Lucky Boy

He is quite a beauty and his song is really different from Joey's. He is also the alpha male, but it's fun to watch Joey halfheartedly try to compete. They're a great pair and they love to snuggle; in fact, Lucky likes to sort of lean on Joey so you only one of his legs is on the perch. They are fast friends and maybe lovers.

It's sad to feel like Lulu has been replaced. And she hasn't, but since Lucky is more lively than she was in her last few weeks, the Catholic and I, not to mention Joey, have been having a really good time with him.

Note for later: anthropomorphization of animals and their habits + queerness + the reality of gender schema in animal communities. Or rather, animal societies (better, ipj?)

Anyway. He's a love.

Freak

Nobody at work made even the slightest reaction to my haircut. This is fairly interesting, since the new hawk is even extreme to me. I believe it shows how I have affected these folks either by:

-making them afraid of me + being extremely unapproachable
-leading them toward this freakishness a little bit at a time until it's not really so noticable
-seeming invisible?



But really, freak is pretty much what I was GOING for. I kind of look like a punk rocker.

I am going to choose a combination of the first two possibilities. I was informed recently by the good direct supervisor (from here known as Good) that the bad big boss (from here known as Bad) is afraid of me, and it brought a big damn smile to my face. I love this because Bad's entire presentation is that s/he is intimidating, hard, totally invulnerable, inhuman, i.e. scary. But I intimidated shim! Fuck yes. Yes to the power of tears against people who fear them. Good said that one day Bad came to Good's office and asked if I was okay, to which Good replied, "I don't know, have you asked her?" And Bad just walked away without responding. Or maybe responded with "Never mind." I can't remember.

Maybe it's because when I was crying multiple days each week because of the stress Bad was putting me under, Bad would say it looked like I had ALLERGIES! I didn't have fucking allergies, I was crying, in duress, you big hoser. Ooh, scary, tears, emotion! Better pretend it doesn't exist and is therefore totally invalid. (and s/he thought s/he was doing me a favor trying to un-embarrass me.) Bad is like a Skeksie who cannot handle real people. But with better posture.

Anyhow after that digression, I have indeed tried to be scary and unapproachable to Bad and Bad's little flunky too. Apparently it worked.

Othernews

Oh wait in other news the Catholic knocked up his girlfriend and they shouldn't get married they don't even like each other but they're damn well gonna because abortion is not an option and WHAT

HE thinks it's just fine, a jumpstart
SHE sees it as a major problem, mistake, accident, it's interrupting her whole life plan
I know plans don't always work out and you have to deal however you can but
it's fucking convenient for HIM not to see it as that big a deal
HE's not the one whose body will never be the same nor will HE be staying home with the little one unable to pursue her career and yet
SHE makes far more and more reliable money than he does

and that makes me angry and it makes me realize that while I can't say it 100% because I'm not literally in the situation, it makes me more able to imagine myself in the situation and
if I got pregnant now I am reasonably sure I would have an abortion

and it sucks that they ever have to happen but
I don't have a problem with the fact that I would choose it.

EXCEPT THE PROBLEM THAT THE RHYTHM METHOD DOESN'T WORK, YOU fucking MORON.
if you'd thought of that there wouldn't BE a problem.




But it's not that I don't like babies. I like them too much

Because I am apparently not smart enough to customize blogger to its full extent, here is a picture of my face all fucked up in photoshop. I tried to put it behind the header but it made it all wonky.



I feel grumpy because tonight was designated for a Lily photoshoot for my holiday card but I didn't do it right and the film got messed up and I even went all the way to the pharmacy to get a special battery and this nice latina dyke went out of her way to help me find it and all but I didn't want to go back for more film just because I'm a medium idiot for ruining the first roll. and all I have is little sister's point and shoot 35mm which she handed down after buying a digital for her special time in PA.

Damn it. Lily is too fat. The vet told me so. Which has led to her being hungry since I'm feeding her less and making an absolute fool of myself multiple times a day to make her race me down the block instead of the usual leisurely stroll. She is a fussbucket but every morning we have special Lily & mama time sitting on the couch. I drink my coffee and eat my breakfast and she sits on my lap trying to drink my coffee. But not if it's too hot.

In other news there's not much other news because I can't seem to make myself do even simple things I need to do. Stupid, difficult me.

Bird Story

Well. Lulu died this morning.

Turns out the things I thought were special preparing for motherhood behaviors were actually very sick finch behaviors. She's not even my bird. Wasn't, I mean. Well, isn't, depending on what he did with her tiny birdbody. I kept finding myself saying "our bird" in describing her, though.

She looked like this. thanks to the picture taker. My camera phone didn't do so well in the low light through the bars of the cage.

He, her owner my roommate the Catholic, bought her and her partner Joey (who for many weeks was of indeterminate biological sex) to cheer himself up after breaking up with someone. He just showed up with these two tiny birds a few months ago, and asked me to help name them, so I did - Joey and Lulu. Then he gave them last names, the last names of some "little saints," although I've never heard of them.

And of course I quickly grew quite fond of them, they're very sweet and mild. Their little chirps and songs are endearing and quiet, very unobtrusive. Then usually in the morning, once or twice, there would be this weird two-tone stressed out call, and a few times I looked over when that happened and he was trying to mount her...

So she laid an egg a few days ago, but I guess the environment wasn't quite right for her to nest, and she just dropped it on the bottom of the cage and it broke. Then apparently she was trying to lay another egg for 36 hours at least, and the Catholic said that when he came home late last night she was sitting on the nest trying to lay, but by the time I got up at 7 she had fallen to the floor of the cage. She just couldn't handle it, I guess it's called being "egg-bound" and happens to finchese because they're just so tiny.

She was so light when I picked her up, like nothing. Poor love. I wish it hadn't been so difficult these past few days. Now Joey is sitting and singing from his cage, probably wondering what the fuck is going on. A widower, and so young too.

Kitchen's Clean.

I told myself that if I kicked my ass and cleaned the kitchen I could sit down and blog. Incidentally I just cleaned most of my kitchen with carpet & upholstery odor eliminator. It worked alarmingly well which is why I didn't realize it for quite a while, I mean so well I decided to really scrub down the wooden counter surface. It's like 5 shades lighter, dentally speaking. Although I splashed some of the bleachified dirt on my ID Lubricants shirt, which I got for running the Bk Pride 5K. Bummer. It's like my "Don't fornicate" shirt, I like the overt sexual content in clothing.

Here is the real blog. Or whatever.

It was a morning like any other, a Sunday in my shitty neighborhood, only -
there was a weird quiet, gentle feeling around
there was no bass vibrating the sidewalk, buildings, etc.
there was no yelling
even in the park, a few kids were playing but quietly, teaching each other some little dance
but mostly it was all these routes to the same place like people were drawn by some force, mostly silent, walking slowly together in small groups
like a magnet, the church in the center, pulling people toward it along every walkable surrounding circuit the sidewalk the street the walk through the park
like a shared journey, short pilgrimage on a lovely morning
like the Mystics (you know, the anti-Skeksies) when they all start singing sort of like elephants and they all know they're supposed to go to the special place to gather
and on the hour the bells rang, kindly, and as soon as they stopped the singing started - unclear but hearty, hearted, heartful.
Together.
The older ones in dresses and ties, the younger in jeans (whoa!), supporting the oldest and youngest by linking arms and pushing wheelchairs and strollers
[disclaimer] I don't even know what kind of church it is, except Christian
and to be late is okay; there's no harried hurried steps, averted eyes and sympathetic smiles in reaction to your embarrassed look of apology (because god knows that's what I remember of church)
Late is as late does, and they all end up singing the same song
Yeah, of course it helps that I don't speak the language, but the whole thing seemed kind, forgiving, gentle-even a little bit magical

and if you know me then you know how uncomfortable the whole scenario makes me, and all the more to see it as magical. I don't even like City Year anymore because they stand in Union Square every morning doing chants and it's a scary groupthink moment

But remember, Maybe Girl, in that church there must've been some major guilt headed in from the horizon - remember, Jesus the cock-blocker? Inevitably?

I think if people ask me about religion from here on out I'm going to say not atheist, not agnostic. I'm going to say, "I'm an ascetic." Just to be good and confusing.

Facts

I got tagged by Happy or Sad.

1. I thought about getting Kurt Vonnegut's self-portrait sketch (the top right of this series of pictures) tattooed on my body somewhere, and I was serious. For a few of minutes anyway.

2. I spend at least an hour each week on the phone with jewelers and/or moving companies, trying not to argue. Some times are more successful than others.

3. I haven't had a television for over two years; however, if there was one show I could watch at this point, it would be Meerkat Manor. I think I would watch it religiously.

4. I'm mediumly obsessed with my dog. Her new nickname, as of this week, is Funky Noodle. I don't know where that came from.

5. I'm far more likely to greet a baby, animal, or pretty flower on the street than another adult person. I say, "Hi, Baby" or "Hi, Dogger" or "Hi, orchid (or whatever flower)."

6. I sleep an inordinate amount compared to most people. I mean really a lot.

7. Funniest quote of the week: "I stopped hanging out with Jesus because he's a cock-blocker." -from my coworker

8. 001..0211211 1110122 [that fact courtesy of Lily's dog-butt on the keyboard trying to distract me from typing]

Was it supposed to be 8? I guess I wasn't paying attention to the tag too well. I'm really behind. Oh well. What is this tag again? Just any 8 facts? I need to go back to the source but it's taken me this long to get this far so whatever.

I tag

Sissy
Bionic (who has a new gf and i'm feeling neglected)

I guess that's all.

This is a fun game but...

I don't want to be Aesop the Spider Boy. So I did it again, trying to be more conscientious, trying to see myself more as how others do, and lying about my "gender." Interestingly, on the website, in one place it says your daemon is "usually" the opposite sex as you, and in another it says your daemon is "always" the opposite sex.

You know how I feel about this dependency on biological sex. Or if you don't feel free to ask and I'll expound in probably more length than you'd like.

Anyhow this is her:



I think I love her, just from the picture. That's great, yeah? A show of self-love?

Also can I just say that for once I find this a worthy, creative, and effective advertising ploy? I had the chance to read these books and didn't, but you can bet I will now, not to mention see this movie. And you probably know how I feel about advertising, too, so -

Oh yeah, p.s. I don't in fact feel very flexible in many ways, but like I said I love her and I don't want to turn out a spider again, so whatever. P.p.s. ipj rocks for finding this

Well, sucks to blogging

I've been overwhelmed with shit to do and not getting it done and trying to sleep a lot and riding trains and buses and such.

I've always said, I may be small but I'm scrappy. Someone agrees - this comic is entitled, "Scrappy"


nataliedee.com

Day before yesterday I was meeting with a couple of bosses in a corner office in our building on Park South and we heard a very loud crunch outside. We went to the window and found a car accident on the corner opposite. One cab had swerved and busted a phone booth right out of the ground, and most Manhattan phone booths are sturdier than the ones you think of. The other cab had swerved and rammed into the building of the bank across the street. Basically, about 1/4 of the cab was smashed into the building. Two pedestrians were trapped between the cab and the building, and someone else, maybe a passenger or another pedestrian, was kind of loopy and shaky and they took her away in an ambulance after checking her out.

One of the trapped people was moving his hands and appeared to be conscious and talking as they put him on the ambulance, though they wrapped him up pretty good first so it seemed he was failry well-injured. The other dude didn't move at all, seemed unconscious, and they worked very gingerly with him so I'm sure he was seriously banged up. I mean, in a fight between a brick wall, a Lincoln, and a normal guy on the street, who do you think is gonna win? I'm guessing he probably died, but it's just conjecture.

I know people would say it's freakish but this is comforting to me. I think in my life I often feel like there's not much you can really hold on to, but there's nothing as stable as...as, well, horrible things going on. The macabre is grounding. Like when I saw the dead and bloated homeless man on 58th Street after an appointment one day. Somebody else's tragedy but one I momentarily shared - one that I'll never forget. Solid.

I say I'm sort of "into" pain but it's not a sexual thing, it's just that - it's grounding. It's real and I can touch it and I don't have to have faith in it because I can feel it. When so much is fleeting, it's predictable.

I find myself to be very inflexible these days, but in need of flexing. And scared.

I don't have a mirror, you know - at least one any bigger than a hand mirror or the bathroom mirror in which I can only see my head & shoulders because I'm small.

Why no mirror. I dunno. Whatever, maybe it's psychologically rooted maybe it's laziness rooted.

But I guess maybe it's an excuse. For, you know, looking like a hoser. I don't have a sense of how I really present or how I might be perceived overall. In fact pretty much no idea.

NSP went away but I don't like people so I didn't add anybody else.

Happy birthday to me it's likely an ulcer. Or something else. One of those two.

And yet, to make sure, I must wait another two weeks and then have an endoscopy.

I still feel pretty crappy.

And after I finished typing the above, I went on the internet to find a link to some ulcer pictures to really gross you out, but they grossed even ME out! So I won't make you look. Man.

Hm. I guess I haven't felt like blogging lately but I've been thinking a whole lot, about a whole lot of stuff. But I guess I do that all the time.

Anyhow I've been pretty sick for three weeks now, in a way where I can avoid symptoms by not eating solid foods, so I'm functional but hungry and irritable. My grandfather died last week and I went to Utah for a couple of days. Had a random and frustrating neck problem, went to a chiropractor (which I've never been before but I needed immediate relief to get through the trip to Salt Lake), and it's resolving itself nicely. My apartment smells bad because of my dog and my dog smells bad - I thought the roommate who was watching her while I was gone had quit smoking, but aparently not quite. I don't like my dog smelling like cigarette smoke. But I like my dog. Got to do something about the fucking rug, though. I know how to keep her from peeing on it but my roommates can't be bothered to go along with it and she's used to peeing on it now, so. Ew. Doin my best.

Bandwagon

These are very very delicious. I mean it, so, so tasty. They might be the only really good reason for Easter to exist. Well, that and time off work or school. I would definitely bow down to them, maybe even pray to them. Ok, not really. But anyway.

Honor Code Update

[the BYU (private Mormon-run university in Utah) Honor Code comprises the rules you have to live by on campus or you'll get kicked out of school]

I never really thought this would happen. I feel ambivalent.

Check it out.

But I do want to say, unequivocally, that I hate Provo. That will never change. Also I like the phrase "ecclesiastical endorsement" just because it's sort of fun to say.

Okay done.

A Note About the Pronouns

Thank you for your thoughtful question, MNS (see preceding post). So as to give credit where credit is due I pulled "sie" (pronounced like "see") and "hir" (pronounced like "here") from Dean Spade's recent article in the Berkeley Women's Law Journal, "Resisting Medicine, Re/modeling Gender." Spade, founder of the Sylvia Rivera Legal Resource Program, cited them from Leslie Feinberg's 1998 Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or Blue 1.

Alternatively I recently found a quote by James Green, in an email to Patrick Califia (regarding trans activitism at the 1995 Michigan Womyn's Music Festival) which Califia used in his Sex Changes: Transgender Politics, using "s/he" which I've always liked, and "heesh." If I remember correctly, Green was letting the Festival's leadership know that Feinberg would make their discrimination public "in every public speaking engagement heesh does" if it continued.

Now forgive me, as I'm a grammar freak but may not use the correct terminology. I'm still not sure what a dangling participle is, though I'm quite sure I rarely if ever use them ;) But it seems the personal first and second person pronouns are safe - I, me, you - as they are not and have never been gender-differentiated. As are their respective possessive versions - my, mine, your, yours. And now I'm good with the basic third person - in sie, s/he, and heesh, if I'm reading them accurately. They overlap, yes? Third person possessive is probably my favorite with hir. But what about her/him? Am I missing it? I don't think I've found it yet, maybe I need to go back to the original Feinberg. Shim?

The bottom line: if I become interested in having myself referred to with neutral pronouns, I'll let you know. I have some internalized misogyny to work out before that time, if it comes. [God damn it.] But I think I will continue to use sie and hir in referring to unknown or generalized individuals. I prefer them to s/he and heesh because they are further from the gendered originals - s/he and heesh, to me, imply more that a choice can or should be made, whereas sie and hir feel more definitively neutral, identity in their own right. Which is the point. At least I'll do so as long as I remember. And, I guess, thank my lucky stars that I have the luxury of forgetting. And try not to forget.

Comments? I'm sure I'm overlooking some strange thing. Or not strange. Anyway.

Because words

Novelist Kurt Vonnegut dies at 84.
He died. I am very sad. He is truly one of my heroes.
I wonder if it was a blue tunnel after all.

"When I think about my own death, I don't console myself with the idea that my descendants and my books and all that will live on. Anybody with any sense knows that the whole solar system will go up like a celluloid collar by-and-by. I honestly believe, though, that we are wrong to think that moments go away, never to be seen again." 1974

Because words. Words are everything and nothing. They're all we have but they're not real. All. None. Our utmost connection and our utmost separation.

Not real, not tangible. Esoteric floating out in the air. Nonexistent and untouchable in space, in essence, not even real in energy. In the energy spent to write them, maybe, but not energy of their own. Random marks assigned random meanings that could have been any meanings at all but are the meanings they are. Words words words words words words words words words and more words words words words words words words.

Which brings me to connotation and how meaning is meaning but it's not the same; it's meaningless too. Like when as a kid you wonder if you're colorblind but realize you might never be able to find out, because if you see (what you call) red and somebody else sees it as (what you call) green that person will still have grown up identifying it as "red" so their red is your green but they're both called red and it will never make sense you'll never know what they're seeing or if it's colorfully similar to what you see. The meanings. The meanings. Not saying what you mean because the recipient of communication has hir* own connotations and you can't know them, not all of them. Can't know the memory that comes up when you say a certain word at a certain time. There's no communicating we are all stuck in our own world and even shared experiences have individual connotations, though you won't necessarily know it because what you call green is still what sie* calls red even though it's still green.

For his sake I really hope he's gone, gone and didn't have to go through the blue tunnel, because gone is all he always wanted to be, really.

and people who tell me it's not sad, since he had a long life and left all his writing behind, your optimism angers me. I don't feel like explaining myself, since it won't mean to you what I mean to say anyway. You make me tired.

It's not that I feel as alone as I sound it's just that
Well, it's just something.

*I decided to use gender-neutral pronouns today so work on it.

Im_mobile

I suspect that my slowly growing social and political awareness is causing me to feel worse and also not better
Because of a distinct (distincly mine) lack of power

& what about when you're working your very hardest and doing you very best
but it's not enough
what about that
sometimes it's not enough. it's not okay
just because something has to be okay doesn't mean it is okay
what then

Is this nauseating up and down really all there is
Am I really supposed to be okay with that

Mormon History Quiz

Q: How many women did Joseph Smith marry between 1827, when he married Emma, and 1844, when he died?
A: The historians are not exactly sure, but it's at least 30, and probably several more.

Q: How many do they bother telling you about at church?
A: Just one. Emma's a hero, after all - but not so much when Joseph keeps bedding most young (and some not-so-young) women in his vicinity and she's yelling at him and smacking him around some, as any right-headed person would do. So it saves Joseph's and the church's face if their first prophet isn't a polygamist (especially not [gasp] BEFORE the revelation was publicized) and saves hers if she looks like such a generous, loving, supportive woman instead of a reasonable normal human being.

Oh yeah - another thing they don't tell you about is the fact that several of these women were already married at the time, to living husbands, some of whom knew about the marriages and some of whom did not. I don't think they're too interested in the polyandrous side of things, although I knew from a young age that I'd be a sister-wife in a polygamous heaven.

Q: (just for fun, this one)How many sets of sisters did Joseph marry?
A: I think it's 3 or 4, can't remember exactly, but at least 3.

Q: How old was the youngest and the oldest when they were married?
A: Helen Mar Kimball - 14. Rhoda Richards - 58.

You can see short bios of all the well-documented wives at www.wivesofjosephsmith.org.

Dental p.s.

I guess it's a result of being invisible for so many years that I maintain a quasi-subconscious fear that I don't exist, or maybe just don't exist enough. When the airport toilet doesn't auto-flush after I stand up it really freaks me out.

I've been working and working on my self-validation skills but still.

So now, despite the fact that I was sobbing in extreme pain last night, since I haven't had a relapse of that intensity since then, I have this feeling that I'll go the endodontist and he'll dismiss me, like, "why are you whining? there's nothing wrong."

-No, Maybe Girl, you did your research, all the information says the same thing; if there's a lot of pain, there's a problem, call the doctor right away.
-But I've been pretty much pain-free all night. Maybe I was blowing it out of proportion.
-Remember? You may blow some things out of proportion, but physical pain has never been one of them.

Okay. Damn. Time to go. Guess I'll see what happens.

Dental dental

It could be political. It would most certainly be economic and social. They're too much entangled. Infuriation. Too much effort, too much destruction for this moment. We only just got me calmed down (thank you my dear).

I guess the most disembodied feeling was brought on by seeing hearing smelling dust from the hardest tissue in my body floating away in tiny particles toward the light they were using to see into my mouth. Go toward the light, little granules of enamel! You smell weird and wrong - go toward the light! And don't forget to tell jesus I'm coming. Good thing the doctor and his assistant had protective glasses on. That'd be like tiny shards of glass, or something - getting in your eyes, your lungs, your nose. I'm practically choking just thinking of it. Well, they're the ones who have to clean the tools afterward, not me. If it's such damned hard tissue why isn't it holding up as well as my bones? My heart, liver, kidneys, even! All fine!They're exposed to bacteria, too, or...some..other...bad..stuff..or..whatever.

Not unhappily disembodied, though. Novocaine a godsend, a reprieve from pain which would only worsen in the coming days (and let me tell you, that's not what's supposed to happen). At least HE explained what the fuck was going on.

Humorous too, because I've never used a dental dam, not until my root canal. Kinky. They poked a little hole in it and trapped it around that one tooth so it'd stay dry. And I thought, this is interesting.

But really, now, what boggles my mind is the outs they constantly give themselves. I mean, come ON, health care professionals are supposed to be trustworthy, infallible! Just like church leaders. Oh. (again, thanks a bunch mom. also thanks larry for the crappy teeth.)

So that he has an out when I see him later and say, it's these waves of the sharpest of pain, coursing through my jaw into my face, my head, my neck. White-hot-white-cold fire, it's waves that give me the chills, I break out immediately in a cold sweat, it's I can't hold still kind of pain. It's if this lasted 10 seconds longer I'd head for the emergency room kind of pain. Yeah. He'll say, oops! I guess we missed some. Happens all the time. Oh well.

It's oh well to him and to me it's two days of a lot of seething, crying, trying to continue to breathe, lying around but not feeling rested, anticipating the new set of surges when I get the hint of pain, almost a tickle (one full of terror), that precedes it.

I could be just a baby, learn to deal with it, life is hard blah blah blah. Pema Chodron's Buddhist 'leaning into the sharp points.' No, you know what? Ask anybody who knows me reasonably well. I can handle an awful lot of pain before it really gets to me. In some cases I enjoy pain, court it. This? This at its worst was, no question, a 10. This shit was leaning into ME. Running me through, more like. Yeah, see? There's a mark where my ribs meet, and in the middle of my back - run clear through -

Big Families = no no NO!

Hey I think every person who reads this blog was needing to know this so I'll tell you:

It's not okay when parents have so many goddamned children (maybe 7) that communication becomes a grade school game of gossip, even in important situations such as what could be (or could have been) a life-threatening illness of one of the parents.

!!! those !'s are code for my furrowed brow and my indignant petulant feelings. (But thanks to Sissie for telling me, I'd never have known!)

Give me a fucking break, Diane! After 40 years of parenting, you still don't realize this is a problem?

And also bitchety bitch bitch bitch about x and y and z, blah blah yeah george you know the story. I don't mean to undermine myself it's just that I'm such a whinerbaby. WTF.

PLux (you know, like JLo?)

[Lily in her pup tent. (ha ha ha.)]

Okay, really I'm talking patellar luxation, or a luxating patella, meaning that Lily Bug's kneecap until recently had been sliding back and forth over her femur in and out of alignment, not too painfully but decidedly uncomfortably, such that she's been declining to run on her right rear leg for a couple of months.

So she had surgery on her knee, and we both had a visit to Ponder, Texas, where my brother-in-law is a junior partner in a vet clinic (i.e., we got an amazing deal - thanks Chris!). Ponder is... small enough that there's no stoplight. I was as queer as queer could be there, even just drinking coffee in the gas station (since I wasn't allowed to bring coffee into my sister's Mormon home, since apparently its very presence would violate the Word of Wisdom and soil the whole house). But anyway I don't mean to be a dick, I do appreciate their help and had a good time getting reaquainted with my nephews. And sleeping.

But she was a champ, really. No crying except when she was waking up from the surgery in a room with a bunch of strange, sad dogs in crates and she was thinking, "What the fuck did you hosers do to my leg? And why is my brain so fuzzy? Give me some drugs, now." She was extremely well-behaved on the plane in both directions, too. Now as she's healing, it's a matter of keeping her down more than anything - she doesn't realize they chiseled off and moved her tibial tuberosity (a chunk of her shin bone) from one place to the other, held there until it heals only by a little steel pin, and is apparently feeling pretty well - but I'd much prefer that to any complications or having her in any pain.


Here's Lily, pre-surgery in my arms, after the anesthetist shot her in the bum with sleepy happy drugs.



I watched the whole surgery, and I must say it was fucking cool. I was a couple of feet away, watching this master dog-surgeon-dude sawing away on my tiny dog's tiny bones. My brother-in-law watched from her other side, as he is learning to do the surgery but hadn't seen it done live before. I quite enjoyed it.


Here is her scar. It's a crappy camera phone picture. She looks like a badass now. But needs some tattoos.

E. the Catholic (my roommate) has taken to calling her tripod, which I find pretty funny. And after two and a half weeks, all her stitches have fallen out except the very bottom one, which the surgeon showed me how to remove. She must've done a bit too much today, as I was home and she was out of her crate quite a bit, because this evening after some serious bone chewing she got down from my lap and sleepily limped over to get to bed, not using the leg at all. It doesn't even look weird when she's trotting or running with a rhythm; from the opposite side you can't even tell she's not using that leg. But when she moves slowly, it's obvious and very pathetic. And absurdly cute.

Sinking-Feeling-Smile Sandwich

Mason Jennings, the total shift of tone and pace in the song, the riff the intensity the harmonics followed by the mellow quiet and he sings, slowly,

"You know loving me is not enough...
(moment of quiet + guitar)
I know future is as future does..."


Courtesy of my 3-year old nephew Tommy:
Knock knock. Who's there? Orange. Orange who? Orange I didn't glad to say poop?
(I made him tell it over and over until I could memorize his grammar.)


Courtesy of Bee Season by Myra Goldberg:
"...Though Aaron can identify a few Hebrew words, his knowledge of the language is largely limited to the ability to parse letters...there's no way for him to know he's welcoming in the Sabbath bride as the English translation claims. For all he knows, the entire congregation could be chanting
Green Eggs and Ham.

"Aaron is still musing over his Dr. Seuss realization when he remembers his father's early lessons in consumer consciousness. Ever since Saul dissected a Snoopy Cone Machine commercial for Aaron at age seven, Aaron has been aware of the manipulative powers of advertising. "Never buy a product just because you've seen it on TV," Saul instructed at an age at which recognizing characters on cereal boxes made leaving aisle three empty-handed tantamount to abandoning a friend. As a result, Aaron has grown to mid-adolescence with an eye for label reading. It is at the service's completion, while munching on an oneg cookie, that Aaron realizes he's bought Judaism without consulting the side of the box."
[I feel I can say the same, with different details.]

Working (wo)man

Fucking fucking FUCK you job. I hate you.
Stupid fucking motherfucker. Stupid fucking people stupid fucking investment stupid fucking training stupid fucking almost catching up stupid feeling better for a while stupid fucking power struggles stupid passive agressiveness stupid loneliness stupid obsessiveness stupid confusion stupid lack of trust stupid too much work
STUPID GODDAMN IT. Shit goddamn motherfucker.

Guess I'm just trying to blow off enough steam to make it a few more days. and try to figure out what the fuck is going on with me. or something.

Mishmash with no capitals and several colons

sometime recently i thought this up as a blog title:
"titles are for oversimplifiers of content." or something. actually there's a word i'm looking for instead of oversimplifiers but i can't quite reach it. oh well.

today without meaning to i'm looking like serious butch circa 1959. like chloe sevigny in "if these walls could talk II." i just need a little more Elvis-like duck tail hair in the back, and a pack of cigarettes to fold into the sleeve of my t-shirt. and don't forget the motorcycle. hee hee. it's a fun game especially since it wasn't purposeful.

here is something else:
re: relational experimentation -
what's different is how i'm seeing myself. i'm confident, cock-sure, even. i hope that lasts throughout, even if my hypothesis about this specific experiment proves fallible.

and the last thing is that what i wanted to write on [stupid] myspace but couldn't fit in the right place is this: camera phones + myspace = a reinforced competitive consumerist system of solypsistic insincerity. and that even being aware of it doesn't leave one immune - i'm as guilty as any. (i admit, i was trying to make that sound complicated and smart, but those words actually do convey what I'm trying to say.)

How the fuck did it get into the LETTUCE?

Fuck you Taco Bell.






(wrote this a while ago, thought I'd expound and publish, didn't expound, published.)