Rest in Peace, Andrew

Today is the memorial service and funeral for Andrew E., an 18 year old child who took his own life this past weekend. He and his family have been members of my temple for years, way longer than I have. I didn't know Andrew, but I taught Sunday School to his youngest brother a few years ago. Our temple is a small community though, and while I don't feel like my place is with the family, I am still affected.

When I told some of my other friends about the news, since I was so shocked and saddened by it, they too felt the sorrow of a loss of a boy they also had never met, at the loss of life so young, at his own hand. They expressed concern for the family, the aftermath of such a senseless act, dismay at a child not getting help, or not able to be helped. And as I am torn with my own feelings, I am amazed at how one boy who had no idea of his impact on the world could affect so many people who never knew him, merely by one event that none of us can fathom.

The service is today, and right now hundreds of people, parents, family, friends, both local and from far away, are preparing to go and show their love for Andrew, their support for his parents and brothers and each other. They are putting on dress shoes, straightening ties, tucking tissues into pockets, dreading the whole event knowing how difficult and sorrowful it will be, perhaps not remembering that a memorial is not for mourning the loss of a life but for honoring the life that was lived. For some in attendance, this is their first memorial service, the first person they knew who died. I wish I could tell them it never gets easier. It will stay with them for the rest of their lives, the same way that I can remember the first funeral I attended, also for a high school friend.

There will be discussions of suicide in many homes for days to come, and then we will have the holidays to keep us occupied, and time will march on, as time is wont to do. Andrew's parents and brothers and friends will go through the motions, and it will either get easier or it won't. What I wish for them is what I wish for Andrew, that they can find peace.

Fire in the Hole

Okay, brace yourselves, I am about to share yet another too personal situation with you.

I am in the middle of a raging yeast infection, and I am not happy. Things down there are, shall we say, brewing, and I am trying desperately to clear up my situation without having to haul my breadbox to the local gyno for a little lookie-loo.

My friend LH had to do that recently, although for a different and significantly less common issue. She is going to kill me for this, I am sure, but since it could be any LH, you don't know who I am talking about, do you? Plus, I changed her initials to protect her womanhood. Anyway, LH is an avid exercise aficionado who was experiencing some chafing in her labial area (which I lovingly refer to as her mudflaps) due to too much friction producing activity of the clothed variety. She attempted to manage her mudflap failure at home, but over a few weeks, her mild discomfort bordered on disfigurement, so she dragged her beef curtains to the doctor. She was on the exam table, all business on the top half, the bottom half hiding demurely under her paper table cloth, when the doctor walked in. He was not her usual physican, since she couldn't get an appointment with hers on such short notice. He asked her the reason for her visit and LH told him her "stuff was broken" and she needed him to "fix her stuff." LH, for the record, was one dissertation away from a PhD, so obviously she is very articulate. He took one look down there before leaving the room to write a prescription for some strong puss cream and most likely to retch.

Anyway, I didn't feel like reliving her magic moment at the doctor's office, and besides, it's yeast, not a flat tire. Yeast, collectively, is the same critter that makes magical things like bread and beer. On my crotch, however, its magic is more of the dark arts variety, which includes redness, itching, burning, not to mention some other stuff that I really don't want to mention.After digging around in the medicine cabinet, I found a recently expired Diflucan. I popped that, and now I am waiting impatiently for it to kick in. Until then, I must suffer.

I itch. Bad. If I were a dog, I would scoot across the carpet right now, the rougher the pile, the better. I want to go outside and rub myself on a pine tree. I want to scrub myself with a Silkwood wire brush. Or even a toilet brush. I'm no prima donna. Hell, I would settle for a pumice stone at this point. I want something to rub myself raw, to scrape all that nasty yeast off, even though I am sure it will hurt even worse after all the scrubbing than it does now.

Yeast infections are not just a "women's health" problem. Think about it. Men scratch their balls all the time. Not only is it not frowned upon, it is expected. Only they give it a manly name, jock itch, which allows them to scratch their balls more openly than normal while sounding athletic at the same time. When women have issues, it's called crotch rot and no one wants to get near them, like it was small pox.

But I digress. I am scared to scratch myself now, since how much rawer could I be down there? Instead, I tried one of my favorite home remedies: yogurt. When it comes to yogurt, you have a choice of eating it or wearing it. Those little live cultures will do their job either way. Eating yogurt gives me heartburn, so I went with wearing it. I grabbed a container of plain nonfat yogurt, stripped down, laid out a towel on the floor, and frosted up my cupcake. I felt a bit like the cover of Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights album, only a lot less sexy. And as I lay on my crappy towel, enjoying the cool dairy goodness on my angry snatch, I remembered the most important detail. I forgot to lock the cats out of the bathroom. Let me assure you that no abomination to the lord occurred on my bathroom floor. But I did have to do a fair amount of shooing, kicking, and yelling before giving up and hopping in the shower. My two cats were circling me like turkey vultures.

I hope to find some improvement in a day or two. I am still not ready to show my junk to a professional, but I have also declared a moratorium on all Internet research. And wearing dairy products. If things don't improve, I plan on opening a microbrewery in my panties. Who doesn't want a frothy mug of fire crotch?

Lame...DUCK!!!

How many times have you seen President Bush duck that Iraqi reporter's flying shoe? Are you tired of it yet? Me neither. I am waiting for a good YouTube musical montage of it, with lots of fast replays followed by the slow mo version. Too bad that reporter's aim wasn't better, or W's reflexes a little slower. What a great way to end his second term.

Think for a moment about his father's presidency. What comes to mind? For me, it was that shining moment when Papa Bush threw up on the Japanese prime minister before collapsing.

Aahhh, good times. Feel free to post your own favorite Bush shoe videos in the comments. I promise I will enjoy them.

Bald Faced Liar

The following story falls under the category of why does this crap always happen to me?

My friend B and I took our combined four daughters to the movies on Saturday.  After enjoying Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa,  my youngest daughter, S, decided that her two cups of lemonade warranted a stop at the restroom.  (No, this post does not involve poo.) Before we walked in, a bald pre-teen girl entered the bathroom in front of us.  We had just returned from Disney World the day before, where there are more children with rare genetic disorders  and bizarre physical anomalies having their final wishes come true than anywhere else on earth.  So S was very in tune with this bald girl, asking me under her breath what was wrong with her.  I answered that she probably had cancer, which satisfied her curiosity.  S went into a stall and I stood outside of it, waiting for her to finish.

While S was still occupied, the bald girl came out of her stall and looked at me. "I hate to bother you," she said politely to me, "but do you have three quarters I could have?" She looked over her shoulder at the vending machine near the sinks. "Oh, did you start your period?" I asked her. "Do you mind if I have three quarters?" she asked me again, not answering my question. She looked very earnest, so I dug around in my wallet and produced three coins. She thanked me and walked across the restroom to where the machine hung on the wall.

I continued to wait for S to finish, and glanced over at the girl, who was now standing by the machine and looking back at me.  She appeared confused, so I walked up to her and asked if she needed help. "Well, the thing is, I haven't started my period yet, and I don't know how to use tampons," she said shyly.  I looked at the machine.  Lip balm.  Breath freshening drops.  And OB tampons, which require a different level of user participation, but no pads or pantie liners. She looked at me, her face devoid of any eyebrow or lash, her cheeks flushed either from embarrassment or the extraordinary heat in the bathroom.  I couldn't tell if she meant she had not yet gotten her period this month , or periods in general, but I knew there was no way in hell I was teaching some strange kid how to insert a tampon, cancer or no cancer. 

"Have you not started it yet this month?" I asked for clarification.  "Cause if you think you're going to, you can just stuff some wadded up toilet paper in your panties until you get home. If you aren't comfortable with tampons, I mean."  "Oh, I know that," she said. "I just wanted to be prepared in case it happened. But maybe I could get one of those lip balms?" She pointed at the slot for the lip balm, available in a variety of nauseating fruit flavors, an eager smile on her face. My own smile faded. "No.  You should not ask strangers for money to buy lip balm." Really, you don't.  If you don't have money for lip balm, you shop lift it from the CVS.  She silently dropped the quarters back in my open palm and skulked out of the bathroom. 

I turned around to find S washing her hands behind me at the sink.  She had heard the whole thing. "What was that about, Mommy?"  "I have no idea," I answered her, and truthfully,  I didn't. We walked out and found B and the other girls waiting on a bench. "What's up?" B asked me.  "I think I just got scammed by the bald girl," I told her, and related what happened in the bathroom.  Neither of us could tell if she was truly menstrual, too shy to ask her own family for help, or suffering from severely chapped lips due to the chemotherapy.  But I had this feeling that she was using that bald head of hers for sympathy loose change, and I wasn't falling for it.  

I Hate Control Top Panty Hose

In theory, I wanted to go to the Kristallnacht commemoration ceremony tonight. But why schedule it on a Sunday night? It wasn't the actual seventieth anniversary of the Night of Broken Glass tonight, and who wants to leave the comfort of home on the coattails of the weekend? My friend MJ asked me weeks ago to go with her, and I planned to, looking forward to sharing this experience with her. But I was in one those moods this afternoon when you know you should do something but you really don't feel like it. I wanted to see it, but I didn't want to get off the couch. I tried to think of a good excuse to bow out when MJ called to bail on me for reasons beyond her control. Baby sitter failure. She was truly remorseful, and I made the decision to go by myself, way out of my comfort zone, whatever that is.

I dressed in a somber yet tasteful black sweater and black lace skirt. I put on control top panty hose. I flat ironed my curly hair, and I don't even iron my clothes. I kissed my girls and husband good bye and drove to the technical college where the event was held. I don't get out much at night, I don't go to that part of town ever, and I got lost. Which is exactly why I don't leave my comfort zone. Despite my detour, I still made it there twenty minutes early. And even more surprisingly, I found convenient parking, walking toward the auditorium while a stream of people walked past me back to the parking lot.

I called MJ. "Okay, I am here. I got lost but I figured it out." "How did you get lost?" Don't ask me that, I felt stupid enough at it was. "I don't drive anywhere at night! But I made it, and it looks like I missed it, because everyone is leaving." "What do you mean everyone is leaving? Maybe it's more of a drop in and walk through than a sit down." She read me the email again, and it didn't sound like a drop in to me. I hung up and continued walking. A heavy-set woman stopped me before I reached the door and told me it was overcrowded, that they weren't letting anyone else in. She waved a paper at me, and I decided, like the rest of the lambs heading inside, to have someone more official tell me the same thing. An usher stationed at the entrance was happy to do it, intercepting me right at the glass door to let me know that no seats or standing room was left, and the fire marshal said no more people could be admitted. He handed me a paper, a cursory apology from the event committee about rescheduling, overwhelming response, alerting the media, blah blah blah.

I got dressed. I left my house. I drove at night alone, got lost, reoriented myself, and drove to the right place. I found parking. I walked, in heels, from bumfuck lot W to the auditorium. Did I mention I was wearing control top panty hose?? And I couldn't attend the ceremony for the Night of Broken Glass?!? I'll show you a night of broken glass, mother fuckers!

Okay, I didn't. I walked back to my car. I called MJ again to tell her the evening was a bust. She put her usual positive spin on it, commenting about how impressive the turnout was and what a show of community support. I answered, "Jesus Christ, couldn't they even have special seating for the Chosen People? I think the least they could have done is let the Jews in." Seriously, it's not like we have that many in town.

So I didn't commemorate the seventieth anniversary of Kristallnacht tonight. Instead, I went grocery shopping. I got dressed up, with flat ironed hair and motherfucking control top panty hose and drove over 40 minutes round trip go the grocery store that is a mile away from my house. But I guess in a small way I did recognize the Night of Broken Glass. While I walked the aisles pushing my cart, I saw a little girl accidentally knock over two bottles of wine, and they smashed all over the floor. Her mother gave her a very stern look that didn't bode well for when she got home. Does that count?

Is It a Good Thing?

What's up with reality shows these days? Okay, I guess that is a silly question. It's not like most reality shows were ever that great, what with their lack of creativity, story, and intellectual stimulation. Instead, they satisfy America's voyeuristic tendencies while allowing us to feel superior. We no longer have to peep in our neighbor's windows. We can now do it from the comfort of our own reclining couches. The variety of reality shows is endless, meaning there is something for everyone, from kiddies to grandparents to twisted sick fucks. My own tastes fall somewhere in that range, but I have recently discovered a show that blew my mind.


Most of you are familiar with Martha Stewart Living, unless you are busy eating your own toenail clippings and writing your manifesto. Love her or hate her, she is here to stay, and she seems stronger than ever now that she has street cred after her stint in the Big House. But you might not be aware that she has an adult daughter, Alexis, who as far as I can tell makes a living off of being Martha Stewart's daughter. Alexis has taken her career to a new level, from merely being Martha's offspring to public critic.

The other night I was flipping channels when I stumbled across a show called Whatever, Martha on the Fine Living Network, where old how-to shows go to die. The show features Martha's daughter, Alexis, and her friend, Jennifer, making fun of vintage clips of her mother's show. And they aren't nice; they say all the kinds of things you would say too, especially since Martha isn't your mother. They start by making fun of segments, like the guy with his fascinating antique twine collection or Martha's impossible guide to making s'mores, which is more about the quality of the sticks and bundling them with a winsome ribbon than actual marshmallow roasting. When they get around to it, Alexis and Jennifer insult her directly, her clothes and hair and bizarre homemaking fetishes. And if time permits, they go off on topics unrelated to the show entirely, such as nudity in gym locker rooms.

The show appeals to my inner bitch. And really, who doesn't like to make fun of one's mother? But insulting your mother with your friends is one thing, doing it so publicly, even if it is a lesser cable channel, is another. Furthermore, it is more acceptable to insult your mother than to have your friend do it. Isn't there a whole "yo mama" culture that speaks to this very issue? The bizarre part is Martha approves. She is the executive producer, so I suppose as long as Alexis and Jennifer don't compare her to a serial killer or discuss her aging vulva on the air, pretty much anything goes. An interesting mother-daughter dynamic, wouldn't you say?

Hard Working Dog

At my gym, I frequently see an older woman with an assistive device, a dog.  She is not blind, so I assume she has multiple sclerosis or a neurological disorder that causes her to require help.  That help is a butter yellow lab, thick in the middle and solid as an end table. He wears a vest-like harness with a stiff handle on his back, and on both his harness and collar are many warnings to not pet him or distract him since he is a dog at work.

He sits patiently next to the treadmill while the woman walks, exercising the body that is failing her in a way that I can't perceive. When she is through, she stands near a low wall, chatting with a friend.  The dog sits patiently next to her like a husband at the mall, quietly waiting for her to need some assistance.

I pass them while I walk the track, and even though I know I shouldn't, I look him straight in the eye.  He moves his dog eyebrows in greeting, but does not smile because he is working. I want to touch his black nose, plastic and shiny against his thick pale yellow fur. It looks wet, but I bet it is dry and rough. 

I wonder what life is like for him when he is back at her house.  Does he get to take his harness off and unwind, or is his job around the clock for all of his dog years? Does he ever get a chance to be off duty, to happily chew a dried pig's ear or snap at butterflies hovering over a field? Does he sleep on a plaid cushion in front of the fireplace?

And what about his owner? Can she feed him or does he feed himself? Is she able to pour fresh water in his bowl to lap up with his floppy tongue?  Does she scoop up his waste and tie it in a little blue baggy? What happens if he has to go while sitting by her at the bank, the grocery store, or at the gym?

I don't think it would be a bad life for a dog, as some dogs like to feel needed and useful. But this dog looks like he needs the space behind his ears scratched. And knowing that I am not allowed to do it makes me sad for both of us.