from October last year measuring 148 ethnic Chinese volunteers aged between 23 and 93. The average length of their flaccid penises was 3.33 inches, which compared favorably with similar studies on other men overseas.
Germans have average lengths of about 3.4 inches, Israelis 3.27 inches, Turks 3.07 inches and Filippinos 2.89 inches. Italians were the longest at 3.54 inches, and Americans averaged 3.46 inches.
The study did not measure the penises when they were erect. It found that a man's height bore no relation to the length of his member, but those with higher body mass indexes, or fat content, appeared to have shorter penises. "It seems that as someone gets older and fatter, his blood vessels change, so the penile size is not static. It may be a reflection of the condition of the person's blood vessels," Chan said, adding that this could spur yet another study.
My favorite part of the article is, “The study did not measure the penises when they were erect.” That would be a whole different study, wouldn’t it? But I would ask the esteemed doctor whether his measurements are the “average” or the “mean.” After all, if you don’t throw out the outliers, you’d just need one or two very luckily endowed men (you know who you are) to boost your country’s overall average into the…threes of inches? Could that be correct? Three? Really? Is that the average? Were the men cold? Just out of the pool? Or perhaps nervous at being measured?
In any event, we can rest easy in this Age of Terrorism and Environmental and Economic Upheaval that one of the planet's most pressing questions has been answered by science. Thank you, Science.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Government Service: Oxymoron of the Week
Social Security
This happened a few days ago, but I can only write about it now because I can only now do so without using multiple expletives.
Went to the Social Security office in DC to get the bambina her SS number. Made a point of checking and re-checking the website to ensure that I brought all of the relevant and required documents. Even went so far as to print off the web page that outlines the relevant and required documents so as to avoid any dyspeptic bureaucrat from capriciously deciding that I didn’t have what was needed.
Nice try, Haggis.
Got there. Got my number (9). Saw that the “Now Being Served” machine said “88” and so settled in. Waited for almost two hours (with baby in tow). Finally got called to the window, only to be told that I did not have all of the relevant and required documents.
You see, friends, apparently when the SS Administration tells you to bring your Adoption Decree, they also mean to bring the English translation of the adoption decree. In addition, the fact that the adoption decree is written entirely in English with the exception of the “filler” language, is immaterial. They MUST have the official translation.
Go with me here. The adoption decree simply proves that the child for whom you are seeking a social security number is indeed yours. My adoption decree from China says, in English, “Adoption Decree” on the front and then says in Chinese something like, “Be it known to all person blah blah that…” followed by (in English): my name, birth date, address, parental status and date of adoption. Followed by the bambina’s name, birth date and a photo of me and her thereon affixed. CLEARLY the Chinese government would not take a photo of a random woman and a random baby to affix to some fake document so the baby could receive non-existent benefits from the US government in 65 years. CLEARLY the adoption decree as written provided all of the necessary information the Social Security Administration requires for the acquisition of a number. But the clerk was having none of it. He absolutely had to have the translation, which I might add, is a document typed up on a typewriter on an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper and notarized in China. Wow. Now THAT sounds far more official and legitimate than an actual leather-bound/signed and sealed official Chinese government adoption decree covered in a plastic casing, doesn’t it?!!
I implored him, I damn near begged him, I got snarky. Nothing worked. The highlight of this man’s day was saying “No” to some bee-atch who thinks she can just walk in here with a Chinese kid and act like she’s an American.
Which leads to the other annoying, infuriating occurrence. He then started telling me that my daughter is not a citizen anyway, so why not just come back later so that she can get her number as a citizen rather than a resident alien. I started telling him that the law was changed in January 2004 that foreign adoptees were considered American citizens from the moment they left customs at the US airport. When we walked out of Dulles Airport, the bambina was as American as you and me. Do we have the paperwork from Homeland Security yet to prove it? Nope. But the whole point of the law change was so that new adoptees would not have to apply like standard immigrants for citizenship. So here I was, in the social security office, telling this guy the law, which he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He kept saying, “that is just not possible. She has to go and apply to be a citizen like anyone else” and I kept telling him he was mistaken.
As you can imagine, when you find yourself with a Soviet-style bureaucrat who nitpicks your documents and doesn’t know his own profession’s relevant legal statutes, you know you are beaten and will not win. So I took my stuff and walked away, almost three hours after arriving, with a little bambina who had been a complete darling in a 90 degree government office for three hours, with nothing to show for it but raised blood pressure and a burning desire to decimate the moron clerk on my blog.
But then I decided to set an example of restraint for my daughter. I waited a few days till the rage subsided, let the incident roll around in my mind, and then decided to feel pity for the clerk rather than anger. I figure that if I’m ever in a job or a place in my life where the sole highlight of my entire day is giving the Heisman over a technicality to some poor new mom and her baby, then I probably need more help than scorn. Right?
So I do plan to go back as soon as I can “prove” that she’s American, as soon as I can leave her with someone so as not to inflict government building heat malfunctions on her, and as soon as I think of some snappy ways to ruin a soulless government worker’s day, such as “May I tell you about my personal relationship with Jesus Christ?” and “Do you happen to have any air freshener back there? I'm afraid I have terrible gas today."
This happened a few days ago, but I can only write about it now because I can only now do so without using multiple expletives.
Went to the Social Security office in DC to get the bambina her SS number. Made a point of checking and re-checking the website to ensure that I brought all of the relevant and required documents. Even went so far as to print off the web page that outlines the relevant and required documents so as to avoid any dyspeptic bureaucrat from capriciously deciding that I didn’t have what was needed.
Nice try, Haggis.
Got there. Got my number (9). Saw that the “Now Being Served” machine said “88” and so settled in. Waited for almost two hours (with baby in tow). Finally got called to the window, only to be told that I did not have all of the relevant and required documents.
You see, friends, apparently when the SS Administration tells you to bring your Adoption Decree, they also mean to bring the English translation of the adoption decree. In addition, the fact that the adoption decree is written entirely in English with the exception of the “filler” language, is immaterial. They MUST have the official translation.
Go with me here. The adoption decree simply proves that the child for whom you are seeking a social security number is indeed yours. My adoption decree from China says, in English, “Adoption Decree” on the front and then says in Chinese something like, “Be it known to all person blah blah that…” followed by (in English): my name, birth date, address, parental status and date of adoption. Followed by the bambina’s name, birth date and a photo of me and her thereon affixed. CLEARLY the Chinese government would not take a photo of a random woman and a random baby to affix to some fake document so the baby could receive non-existent benefits from the US government in 65 years. CLEARLY the adoption decree as written provided all of the necessary information the Social Security Administration requires for the acquisition of a number. But the clerk was having none of it. He absolutely had to have the translation, which I might add, is a document typed up on a typewriter on an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper and notarized in China. Wow. Now THAT sounds far more official and legitimate than an actual leather-bound/signed and sealed official Chinese government adoption decree covered in a plastic casing, doesn’t it?!!
I implored him, I damn near begged him, I got snarky. Nothing worked. The highlight of this man’s day was saying “No” to some bee-atch who thinks she can just walk in here with a Chinese kid and act like she’s an American.
Which leads to the other annoying, infuriating occurrence. He then started telling me that my daughter is not a citizen anyway, so why not just come back later so that she can get her number as a citizen rather than a resident alien. I started telling him that the law was changed in January 2004 that foreign adoptees were considered American citizens from the moment they left customs at the US airport. When we walked out of Dulles Airport, the bambina was as American as you and me. Do we have the paperwork from Homeland Security yet to prove it? Nope. But the whole point of the law change was so that new adoptees would not have to apply like standard immigrants for citizenship. So here I was, in the social security office, telling this guy the law, which he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He kept saying, “that is just not possible. She has to go and apply to be a citizen like anyone else” and I kept telling him he was mistaken.
As you can imagine, when you find yourself with a Soviet-style bureaucrat who nitpicks your documents and doesn’t know his own profession’s relevant legal statutes, you know you are beaten and will not win. So I took my stuff and walked away, almost three hours after arriving, with a little bambina who had been a complete darling in a 90 degree government office for three hours, with nothing to show for it but raised blood pressure and a burning desire to decimate the moron clerk on my blog.
But then I decided to set an example of restraint for my daughter. I waited a few days till the rage subsided, let the incident roll around in my mind, and then decided to feel pity for the clerk rather than anger. I figure that if I’m ever in a job or a place in my life where the sole highlight of my entire day is giving the Heisman over a technicality to some poor new mom and her baby, then I probably need more help than scorn. Right?
So I do plan to go back as soon as I can “prove” that she’s American, as soon as I can leave her with someone so as not to inflict government building heat malfunctions on her, and as soon as I think of some snappy ways to ruin a soulless government worker’s day, such as “May I tell you about my personal relationship with Jesus Christ?” and “Do you happen to have any air freshener back there? I'm afraid I have terrible gas today."
Dutch Ovens, Etcetera
I have received a few emails asking for a definition of "dutch oven." Although I hate to be indelicate (yeah right), I will offer the definition in the interests of my readers' personal edification.
A Dutch Oven is when a guy "passes gas" in the bed and then thinks it is funny to pull the covers up over your head so you are forced to smell it. I say "a guy" because I think we can all agree that it is less likely that your mom has dutch ovened your dad rather than vice versa.
There. I could be more descriptive, but I am trying to take as high a road as one can when discussing the forced inhalation of connubial flatulence.
In other items for the good of the order, feel free to email me comments/thoughts/questions at SSHaggis at gmail dot com. But be warned: any viagra ads or smutty inappropriate personal comments--and we're gonna fight.
A Dutch Oven is when a guy "passes gas" in the bed and then thinks it is funny to pull the covers up over your head so you are forced to smell it. I say "a guy" because I think we can all agree that it is less likely that your mom has dutch ovened your dad rather than vice versa.
There. I could be more descriptive, but I am trying to take as high a road as one can when discussing the forced inhalation of connubial flatulence.
In other items for the good of the order, feel free to email me comments/thoughts/questions at SSHaggis at gmail dot com. But be warned: any viagra ads or smutty inappropriate personal comments--and we're gonna fight.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Urbi et Orbi et Haggi
In this, my inaugural Haggis post under Pope Benedict XVI, I will simply share the thoughts of my dear "lapsed Catholic" friends:
"They thought Pope John Paul II was conservative; Pope Benedict makes John Paul look like Walter Mondale."
"Wow. What better way to redeem the church from the stain of years of child sexual abuse and cover ups--by electing a guy from the Hitler Youth." (Ed note: The Haggis is well aware that his service was compulsory and that he deserted the German army. I'm just relaying some quotes for you...)
"You didn't REALLY think we'd elect a black pope, did you?"
Any other thoughts? Me, I'm showing uncharacteristic restraint by shutting my cakehole on topics about which I know very little...
"They thought Pope John Paul II was conservative; Pope Benedict makes John Paul look like Walter Mondale."
"Wow. What better way to redeem the church from the stain of years of child sexual abuse and cover ups--by electing a guy from the Hitler Youth." (Ed note: The Haggis is well aware that his service was compulsory and that he deserted the German army. I'm just relaying some quotes for you...)
"You didn't REALLY think we'd elect a black pope, did you?"
Any other thoughts? Me, I'm showing uncharacteristic restraint by shutting my cakehole on topics about which I know very little...
Men Are From Mars/Women Are From Venus
Friends, this is total nonsense. Men are NOT from Mars, and women are NOT from Venus. Rather, men are from the planet "Huh?!" and women are from the planet, "How can you NOT KNOW THIS?!"
I've been banging my head against a wall lately with a man or two in my life. You know how you have those conversations that just seem to go around and around, always ending up back at the point where the guy says, "I don't get why you are mad" and the woman says, "I CANNOT believe you don't get why this is wrong/stupid/mean/inconsiderate/embarrassing/ludicrous..."?
Much has been made by men of the inscrutability of women, but I have recently spent a considerable amount of my own--and my girl friends' time--trying to unlock the mystery that is the male brain. I ask the following questions about men (in the spirit of loving bafflement), for input from men and women alike:
1) If you KNOW they are fake, why do you still like them? Doesn’t knowing they aren’t real ruin the whole point of looking at them? If I had a computer full of photos of men with glaringly obvious penile implants, wouldn’t you wonder why I found that enjoyable? Wouldn’t you say, “why not just look at a smaller, functioning real one than one you know isn’t entirely real?” This is all I’m asking.
2) Why do some men not make the connection between the importance (as Chris Rock says) of “keeping your daughter ‘off the pole’” and the obvious fact that you are looking at someone else’s daughter on the pole? Why does it feel like women see the larger picture, the wider ramifications of things, while men see…well, boobies? This is all I’m asking.
3) If you love a girl, why do you find it so hard to just make the leap and say so publicly? Not one of my married friends ended up married without telling the guy, “your window is closing; and when it’s closed I’m gone.” Why does it take a friendly ultimatum to get you to do what you know you want to/ought to/need to do anyway? This is all I’m asking.
4) Why is it, when you fall for a girl who dislikes your female friends, that you don’t see the massive, waving red flag? Corollary: why are you so afraid to admit you have female friends to your girlfriend? If they are just friends like you say they are, what’s the big deal? This is all I’m asking.
5) Why is it “obsessive” to remember people’s birthdays and anniversaries and to send them greeting cards? This is all I’m asking.
6) Why the belief that you can overuse the phrase “I love you” with your female partner? Why the total lack of knowledge that you simply cannot tell a woman too many times that she is beautiful and she rocks your world? Especially when she is naked. This is all I’m asking.
7) Why the insistence on the drinking of OJ out of the carton?
8) Why—why—why the attraction to Angelina Jolie? Why?
9) Why the encyclopedic knowledge of sports with the concomitant cluelessness on important dates such as “our 6 month anniversary,” “the 6 month anniversary of the first time we were ‘together’,” “the 7th anniversary of our 6th week together since Arbor Day?”
10) Why the insistence on “dutch ovens”?
This is all I’m asking.
I've been banging my head against a wall lately with a man or two in my life. You know how you have those conversations that just seem to go around and around, always ending up back at the point where the guy says, "I don't get why you are mad" and the woman says, "I CANNOT believe you don't get why this is wrong/stupid/mean/inconsiderate/embarrassing/ludicrous..."?
Much has been made by men of the inscrutability of women, but I have recently spent a considerable amount of my own--and my girl friends' time--trying to unlock the mystery that is the male brain. I ask the following questions about men (in the spirit of loving bafflement), for input from men and women alike:
1) If you KNOW they are fake, why do you still like them? Doesn’t knowing they aren’t real ruin the whole point of looking at them? If I had a computer full of photos of men with glaringly obvious penile implants, wouldn’t you wonder why I found that enjoyable? Wouldn’t you say, “why not just look at a smaller, functioning real one than one you know isn’t entirely real?” This is all I’m asking.
2) Why do some men not make the connection between the importance (as Chris Rock says) of “keeping your daughter ‘off the pole’” and the obvious fact that you are looking at someone else’s daughter on the pole? Why does it feel like women see the larger picture, the wider ramifications of things, while men see…well, boobies? This is all I’m asking.
3) If you love a girl, why do you find it so hard to just make the leap and say so publicly? Not one of my married friends ended up married without telling the guy, “your window is closing; and when it’s closed I’m gone.” Why does it take a friendly ultimatum to get you to do what you know you want to/ought to/need to do anyway? This is all I’m asking.
4) Why is it, when you fall for a girl who dislikes your female friends, that you don’t see the massive, waving red flag? Corollary: why are you so afraid to admit you have female friends to your girlfriend? If they are just friends like you say they are, what’s the big deal? This is all I’m asking.
5) Why is it “obsessive” to remember people’s birthdays and anniversaries and to send them greeting cards? This is all I’m asking.
6) Why the belief that you can overuse the phrase “I love you” with your female partner? Why the total lack of knowledge that you simply cannot tell a woman too many times that she is beautiful and she rocks your world? Especially when she is naked. This is all I’m asking.
7) Why the insistence on the drinking of OJ out of the carton?
8) Why—why—why the attraction to Angelina Jolie? Why?
9) Why the encyclopedic knowledge of sports with the concomitant cluelessness on important dates such as “our 6 month anniversary,” “the 6 month anniversary of the first time we were ‘together’,” “the 7th anniversary of our 6th week together since Arbor Day?”
10) Why the insistence on “dutch ovens”?
This is all I’m asking.
My Senior Moment
Yesterday I was visiting my dad at my parents’ apartment which is in one of those Old People Condos—where there is a common area for kibitzing and drinking bad coffee while eating the free Famous Amos cookies provided by The Management. I was struck by the irony of a Senior Citizen Social Area, since it seeks to encourage socialization among people who have hit the age where they no longer give a damn about social graces. I had wondered how socializing at my parent’s condo went on a day-to-day basis, and this visit provided an illustration in vivid, living color.
On that day, the people I met (mostly older ladies due to the well-known delta between men’s and women’s life spans) were all truly lovely people--who lacked either an internal monologue or a desire for one. At “a certain age” you get to say, “Hell with it; I’m 78. They can kiss my a** if they don’t like what I’m saying! What are they going to do?! Fire me? Cut me out of their wills? Feh! Kiss my butt--both cheeks, young whippersnappers!!” How sweet is that?
Anyway, so I was with my dad, daughter and niece in aforementioned coffee area, where I was regaled by sweet old lady after sweet old lady telling me what a “hot ticket” and “sweetie pie” my father is. Nice! I always thought so, but it’s nice when you get the third-party confirmation. Especially because my dad is as eccentric as they come, so if these ladies are finding him charming in his old age, then there is hope, my friends, for ME. ;)
Anyway, one woman is off to the side and starts engaging my niece. Then she says to me about my niece, “Is she yours?” To which I replied, “oh no, she’s my sister’s. She is my darling niece.” She then looks at my daughter and says, “So—are you babysitting?” yeah, lady. I’m babysitting. At 33 years old. On a Thursday. With a wee little bambina that I can’t stop kissing and hugging. THAT would be only the most inappropriate daycare situation ever…okay, maybe not, since Michael Jackson is still on bail. But you get my point. I said, “oh no, she’s all mine. Just got home from China last month!” So then she says, “Oh! Well isn’t that nice for you {in that way that says she doesn't really think it would be nice FOR HER}. You know, Those Babies really are very cute, aren’t they?”
“Those Babies?”
I wanted to ask her, “do you mean Chinese babies specifically, or southern Chinese babies as opposed to their lighter skinned northern Chinese brethren, or slightly brown babies in general, or all foreign babies, or, you know, random babies from wherever that place is where the food is spicy and you still call them “Orientals”—or do you mean ‘SHE really is very cute, isn’t she?’”
But I just said, “Thank you! We think she’s fabulous!” assuming she was dumb but not malevolent. However, not content with one faux pas, this Loonygenarian then said, “See that man over there? (meaning my Dad) He’s going downhill fast; I don’t think he’s going to make it to Christmas. Every time I see him, he looks worse.” She then asked, “So—what brings you to {apartment complex name}?” To which I replied, “Well, that man is my Dad.”
At this point you think she would just curl up in a ball and roll her embarrassed self out of there, but instead she stood taller, and said, “Well, harrumph, you’d better keep an eye on him then. Because he really doesn’t look good to me.”
Thank you for the compassionate concern, Mrs. Wilford Brimley.
I decided right there and then that I cannot wait till I retire so that I can start saying with impunity all the things I really want to say but currently have too many bridges to keep fire-retardant to be as forthcoming as I’d like on various and sundry topics. Old age has its bummers, but I consider the ability to just pop off on any topic at will to be one of its golden benefits...along with the discounts on coffee at McDonalds and "Simonizing" (whatever that is) at my dry cleaners. Golden Years Indeed, People!
On the other hand, it has been said that rude senior citizens were rude young people and are just using age as an excuse. Perhaps it's like what Robin Williams said of his cocaine addiction: "They told me it would be great; that it would 'expand your personality.' But what if you're an a**hole?!" Maybe that's why I look forward to getting older; so I have an excuse to be the Mrs. Andy Rooney that I am at heart right now in my 30's...
On that day, the people I met (mostly older ladies due to the well-known delta between men’s and women’s life spans) were all truly lovely people--who lacked either an internal monologue or a desire for one. At “a certain age” you get to say, “Hell with it; I’m 78. They can kiss my a** if they don’t like what I’m saying! What are they going to do?! Fire me? Cut me out of their wills? Feh! Kiss my butt--both cheeks, young whippersnappers!!” How sweet is that?
Anyway, so I was with my dad, daughter and niece in aforementioned coffee area, where I was regaled by sweet old lady after sweet old lady telling me what a “hot ticket” and “sweetie pie” my father is. Nice! I always thought so, but it’s nice when you get the third-party confirmation. Especially because my dad is as eccentric as they come, so if these ladies are finding him charming in his old age, then there is hope, my friends, for ME. ;)
Anyway, one woman is off to the side and starts engaging my niece. Then she says to me about my niece, “Is she yours?” To which I replied, “oh no, she’s my sister’s. She is my darling niece.” She then looks at my daughter and says, “So—are you babysitting?” yeah, lady. I’m babysitting. At 33 years old. On a Thursday. With a wee little bambina that I can’t stop kissing and hugging. THAT would be only the most inappropriate daycare situation ever…okay, maybe not, since Michael Jackson is still on bail. But you get my point. I said, “oh no, she’s all mine. Just got home from China last month!” So then she says, “Oh! Well isn’t that nice for you {in that way that says she doesn't really think it would be nice FOR HER}. You know, Those Babies really are very cute, aren’t they?”
“Those Babies?”
I wanted to ask her, “do you mean Chinese babies specifically, or southern Chinese babies as opposed to their lighter skinned northern Chinese brethren, or slightly brown babies in general, or all foreign babies, or, you know, random babies from wherever that place is where the food is spicy and you still call them “Orientals”—or do you mean ‘SHE really is very cute, isn’t she?’”
But I just said, “Thank you! We think she’s fabulous!” assuming she was dumb but not malevolent. However, not content with one faux pas, this Loonygenarian then said, “See that man over there? (meaning my Dad) He’s going downhill fast; I don’t think he’s going to make it to Christmas. Every time I see him, he looks worse.” She then asked, “So—what brings you to {apartment complex name}?” To which I replied, “Well, that man is my Dad.”
At this point you think she would just curl up in a ball and roll her embarrassed self out of there, but instead she stood taller, and said, “Well, harrumph, you’d better keep an eye on him then. Because he really doesn’t look good to me.”
Thank you for the compassionate concern, Mrs. Wilford Brimley.
I decided right there and then that I cannot wait till I retire so that I can start saying with impunity all the things I really want to say but currently have too many bridges to keep fire-retardant to be as forthcoming as I’d like on various and sundry topics. Old age has its bummers, but I consider the ability to just pop off on any topic at will to be one of its golden benefits...along with the discounts on coffee at McDonalds and "Simonizing" (whatever that is) at my dry cleaners. Golden Years Indeed, People!
On the other hand, it has been said that rude senior citizens were rude young people and are just using age as an excuse. Perhaps it's like what Robin Williams said of his cocaine addiction: "They told me it would be great; that it would 'expand your personality.' But what if you're an a**hole?!" Maybe that's why I look forward to getting older; so I have an excuse to be the Mrs. Andy Rooney that I am at heart right now in my 30's...
Saturday, April 16, 2005
My Dream for America
The bambina and I were in Georgetown today getting haircuts. As we walked back to the car we saw John Edwards with his wife and little son out for a walk. They seemed like such a nice family, and I have no other way to say it than “John Edwards is a hottie.” Seriously. He’s a good looking man; all-American in that Beach Boy way. Tanned but not fried. Fit but not chiseled. Attractive but not prettyboy. And most importantly, he is clearly in love with and by all accounts faithful to his wife. Ironically, as a woman, I find fidelity to his partner to be a man's most attractive quality. As soon as Mrs. Edwards completes chemotherapy they plan to move to Chapel Hill, but in the meantime—and with all respect to Mrs. Edwards—I’m going to take the bambina strolling in Georgetown a lot more often.
Some news sources and opponents have attempted to marginalize Senator Edwards because of his youthful look and smokin' hot runner's body. That is patently un-American, in both letter and spirit. Why? Because superficial appearance is what America does better than any other country in the world. What could be more patriotically American than being a good looking leader?!! That's right friends; I want my daughter to grow up in an America where every man, woman and child can find at least ONE politician to have a crush on. I want my daughter to never know a time before politicians used Crest WhiteStrips, got Mystic Tans, and did not need to add extra holes to their belts due to the chicken-and-peas dinners so ubiquitous in the life of a Member of Congress.
We deserve an America where politicians are easy on the eyes.
We deserve an America where politicians agonize over cellulite, just like the rest of us.
We deserve an America where even good looking people feel that they have a chance to succeed in public service.
This is my dream for America.
Some news sources and opponents have attempted to marginalize Senator Edwards because of his youthful look and smokin' hot runner's body. That is patently un-American, in both letter and spirit. Why? Because superficial appearance is what America does better than any other country in the world. What could be more patriotically American than being a good looking leader?!! That's right friends; I want my daughter to grow up in an America where every man, woman and child can find at least ONE politician to have a crush on. I want my daughter to never know a time before politicians used Crest WhiteStrips, got Mystic Tans, and did not need to add extra holes to their belts due to the chicken-and-peas dinners so ubiquitous in the life of a Member of Congress.
We deserve an America where politicians are easy on the eyes.
We deserve an America where politicians agonize over cellulite, just like the rest of us.
We deserve an America where even good looking people feel that they have a chance to succeed in public service.
This is my dream for America.
Chub Rub
I was just watching a commercial about a new product from the good people at Monistat, purveyors of fine yeast infection treatments. It’s called “Soothing Care” and it is for “chafing” suffered by “women with curves.”
Because the manufacturer was Monistat I was confused for a moment, wondering what “chafing” could mean and how they were going to illustrate it for a family audience. I mean, I’m 33. Surely I would have experienced some kind of “feminine chafing” by now? Right? No? Have I missed out on something about which all other women share a sisterhood? I don’t want to be out of the sisterhood! Is it because I lack curves? How do I get curves so I can share in the drama of chafing with my sisters?! How?! How could I possibly have missed having the all-important and ubiquitous scourge of feminine chafing?! Oy vey ismir!
Confusion followed by Lightbulb as I realized what they were talking about. It’s not specifically for women even though they are selling it to that audience. It is, quite simply, what we called back in the day when I was a fat kid: “Chub Rub.” The redness and pain resulting from my little chubba thighs rubbing together in hot weather. I suffered from Chub Rub every single summer till I finally lost my weight after deciding that I liked boys and wanted them to kiss me rather than see me as a buddy to meet with at the mall and play Space Invaders.
But until then, every summer my little chubby thighs were afflicted with what is now apparently delicately called, “chafing” and for which the treatment was copious amounts of Vaseline petroleum jelly, the effect of which was big greasy marks on my pants and a refusal to wear shorts in even the hottest weather because the crotch would ride up and my thighs would rub themselves raw. Argh. My thighs hurt just reminiscing about it...
I have therefore determined that the good people at Monistat are my heroes. The Florence Nightingales of Fat Kids Everywhere. I tell you, I could have used some Soothing Care back in the day, and now millions of little fat kids will not have to suffer the same discomfort I did throughout almost every year of Ronald Reagan’s two terms.
Thank you, Monistat: Purveyors of Products You Hope to God You Never Need.
Because the manufacturer was Monistat I was confused for a moment, wondering what “chafing” could mean and how they were going to illustrate it for a family audience. I mean, I’m 33. Surely I would have experienced some kind of “feminine chafing” by now? Right? No? Have I missed out on something about which all other women share a sisterhood? I don’t want to be out of the sisterhood! Is it because I lack curves? How do I get curves so I can share in the drama of chafing with my sisters?! How?! How could I possibly have missed having the all-important and ubiquitous scourge of feminine chafing?! Oy vey ismir!
Confusion followed by Lightbulb as I realized what they were talking about. It’s not specifically for women even though they are selling it to that audience. It is, quite simply, what we called back in the day when I was a fat kid: “Chub Rub.” The redness and pain resulting from my little chubba thighs rubbing together in hot weather. I suffered from Chub Rub every single summer till I finally lost my weight after deciding that I liked boys and wanted them to kiss me rather than see me as a buddy to meet with at the mall and play Space Invaders.
But until then, every summer my little chubby thighs were afflicted with what is now apparently delicately called, “chafing” and for which the treatment was copious amounts of Vaseline petroleum jelly, the effect of which was big greasy marks on my pants and a refusal to wear shorts in even the hottest weather because the crotch would ride up and my thighs would rub themselves raw. Argh. My thighs hurt just reminiscing about it...
I have therefore determined that the good people at Monistat are my heroes. The Florence Nightingales of Fat Kids Everywhere. I tell you, I could have used some Soothing Care back in the day, and now millions of little fat kids will not have to suffer the same discomfort I did throughout almost every year of Ronald Reagan’s two terms.
Thank you, Monistat: Purveyors of Products You Hope to God You Never Need.
Monday, April 11, 2005
"I Baptize You in the Name of...Well, Me!"
I just read this on foxnews.com and could not believe what I was reading. How do you baptize someone without their knowledge or consent--and then consider it binding and theologically legitimate? Isn't the whole essence of baptism one of *conscious choice* to accept a belief system? Baptism without choice is what we call The Crusades or The Inquisition, is it not?
I'm inclined to believe that there is no intentional attempt to create harm, but at the same time, how do you baptize someone of a different religion into your own and not anticipate that it will be a grievous offense? What if Catholics decided to posthumously re-baptize Mormons as Catholics? What if Jews decided that Lutherans should be posthumously "saved" from the error of their ways? Maybe if you're not religious you say, "a pox on all their houses," recognizing that just because someone in Utah says I'm now Mormon don't make it so. But on a basic human level, shouldn't our first impulse as religious people be to "do no harm?"
Just sign me,
Pollyanna
Jews, Mormons to Review 'Dead Baptisms'
Monday, April 11, 2005
SALT LAKE CITY — Jews and Mormons decided Monday to jointly scrutinize a Mormon database that includes the names of thousands of deceased Jews — including Holocaust victims — who were given unwanted, posthumous baptisms.
A committee with members of both religions will study how names get into the massive International Genealogical Index (search) — which has an estimated 4 million entries — what processes are followed, and how greater order can be brought to the unwieldy listing.
The move lets Mormons "see what we can do that doesn't compromise our core beliefs and practices" while still addressing the concerns of Jewish leaders, said D. Todd Christofferson, a member of the Presidency of the Seventy (search), a high-ranking church leadership body. "We're going to do a lot of fact finding, and we will go from there."
"The church did not compromise its principles. The Jewish community didn't compromise its concerns," said David Elcott, director of interreligious affairs for the American Jewish Committee in New York, one of five leaders who met with Mormon officials Sunday and Monday.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (search) believes individuals' ability to choose a religion continues beyond the grave. Through its unique practice of proxy or vicarious baptisms, names are forwarded for baptism, and church members stand in for deceased non-Mormons. The church believes the ritual is required for the dead to reach heaven.
Researchers found the names of Holocaust victims in the church's massive index more than a decade ago. After Jewish leaders protested, the two sides signed an agreement in 1995, and about 380,000 names of Holocaust victims were removed. The agreement also called for no further proxy baptisms of Holocaust victims, celebrities or people who are not relatives of those seeking the baptism.
But Jewish leaders claim Mormons continue to posthumously baptize Jews and Holocaust victims. They said the meetings Sunday and Monday followed a decade of frustration over what they called broken promises.
The 1995 agreement also called for the removal of Jewish names in the index. But Mormon officials maintained Monday the agreement didn't guarantee vicarious baptisms for deceased Jews would never occur.
I'm inclined to believe that there is no intentional attempt to create harm, but at the same time, how do you baptize someone of a different religion into your own and not anticipate that it will be a grievous offense? What if Catholics decided to posthumously re-baptize Mormons as Catholics? What if Jews decided that Lutherans should be posthumously "saved" from the error of their ways? Maybe if you're not religious you say, "a pox on all their houses," recognizing that just because someone in Utah says I'm now Mormon don't make it so. But on a basic human level, shouldn't our first impulse as religious people be to "do no harm?"
Just sign me,
Pollyanna
Jews, Mormons to Review 'Dead Baptisms'
Monday, April 11, 2005
SALT LAKE CITY — Jews and Mormons decided Monday to jointly scrutinize a Mormon database that includes the names of thousands of deceased Jews — including Holocaust victims — who were given unwanted, posthumous baptisms.
A committee with members of both religions will study how names get into the massive International Genealogical Index (search) — which has an estimated 4 million entries — what processes are followed, and how greater order can be brought to the unwieldy listing.
The move lets Mormons "see what we can do that doesn't compromise our core beliefs and practices" while still addressing the concerns of Jewish leaders, said D. Todd Christofferson, a member of the Presidency of the Seventy (search), a high-ranking church leadership body. "We're going to do a lot of fact finding, and we will go from there."
"The church did not compromise its principles. The Jewish community didn't compromise its concerns," said David Elcott, director of interreligious affairs for the American Jewish Committee in New York, one of five leaders who met with Mormon officials Sunday and Monday.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (search) believes individuals' ability to choose a religion continues beyond the grave. Through its unique practice of proxy or vicarious baptisms, names are forwarded for baptism, and church members stand in for deceased non-Mormons. The church believes the ritual is required for the dead to reach heaven.
Researchers found the names of Holocaust victims in the church's massive index more than a decade ago. After Jewish leaders protested, the two sides signed an agreement in 1995, and about 380,000 names of Holocaust victims were removed. The agreement also called for no further proxy baptisms of Holocaust victims, celebrities or people who are not relatives of those seeking the baptism.
But Jewish leaders claim Mormons continue to posthumously baptize Jews and Holocaust victims. They said the meetings Sunday and Monday followed a decade of frustration over what they called broken promises.
The 1995 agreement also called for the removal of Jewish names in the index. But Mormon officials maintained Monday the agreement didn't guarantee vicarious baptisms for deceased Jews would never occur.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Time-Killing Questionnaire
I got this idea from www.sheilaomalley.com, wherein she answers the following questions usually asked of thespians who visit James Lipton on Inside The Actor's Studio. Since Blogger is acting up, I'm posting this fast while it still works, and giving you something to do until I can get my Tom DeLay rant on the site. I also just think the whole concept of James Lipton is hilarious; the gravity with which he interviews someone like Cameron Diaz about her "influences" and her "craft." It is truly a televised demonstration of a celebrity circle-jerk. So--in my brief absence, have your own:
The Questionnaire:
My Favorite Word: Bisous (French for "kisses")
My Least Favorite Word: Nostril
Noise I love: Waves
Noise I hate: Alarm clock at 5am
What turns me on (spiritually, creatively): Singing Frank Sinatra at top volume while driving, a good movie like Amadeus, reading a good book like The Power of One or The Killer Angels, hearing my daughter belly-laugh
What turns me off: Dishonesty, dishonesty masquerading as kindness, dishonesty borne of insecurity; anything and anyone that thinks it best to separate me from the truth, however unpleasant it may be
Profession I would like to attempt: Televangelist
Profession I would hate: DMV clerk
My favorite curse-word: Fargin. You know, from "Johnny Dangerously"? Not the actual F word, but "fargin" as in "fargin bastitches" from that movie.
If heaven exists, what would I like to hear God say when I arrive: "Welcome to calorie-free living, my child. Can I offer you a cocktail, some bacon-wrapped scallops, all the french fries you can eat, and a chocolate donut chaser?"
What are YOUR answers?
The Questionnaire:
My Favorite Word: Bisous (French for "kisses")
My Least Favorite Word: Nostril
Noise I love: Waves
Noise I hate: Alarm clock at 5am
What turns me on (spiritually, creatively): Singing Frank Sinatra at top volume while driving, a good movie like Amadeus, reading a good book like The Power of One or The Killer Angels, hearing my daughter belly-laugh
What turns me off: Dishonesty, dishonesty masquerading as kindness, dishonesty borne of insecurity; anything and anyone that thinks it best to separate me from the truth, however unpleasant it may be
Profession I would like to attempt: Televangelist
Profession I would hate: DMV clerk
My favorite curse-word: Fargin. You know, from "Johnny Dangerously"? Not the actual F word, but "fargin" as in "fargin bastitches" from that movie.
If heaven exists, what would I like to hear God say when I arrive: "Welcome to calorie-free living, my child. Can I offer you a cocktail, some bacon-wrapped scallops, all the french fries you can eat, and a chocolate donut chaser?"
What are YOUR answers?
Saturday, April 09, 2005
For Your Delectation and Delight
Sorry about the total lack of posting. It has not been by choice, but by virtue of blogger being non-functional for a couple of days. GRRRRR!!!!!!
In the meantime, I thought you might be interested to visit the following sites that I look at every day. As always, the opinions therein reflect the views of the author and not necessarily those of SSHaggis.
First: www.dubiousquality.blogspot.com.
Genius at work, is all I can say. Written by the inimitable Bill Harris, this site is my first stop of every day. Mixed in with discussions of gaming are some truly singular, yet universal, stories about his wife and son that will make you laugh out loud.
Second: http://nytimesweddings.blogspot.com/2005/03/baumer.html
My dear lovely girl J from Annapolis hooked me up with this site, and it has been off to the races ever since. The author of this blog deconstructs those smarmy, annoying, self-indulgent wedding announcements in The New York Times to great effect. For those of you who blush easily, the language can be salty; but the content is just my kind of poke in the eye to people who really think it relevant to list their grandparents' occupations in their wedding announcements.
Third: http://www.slate.com/id/2116346/
Dear Prudence rocks. She has the propriety of Miss Manners and the cojones of Dr. Ruth. I LOVE Dear Prudence, and so should you.
Enjoy!
In the meantime, I thought you might be interested to visit the following sites that I look at every day. As always, the opinions therein reflect the views of the author and not necessarily those of SSHaggis.
First: www.dubiousquality.blogspot.com.
Genius at work, is all I can say. Written by the inimitable Bill Harris, this site is my first stop of every day. Mixed in with discussions of gaming are some truly singular, yet universal, stories about his wife and son that will make you laugh out loud.
Second: http://nytimesweddings.blogspot.com/2005/03/baumer.html
My dear lovely girl J from Annapolis hooked me up with this site, and it has been off to the races ever since. The author of this blog deconstructs those smarmy, annoying, self-indulgent wedding announcements in The New York Times to great effect. For those of you who blush easily, the language can be salty; but the content is just my kind of poke in the eye to people who really think it relevant to list their grandparents' occupations in their wedding announcements.
Third: http://www.slate.com/id/2116346/
Dear Prudence rocks. She has the propriety of Miss Manners and the cojones of Dr. Ruth. I LOVE Dear Prudence, and so should you.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
This Isn't Your Father's Hematologist
...um, actually it is.
I have a new doctor. A hematologist. My dad goes to him and so recommended him to me. Yesterday was my first appointment with him, so I dropped the bambina off at my mom's and went on my merry and unknowing way to the doctor's office.
What can I say? This is wrong--so wrong--and yet I can't help it. I couldn't have foreseen it, and yet it happened: I have a massive crush on my married new doctor.
Yep. A crush. He is dreamy with a capital D, and I am this close to inventing a critical blood ailment just to see him again before our 3 month check-in.
Imagine my expectations. My DAD goes to him. How good looking could he possibly BE?!! I figured he'd be, like, 70 years old, perhaps using leeches as standard treatment, and definitely definitely not at all even in the parking lot of the arena where there might be preliminary trials in the running for an "E Crush." Dang. How wrong I was.
I was sitting in the room when he walked in, and I was FLOORED because he was a) cute and b) completely not at all what I expected. He looks like a slightly more built Jim Caviezel, pictured here: Jim Caviezel
. Kid you not. Dreamy with a capital D. He walked in, shook my hand, introduced himself to me, and said some very nice things about my dad being a "beloved member of our practice." To which I responded, "blaaaayeahum, hi! Good! Yes! My dad! Us too! A beloved member of our practice too!"
WHAT???!!
I was babbling. I could tell I was babbling. You know when you know you're babbling, you're telling yourself in your head that you are babbling and that you should stop, but you can't figure out where to end your sentence because you're no longer sure what it was you were trying to say and now you don't want to end up looking even more dumb by ending in mid-sentence? Yeah. That was me. I finally managed to stop my mouth and brain racing by saying, "Anyway! It's great to meet you!"
Smooth, E. Real smooth. He's not "meeting" you. He's dealing with you, his patient who is presenting with specific symptoms. I was digging myself a hole in a big way and could not stop my mouth from running to get me out of it. I was just, I suppose, mesmerized by him, maybe simply because I had expected someone who looked more like Fish from Barney Miller or Jack Klugman in Quincy. I did not expect Hottie McHottstein, MD.
Of course, all dreamy things must come to an end, and this one did at the moment he said, "okay, so if you'll just undress to your underwear and put this robe on, and I'll be right back to examine you."
ARGH!! This is so wrong!! I knew I would not be able to either get my clothes off OR get my $10 copay's worth of medical attention if I didn't get over the crush in the next 30 seconds, so I channeled my Inner Sixteen Year Old Boy and immediately began thinking of old men on rollerskates, wicker baskets, the girl from 3rd grade with the chronic runny nose leaking into her mouth, bowls of oatmeal, What Would Jesus Do woven yarn bracelets, and of course: baseball, baseball, baseball.
Worked like a charm. Got through the visit, managed to not bat my eyelashes, overstate my fitness level when asked if I stay active, and to not pretend that I am far more interesting than I seem to be while having my spleen felt for enlargement.
Thank God I managed to talk myself down, especially since it could never work between us. There's the spouse thing, the different lifestyles, the fact that he also feels MY DAD'S spleen for enlargement...which just makes the whole scenario WRONG on so many levels.
And so, for the only time in my life and without reserve, I can honestly say, "Thank you, Yankees."
I have a new doctor. A hematologist. My dad goes to him and so recommended him to me. Yesterday was my first appointment with him, so I dropped the bambina off at my mom's and went on my merry and unknowing way to the doctor's office.
What can I say? This is wrong--so wrong--and yet I can't help it. I couldn't have foreseen it, and yet it happened: I have a massive crush on my married new doctor.
Yep. A crush. He is dreamy with a capital D, and I am this close to inventing a critical blood ailment just to see him again before our 3 month check-in.
Imagine my expectations. My DAD goes to him. How good looking could he possibly BE?!! I figured he'd be, like, 70 years old, perhaps using leeches as standard treatment, and definitely definitely not at all even in the parking lot of the arena where there might be preliminary trials in the running for an "E Crush." Dang. How wrong I was.
I was sitting in the room when he walked in, and I was FLOORED because he was a) cute and b) completely not at all what I expected. He looks like a slightly more built Jim Caviezel, pictured here: Jim Caviezel
. Kid you not. Dreamy with a capital D. He walked in, shook my hand, introduced himself to me, and said some very nice things about my dad being a "beloved member of our practice." To which I responded, "blaaaayeahum, hi! Good! Yes! My dad! Us too! A beloved member of our practice too!"
WHAT???!!
I was babbling. I could tell I was babbling. You know when you know you're babbling, you're telling yourself in your head that you are babbling and that you should stop, but you can't figure out where to end your sentence because you're no longer sure what it was you were trying to say and now you don't want to end up looking even more dumb by ending in mid-sentence? Yeah. That was me. I finally managed to stop my mouth and brain racing by saying, "Anyway! It's great to meet you!"
Smooth, E. Real smooth. He's not "meeting" you. He's dealing with you, his patient who is presenting with specific symptoms. I was digging myself a hole in a big way and could not stop my mouth from running to get me out of it. I was just, I suppose, mesmerized by him, maybe simply because I had expected someone who looked more like Fish from Barney Miller or Jack Klugman in Quincy. I did not expect Hottie McHottstein, MD.
Of course, all dreamy things must come to an end, and this one did at the moment he said, "okay, so if you'll just undress to your underwear and put this robe on, and I'll be right back to examine you."
ARGH!! This is so wrong!! I knew I would not be able to either get my clothes off OR get my $10 copay's worth of medical attention if I didn't get over the crush in the next 30 seconds, so I channeled my Inner Sixteen Year Old Boy and immediately began thinking of old men on rollerskates, wicker baskets, the girl from 3rd grade with the chronic runny nose leaking into her mouth, bowls of oatmeal, What Would Jesus Do woven yarn bracelets, and of course: baseball, baseball, baseball.
Worked like a charm. Got through the visit, managed to not bat my eyelashes, overstate my fitness level when asked if I stay active, and to not pretend that I am far more interesting than I seem to be while having my spleen felt for enlargement.
Thank God I managed to talk myself down, especially since it could never work between us. There's the spouse thing, the different lifestyles, the fact that he also feels MY DAD'S spleen for enlargement...which just makes the whole scenario WRONG on so many levels.
And so, for the only time in my life and without reserve, I can honestly say, "Thank you, Yankees."
Sunday, April 03, 2005
God Supports This Blog
I’m watching The Contender right now (don’t ask; it’s on and I’m working on my laptop and I’m too lazy to change the channel). The showdown fight is between one guy who constantly talks about how he boxes for his kids and another guy who constantly talks about how he boxes for The Lord. I find both men to be incredibly annoying, but I can feel my blood particularly boiling at The Lord’s Chosen Pugilist. As he went on and on about how he was there for The Lord and how The Lord wouldn’t bring him this far to see him lose a boxing match, I kept shouting at the TV, “God is busy! He’s not watching your boxing match! There are starving children and wartorn lands to worry about; God does not give a celestial rat’s a** about your boxing match!” I mean, what kind of unmitigated, breathtaking level of self-involvement does it take to imagine that The Lord Himself is invested in you winning a TV boxing match?! I’m just astonished, which maybe shows my appalling lack of being saved; I don’t know. But how do you go through life thinking that The Lord Himself is intimately interested and involved in ensuring that you win a contest “for his glory”? How do mere humans get to decide what The Lord Himself deems blessed or important? Just by saying so?
Well, in that case, I am hereby stating that The Lord Himself has anointed this blog. Because there’s nothing The Lord values more than a smart-mouthed haggis wrapped in the stars and stripes.
Can I get a witness?!!
Well, in that case, I am hereby stating that The Lord Himself has anointed this blog. Because there’s nothing The Lord values more than a smart-mouthed haggis wrapped in the stars and stripes.
Can I get a witness?!!
Motherhood Lesson #3,986
One of the most interesting things I have had to learn as a new parent is something I never thought would matter to me, but apparently does. That thing is worrying what people think about me, and by extension, my child. As you know, the bambina has only been home a short while and has met lots of new people in that short time. I’ve been trying to balance the need to get her into a rhythm with the need to be sensitive to not completely overwhelming her infant synapses with constant, ongoing new faces and places.
That being said, people want to meet her, and we don’t want to approach every situation with an overprotective “she’ll freak out” attitude. We make sure she is feeling secure and then we assume that she will be just fine, which she mostly is. But, babies being babies, sometimes things don’t go as swimmingly as planned, be it either because of ear infections or sniffles or nap time or just a plain old kiddie meltdown for no reason at all.
What I am learning—and fast—is that I have to let go of (as terrible as this sounds to say) wanting her to perform like a monkey whenever she meets someone. Do you know what I mean? You have this child whom you know to be funny and cute and sparkling and happy and giggly…and then she meets someone and spends the entire time wailing, cranking and just “not being herself.”
I think what I am realizing is that A) it’s not her job to make me look good by being a little Stepford Baby on command, and B) when she is cranky or tired or sick and not feeling up to visitors—that is, just as when she is smiley and cute, she is indeed also “being herself.” When I’m sick I don’t take leave of my personality; I just don’t want to hang out with people and be interactive. Doesn’t make me a cranky person, doesn’t make people think I must have a bad emotional constitution. It makes me normal. So I’m trying to remember that about her. That it’s not her job to validate my mothering skills by being a shiny happy baby 24-7. It’s her job to just be a baby. Even if it means I’m banned from the Perfect Mothers’ Club before I even get some punch and pie at the Open House.
That being said, people want to meet her, and we don’t want to approach every situation with an overprotective “she’ll freak out” attitude. We make sure she is feeling secure and then we assume that she will be just fine, which she mostly is. But, babies being babies, sometimes things don’t go as swimmingly as planned, be it either because of ear infections or sniffles or nap time or just a plain old kiddie meltdown for no reason at all.
What I am learning—and fast—is that I have to let go of (as terrible as this sounds to say) wanting her to perform like a monkey whenever she meets someone. Do you know what I mean? You have this child whom you know to be funny and cute and sparkling and happy and giggly…and then she meets someone and spends the entire time wailing, cranking and just “not being herself.”
I think what I am realizing is that A) it’s not her job to make me look good by being a little Stepford Baby on command, and B) when she is cranky or tired or sick and not feeling up to visitors—that is, just as when she is smiley and cute, she is indeed also “being herself.” When I’m sick I don’t take leave of my personality; I just don’t want to hang out with people and be interactive. Doesn’t make me a cranky person, doesn’t make people think I must have a bad emotional constitution. It makes me normal. So I’m trying to remember that about her. That it’s not her job to validate my mothering skills by being a shiny happy baby 24-7. It’s her job to just be a baby. Even if it means I’m banned from the Perfect Mothers’ Club before I even get some punch and pie at the Open House.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Satisfaction
The great-grandparents are visiting this weekend to meet the bambina. One of the things they wanted to do was check out the website www.realagetest.com to see what it was about. The site asks you questions about your health and lifestyle and then tells you what your *real* age is compared with your chronological age. So, good doobie that I am, I offered to pull it up and let them take a look on my laptop. I was ready to hand over my laptop to let them take the test when they said, “No, you go ahead and do it.” I figured I had nothing to lose and so got started.
I was feeling all smug about getting through the vitamins/non-smoking/seat-belt wearing questions and finding out that I was 1.2 years younger than my chronological age. Yippee Skippy for me. Until we reached the next section. Any idea where this is heading? Questions about “lifestyle” and “habits”? Yeah.
“Are you satisfied with your current sex life?”
“What type of contraception, if any, do you currently use?”
“Do you feel fulfilled sexually by your partner?”
Oh Dear G-d. What do I write? How do I answer? Should I skip it? But by skipping it do I make it obvious that I’m embarrassed? If I make a joke do I look too flippant? And in making that joke, how do I ride that line between Finding It Funny and Pretending Not to Know Too Much About the Subject Matter? Oh Dear God Help Me! What do I do?!!!
I ended up blurting something like, “What?! Does good sex keep you young or something?! Those are some pretty personal questions!” and skipping them entirely, but not before just cringing mightily at the totally heinous embarrassment of it all. Luckily I clicked through it so quickly that they were probably unaware of the full weight of the questions. But they definitely saw the “are you satisfied” question. CRINGE!!!
As I thought about it later, I realized that my entire career as a development (as in fundraising, not tech) professional was predicated on my ability described above to laugh at dirty jokes, but not so hard that I gave any indication of knowing what at all they were talking about. I used to deal with so many 60-something men with vast financial resources who liked nothing more than to be piggish frat boys in front of a young-ish woman who was about to ask them for money. I think it was a power thing. Or maybe more of a d**khead thing. Either way, I was walking out of there with a $50,000 check and my pride intact. And all it took was a strategically-modulated laugh that said, “wow, you are so funny even if I have no idea what you are talking about, you big, virile, attractive older man!” BLEAAAH.
In case you're wondering, my "real age" was 28.5. Until answering questions about my sexual fulfillment in front of respected elders added about a decade in stress!
I was feeling all smug about getting through the vitamins/non-smoking/seat-belt wearing questions and finding out that I was 1.2 years younger than my chronological age. Yippee Skippy for me. Until we reached the next section. Any idea where this is heading? Questions about “lifestyle” and “habits”? Yeah.
“Are you satisfied with your current sex life?”
“What type of contraception, if any, do you currently use?”
“Do you feel fulfilled sexually by your partner?”
Oh Dear G-d. What do I write? How do I answer? Should I skip it? But by skipping it do I make it obvious that I’m embarrassed? If I make a joke do I look too flippant? And in making that joke, how do I ride that line between Finding It Funny and Pretending Not to Know Too Much About the Subject Matter? Oh Dear God Help Me! What do I do?!!!
I ended up blurting something like, “What?! Does good sex keep you young or something?! Those are some pretty personal questions!” and skipping them entirely, but not before just cringing mightily at the totally heinous embarrassment of it all. Luckily I clicked through it so quickly that they were probably unaware of the full weight of the questions. But they definitely saw the “are you satisfied” question. CRINGE!!!
As I thought about it later, I realized that my entire career as a development (as in fundraising, not tech) professional was predicated on my ability described above to laugh at dirty jokes, but not so hard that I gave any indication of knowing what at all they were talking about. I used to deal with so many 60-something men with vast financial resources who liked nothing more than to be piggish frat boys in front of a young-ish woman who was about to ask them for money. I think it was a power thing. Or maybe more of a d**khead thing. Either way, I was walking out of there with a $50,000 check and my pride intact. And all it took was a strategically-modulated laugh that said, “wow, you are so funny even if I have no idea what you are talking about, you big, virile, attractive older man!” BLEAAAH.
In case you're wondering, my "real age" was 28.5. Until answering questions about my sexual fulfillment in front of respected elders added about a decade in stress!
Friday, April 01, 2005
Men Are From Mars/Women Are From Venus
Friends, this is total nonsense. Men are NOT from Mars, and women are NOT from Venus. Rather, men are from the planet "Huh?!" and women are from the planet, "How can you NOT KNOW THIS?!"
I've been banging my head against a wall lately with a man or two in my life. You know how you have those conversations that just seem to go around and around, always ending up back at the point where the guy says, "I don't get why you are mad" and the woman says, "I CANNOT believe you don't get why this is wrong/stupid/mean/inconsiderate/embarrassing/ludicrous..."? Much has been made by men of the inscrutability of women, but I have recently spent a considerable amount of my own--and my girl friends' time--trying to unlock the mystery that is the male brain.
I ask the following questions about men (in the spirit of loving bafflement), for input from men and women alike:
1) If you KNOW they are fake, why do you still like them? Doesn’t knowing they aren’t real ruin the whole point of looking at them? If I had a computer full of photos of men with glaringly obvious penile implants, wouldn’t you wonder why I found that enjoyable? Wouldn’t you say, “why not just look at a smaller, functioning real one than one you know isn’t entirely real?” This is all I’m asking.
2) Why do some men not make the connection between the importance (as Chris Rock says) of “keeping your daughter ‘off the pole’” and the obvious fact that you are looking at someone else’s daughter on the pole? Why does it feel like women see the larger picture, the wider ramifications of things, while men see…well, boobies? This is all I’m asking.
3) If you love a girl, why do you find it so hard to just make the leap and say so publicly? Not one of my married friends ended up married without telling the guy, “your window is closing; and when it’s closing I’m gone.” Why does it take a friendly ultimatum to get you to do what you know you want to/ought to/need to do anyway? This is all I’m asking.
4) Why is it, when you fall for a girl who dislikes your female friends, that you don’t see the massive, waving red flag? Corollary: why are you so afraid to admit you have female friends to your girlfriend? If they are just friends like you say they are, what’s the big deal? This is all I’m asking.
5) Why is it “obsessive” to remember people’s birthdays and anniversaries and to send them greeting cards? This is all I’m asking.
6) Why the belief that you can overuse the phrase “I love you” with your female partner? Why the total lack of knowledge that you simply cannot tell a woman too many times that she is beautiful and she rocks your world? Especially when she is naked. This is all I’m asking.
7) Why the insistence on the drinking of OJ out of the carton?
8) Why—why—why the attraction to Angelina Jolie? Why?
9) Why the encyclopedic knowledge of sports with the concomitant cluelessness on important dates such as “our 6 month anniversary,” “the 6 month anniversary of the first time we were ‘together’,” “the 7th anniversary of our 6th week together since Arbor Day?”
10) Why the insistence on “dutch ovens”?
This is all I’m asking.
I've been banging my head against a wall lately with a man or two in my life. You know how you have those conversations that just seem to go around and around, always ending up back at the point where the guy says, "I don't get why you are mad" and the woman says, "I CANNOT believe you don't get why this is wrong/stupid/mean/inconsiderate/embarrassing/ludicrous..."? Much has been made by men of the inscrutability of women, but I have recently spent a considerable amount of my own--and my girl friends' time--trying to unlock the mystery that is the male brain.
I ask the following questions about men (in the spirit of loving bafflement), for input from men and women alike:
1) If you KNOW they are fake, why do you still like them? Doesn’t knowing they aren’t real ruin the whole point of looking at them? If I had a computer full of photos of men with glaringly obvious penile implants, wouldn’t you wonder why I found that enjoyable? Wouldn’t you say, “why not just look at a smaller, functioning real one than one you know isn’t entirely real?” This is all I’m asking.
2) Why do some men not make the connection between the importance (as Chris Rock says) of “keeping your daughter ‘off the pole’” and the obvious fact that you are looking at someone else’s daughter on the pole? Why does it feel like women see the larger picture, the wider ramifications of things, while men see…well, boobies? This is all I’m asking.
3) If you love a girl, why do you find it so hard to just make the leap and say so publicly? Not one of my married friends ended up married without telling the guy, “your window is closing; and when it’s closing I’m gone.” Why does it take a friendly ultimatum to get you to do what you know you want to/ought to/need to do anyway? This is all I’m asking.
4) Why is it, when you fall for a girl who dislikes your female friends, that you don’t see the massive, waving red flag? Corollary: why are you so afraid to admit you have female friends to your girlfriend? If they are just friends like you say they are, what’s the big deal? This is all I’m asking.
5) Why is it “obsessive” to remember people’s birthdays and anniversaries and to send them greeting cards? This is all I’m asking.
6) Why the belief that you can overuse the phrase “I love you” with your female partner? Why the total lack of knowledge that you simply cannot tell a woman too many times that she is beautiful and she rocks your world? Especially when she is naked. This is all I’m asking.
7) Why the insistence on the drinking of OJ out of the carton?
8) Why—why—why the attraction to Angelina Jolie? Why?
9) Why the encyclopedic knowledge of sports with the concomitant cluelessness on important dates such as “our 6 month anniversary,” “the 6 month anniversary of the first time we were ‘together’,” “the 7th anniversary of our 6th week together since Arbor Day?”
10) Why the insistence on “dutch ovens”?
This is all I’m asking.
Things To Do Today: Get a Living Will
I have avoided talking about the Terri Schiavo situation simply because everyone else was, and because I just kind of considered it to be none of my business. Even the truly opportunistic and outrageous posturing by such POTUS hopefuls as Bill Frist was not enough to get me to comment online. Even the ongoing posturing by morons like Tom DeLay (how is this man still employed and on the public radar screen?! He's a total joke, but that is another post entirely) was not enough to make me comment. But as I've been thinking about it, and as I just received the copy of my own advance directive that I had drawn up before leaving for China, I suppose it might be valuable to discuss it only to say the following:
Create an advance directive. Put it in writing. Share it with everyone who matters.
If God Forbid something should happen to me, no one will be "pulling the plug" on me; no one will be deciding to let me die. They will be carrying out MY wishes, and acting in the manner I have legally requested that they act.
See the difference?
I can absolutely identify the members of my family who would, through nothing but kindness and love, keep me in a persistent vegetative state for decades. I can also identify the members of my family who, in carrying out my wishes to be allowed to die with dignity, might be seen to be trying to end my life unnecessarily. But for my advanced directive clearly detailing my wishes, and but for my selection of a particular family member who will be legally tasked with making those end-of-life decisions for me, I could easily see my family devolving into the same tragic downward spiral of grief and litigiousness that has befallen the Schiavos.
Do your loved ones a favor. Don't make them have to decide what to do should you not be able to decide for yourself in the moment. The resources are generally free on various internet sites or are not tremendously expensive through a local, hang-your-shingle-out lawyer's office. Check out the following link to a WSJ article that takes you through many questions and ideas about living wills, and then DO IT. Seriously. It is not part of the normal course of life to end life support for your parents or kids. It is too great a burden to place on someone who loves you. Make it simply one more way that they can honor you and your wishes, rather than one more deeply painful element of what will already be a heartbreaking situation.
AgingWithDignity
Create an advance directive. Put it in writing. Share it with everyone who matters.
If God Forbid something should happen to me, no one will be "pulling the plug" on me; no one will be deciding to let me die. They will be carrying out MY wishes, and acting in the manner I have legally requested that they act.
See the difference?
I can absolutely identify the members of my family who would, through nothing but kindness and love, keep me in a persistent vegetative state for decades. I can also identify the members of my family who, in carrying out my wishes to be allowed to die with dignity, might be seen to be trying to end my life unnecessarily. But for my advanced directive clearly detailing my wishes, and but for my selection of a particular family member who will be legally tasked with making those end-of-life decisions for me, I could easily see my family devolving into the same tragic downward spiral of grief and litigiousness that has befallen the Schiavos.
Do your loved ones a favor. Don't make them have to decide what to do should you not be able to decide for yourself in the moment. The resources are generally free on various internet sites or are not tremendously expensive through a local, hang-your-shingle-out lawyer's office. Check out the following link to a WSJ article that takes you through many questions and ideas about living wills, and then DO IT. Seriously. It is not part of the normal course of life to end life support for your parents or kids. It is too great a burden to place on someone who loves you. Make it simply one more way that they can honor you and your wishes, rather than one more deeply painful element of what will already be a heartbreaking situation.
AgingWithDignity
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