More Miscellanea

I've been off work all week and enjoying a vacation at home. It has not been as fun as I had hoped, mainly because we still have to fulfill our usual Christmas obligations to family and are entertaining house guests.

Some things that have happened:

Darling husband started an “animated political discussion” (aka fight) on Christmas Eve, which I finally had to break up by yelling “Moving on now...” Darling father-in-law was not amused with any of the participants. The entertainment value came in listening to the relative parrot the usual right-wing talking points about the devaluation of Christmas and spying on American citizens without thinking through the argument logically. Pity I only heard the end of the discussion.

We pulled a Sidney Crosby Rookie card from a pack of Upper Deck cards. Current book value: $200.00. No, I'm not selling the card.

The Penguins played exceptionally well last night against the New Jersey Devils. I did not get to see the game on television, but caught the second and third period on our way back from a family gathering. I am pleased. We see them play tomorrow against the Rangers. It will be interesting to see, since the Rangers will be in the Stanley Cup this year.

Apparently, I am some sort of hockey idiot savant at work these days. Almost two months ago I put a list up on my white board of all the things the Penguins organization needed to do to pull themselves out of “suckitude”. The list included the following, in no particular order:

1. Bench Lemieux.


2. Promote Michel Therrien to head coach.


3. Fire Shane Clifford.


4. Release Thibault.


5. Defensive Drills until they throw up.


6. Make Recchi Captain.


7. Bring Andy Chiodo up.


8. Break the kneecaps of any ref who called a Boston/Pittsburgh game this year (sheer fantasy, yes).

What can I say? I read the sports column every day, watch most of the games and pay attention.

My Christmas Memory

Christmas of 1996 I was a poor graduate student with a full time job, living in Greensboro NC. I was also very alone, as my family was in PA and most of my friends were heading back to their own families for the holiday.

It was my first Christmas away from home. I could not afford a plane ticket and did not have the time, because of my work schedule, to drive.

Until my ex-boyfriend, who I followed to North Carolina, called to ask if I wanted a ride as far as Latrobe. And one of my co-workers offered to switch vacation days so I could take the ride.

So Christmas Eve found me wrapped in a blanket, sitting in the passenger seat of the ex's Miata with the the top down, driving through the mountains of West Virginia. The sky was clear, the stars bright and the radio was playing Elvis' Blue Christmas. It was a perfect moment.

My brother picked me up in Latrobe and drove me home, where I surprised my parents by walking through their bedroom door at 2 am.

Four years later, on a clear, cold, starry, January evening, I married the ex-boyfriend.

SPAM!

My definition of spam is rather broad and includes all the crap that people forward to me without reading throughly first.

I have a relative, who shall remain nameless for the sake of familial peace, who has yet to forward a useful glurge to me. Normally I am able to simply ignore and delete, but this last piece of email offended my sensibilities enough that I feel the need to excoriate said relative in the pages of these blogs.

The text of the email as follows:

How ironic is this??!! They don't even believe in Christ and they're getting their own Christmas stamp, but don't dream of posting the ten commandments on federal property?

Eid ul-Fitr is the Islamic holiday that defines the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting. Unlike Christmas, which happens the same day every year, Ramadan and Eid vary from year to year. There is no comparison between Eid and Christmas. The meaning and intent of the two celebrations are completely different. Eid has more in common with the Christian observance of Lent and Easter.

This one is impossible to believe. Scroll down for the text.

If there is only one thing you forward today.....let it be this!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of PanAm Flight 103!
REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993!
REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the Marine barracks in Lebanon!
REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the military barracks in Saudi Arabia!
REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the American Embassies in Africa!
REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the USS COLE!
REMEMBER the MUSLIM attack on the Twin Towers on 9/11/2001!
REMEMBER all the AMERICAN lives that were lost in those vicious MUSLIM attacks!

Repeat after me:

Muslim does NOT equal terrorist.
Muslim does NOT equal terrorist.
Muslim does NOT equal terrorist.
Muslim does NOT equal terrorist.

Remember that ugly period known in history as “The Crusades”. Followed by an equally ugly period known as “The Inquisition”. What about the Salem Witch Hunt? Or lynchings in the American South during the early part of the twentieth century? The Rwandan massacres of early 1990's? IRA bombings in London during the 1980's and 1990's? Evil acts are not the providence of one particular faith.

Now the United States Postal Service REMEMBERS and HONORS the EID MUSLIM holiday season with a commemorative first class holiday postage stamp.
REMEMBER to adamantly and vocally BOYCOTT this stamp when purchasing your stamps at the post office. To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those AMERICANS who died at the hands of those whom this stamp honors. REMEMBER to pass this along to every patriotic AMERICAN you know”.

Stupid. Just stupid. The Eid stamp is part of a series of stamps that includes Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Cinco de Mayo. Not only do I plan on purchasing the stamp and using it, but the family member ignorant enough to send the email to me is getting as many sheets of 20 as I can scrounge up.

What I find most insulting is to be lumped together with the sheep who have decided to allow fear of the unfamiliar and the difficult to understand to rule my life. I obviously have to be more aggressive in voicing my values so I don't continue to receive crap email.

RIP Pittsburgh Penguins 1967-2007

In my iCalendar I have every 2005 – 2006 Penguin game we plan on attending scheduled. We have 11 games outright this year from our share of season tickets, and will probably attend a total of 13 games.

They have not been doing well this year. Skating and puck handling has been lackluster and goal tending has been abysmal. But they are my team, and I remain faithful and hope that they will resolve whatever issues plaguing them.

It is unfortunate then, that one of those issues is a lack of progress for a new arena. The Penguins lease on Mellon Arena expires in 2007. The Penguins reserve the right to solicit offers for a new franchise staring June 2006. Six months from now, the Penguins will most likely be looking for a new home. Kansas City and Houston are mentioned are prospective sites.

What is most sickening about this situation is that Mario Lemieux and the franchise have come up with a legitimate plan to fund the building of a new arena with minimal direct cost to the taxpayers. But their plan hinges on obtaining a slots license for downtown Pittsburgh, which the Pittsburgh Gaming Task Force has declined to endorse.

Hockey is important to me, for a myriad of complex and probably stupid reasons. It is a game that I understand. It is populated by what I believe are the best type of athletes, the thinking kind. I admire the enormous amount of skill and stamina that it takes to play sixty minutes. The sound of a skate on ice makes me giddy. I don't get the same feeling when watching the Steelers or the Pirates.

I count the fact that I can watch the Penguins as a major benefit of living in Pittsburgh. If the team goes, so will I.

What I Learned Today (Updated)

Update (12/04/2005): The Penguins played the Calgary Flames on Saturday night. Whoops. Now I wonder who the "Detroit Red Wings" are.

That the Detroit Red Wings (hockey) like to order cookies and torte from Paddycake Bakery (in Bloomfield) when in town.

How do I know this? We stopped by the bakery before I went to work this morning to pick up some goodies (The cinnamon rolls will eventually kill you, but you will die happy). I was reading the boxes while darling husband was getting his coffee. Box A had “Detroit Red Wings” in black. Box B had “Detroit Red Wings + torte” in red.

And yes, it is a stupid little detail. But it made me happy.

Today's Selection for Amusing Letter to the Editor

One of my morning rituals is to read the Post-Gazette letters to the editor. Never underestimate the entertainment value of the ordinary citizen.

Last week they published a specimen from a gentleman distressed by the publication of an article on condoms for women in the magazine section, apparently in a section considered the most “family-friendly”. Part of his distress was over some of the word choices (Mad-libs anyone?) and part of it was over the article's tone.

To quote from his letter: “Yet that day, I was treated to the following, all in the heading and first 100 words of your article -- "condom" (six times), "pleasure," "prophylactics," "intimacy gels" and "vibrating rings.”

I'm not quite sure what to make of this one. The fact that he counted the number of times the word condom appeared in the first 100 words? Shocking only if the paper was publishing an article on cheese. The article was not about cheese. The headline was “A new line of condoms gives women choices, control”. Using the word “condom” in an article about condoms does not seem to be too out-of-the-box under those circumstances.

When did “pleasure” become a dirty word? Apple's Dashboard dictionary defines pleasure as “sensual gratification” but not as the primary definition (it is fourth on the list if you are curious).

Since the writer did not specify the age of his children, I don't know how much I can mine from his protest of the word “prophylactic”, except to say that I did not know what the word meant until I was fifteen and cannot pronounce it even now. If any of his kids have seen the outtakes from Ten Things I Hate About You, then they have at least heard the word spoken.

As for the words “intimacy gels” and “vibrating rings”, has he turned on a television during prime viewing hours lately? Has he taken them through a grocery store or drugstore?

While I poke gentle fun at the writer, his letter does raise a greater issue, and it is not about the editorial judgment of the paper. Towards the end of his missive, he states “There are parents out there who prefer to choose appropriate settings to discuss matters of sexuality with their children, and I'm pretty sure that looking for the comics is not one of those.”

I find such statements disturbing because they usually come out of the mouths of parents who do not want to address issues of sexuality with their children at all. Their method is to protect them from an article in a newspaper, a rack in the drugstore and ignore the playground banter. Put off the discussion until they are “older”. Complain when schools attempt to fill the communication gap and papers publish articles on condoms. Do it all in the name of “protecting” children.

Are not the moments to teach kids these things whenever you can grab them? I am not a parent (yet) but in my incarnation as a teacher I found that the best lessons are taught when there is laughter in the room. Rather than complain about how careless the paper was to publish such an article, would not a better response be to seize the moment and have that discussion around the breakfast table when minds are relaxed and open?

Chris Whitley

Chris Whitley died on Sunday, November 20th of Lung Cancer. He died at home, surrounded by the people he loved the most - his brother, his daughter and his fiancée.

I had the pleasure of watching Chris perform only once, at Club Cafe in 2004. He was painfully, shockingly, thin, mumbled when he spoke to the audience and brilliant on the guitar.

It was not one of his better performances. All of three or four his instruments were out of tune, making in necessary to adjust between each song. The highlight of the evening was when he exclaimed to the audience “Oh the drama of watching a musician tune his fucking guitar!”

My heart is a little bit broken tonight by the news. Rest in peace, Chris Whitley.

Dining in the South Side

One of the letters published in the November 11, 2005 Post-Gazette was a lament over the abundance of bars on the South Side. Specifically, the letter writer was disturbed that the owners of the old Mellon Bank building had applied for a liquor license.

To quote from her letter: “How odd that we have no King's or Bob Evans, or Denny's or Eat'n Park restaurants. Nothing for the family or senior citizens”.

The above four establishments have two things in common:

1.They don't sell alcohol.
2.They are chains (Although I'll cut Eat'n Park some slack because they are local).

I find it interesting that the letter writer could not come up with one family-friendly restaurant in the South Side. So for her sake, here is a list of establishments that I have frequented. All of them serve non-alcoholic beverages and many of the are actually family friendly. I will admit some of them are a little more expensive, but there are an ample number of inexpensive places to eat.

The Bridge
Bruschetta's
Cafe Allegro
Cafe Tuscany
Carson Street Deli
The Cheesecake Factory
Fathead's
Mallorca
Mario's Southside Saloon
Nakama
Piper's Pub
Pittsburgh Steak Company
Primanti Brothers
Southside Steaks
Sushi Two
Tom's Diner

Dear Pat Robertson

You really don't give up, do you? It is bad enough that you advocate the extremely unchristian viewpoint that it is ok to assassinate world leaders who do not agree with your point of view, but now you are calling the wrath of God down on the residents of Dover, Pennsylvania for having the terminity to want scientific theory taught in their schools.

The only thing I can surmise is that God is testing my love for fellow man by putting you on the planet as the poster boy of what a Christian is NOT supposed to do. Did it ever occur to you that God may be playing you for the fool?

We are supposed to love the foolish, so here it goes:

God loves you. So do I.

Today's Annoyance

I'm married.

I did not change my name.

I logged into my College's alumni site to update my job title and discovered that:
A. My name had been changed to that of my husband.
B. My email address was incorrect.
C. The institution where I obtained my graduate degree no longer displays.

I managed to correct A and B and update my job title. I'm writing up C as a defect since it would not display even after I added the graduate school back into my profile.

I accepted when I got married that some people were not going to address me by anything other than my married name, no matter what I did. But the college in question did not have permission to change my data.

To ease my irritation, I took the Political Compass Test. My results were:

Economic Left/Right: -6.88
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -5.95

Apparently I am right there with Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama. Excellent.

Sports Commentary from a Sports Dunce

In the city and about the United States.

1. Announcers are way too obsessed with Brett Favre. While commenting on the referee's decision to wear long sleeves (In Green Bay, in November) Jim Nantz somehow managed to segue into a comment about Brett Favre's "wonderful biceps". Huh?

Why does every single announcer use his full name?

Nantz is not alone in displaying his deep affection for Favre. John Madden's claim to fame over the past several years has been his ability to work Favre's name into conversations that have nothing to do with him, the Packers, the city of Green Bay or the state of Wisconsin.

2. Terrell Owens has been indefinitely suspended from the Philadelphia Eagles. As the resident of a city described as a "drinking town with a football problem" I have to dig pretty deeply back into the past to find a Steeler who behaved badly towards his team or the general public while on the team's active roster.

3. The refereeing during the last two Penguins games in Boston has been abysmal.

4. Best Hockey moment this year (so far): Watching Sidney Crosby score his first professional goal. The look on his face was priceless.

Night Craziness

While darling husband and I like to delude ourselves into believing that we experience lives full of non-stop adventure, the truth is that we spend a great deal of time at home pretending we are vegetables.

Last night began as a vegetable night. At 11:30pm I was upstairs brushing my teeth and darling husband was falling asleep on the floor in our living room. A very loud thump outside our window lured my husband out of the house and me down the stairs. The same thump lured a good number of our neighbors out of their homes as well.

Across and down the street, halfway into a yard sat a car, the remains of a truck and a stack of kindling that was once a fence. A presumably drunk driver (innocent until proved guilty in spite of the open container on the passenger seat) was lying face down in a deployed airbag. Her puppy, set loose when a neighbor opened the driver-side door, was running in the street.

The only thing that prevented her from hitting the house was that the truck was in the way. She careened into the truck, hit the fence and stopped halfway into the neighbor's yard. She never once used her brakes.

Several people called 911 immediately upon hearing the initial impact. Most of us were waiting out in the street for the ambulance to come.

Except that three tow trucks, a fire truck and a city police officer made it to the accident scene well before the first ambulance arrived. The firemen got lost on the way to our street, even though the station is a mile and a half away, and the directions were make a right onto street A, take it out to the end and turn left onto street B.

My neighbor, her daughter and I walked to the top of the street to flag drivers to turn around. Driver 1 came to a complete stop, ignored our attempts to talk to him, and nearly drove into the accident scene. Driver 2 ran the stop sign at high speed, tore around the corner and came to a sudden halt only when he saw the police car. Driver 2 was very drunk.

Eventually, the woman was removed from the car, a Breathalyzer was administered and she was taken to the hospital and hopefully jail. I headed back inside to a night of revenge dreams.

The puppy, as far as I know, is still loose.

The Pigeon Feeder - Latin Quarter

Another Suitcase in Another Hall

Well, maybe not that dramatic.

I took my lunch half-hour and signed up for the YMCA. Aside from the frustration in competing for the attention of the membership representative against five retired women, it went smoothly. I was able to pick up some soup for lunch.

This afternoon was my last workout at the YWCA. I spent 35 minutes in an empty pool and had an excellent workout. I finished with the butterfly.

I love doing the butterfly stroke. I love the way the water flows from one end of the pool to other. I love the sensation of air bubbles underneath my arms. I love the feel of my body coming up out of the water.

The locker room was completely empty. There were still a ton of rental lockers in use, but even those will be cleaned out by Friday. Either the renters will empty them or the locks will be cut off and the contents placed in lost and found.

I did not go up to the fitness center. Too depressing.

Next week I'll begin lifting again.

Hockey!

The Penguins are back on the ice and life is good.

J and I went to a pre-season game on Sunday night. We parked in a Port Authority garage down and made the trek up to Mellon Arena to watch the Penguins beat up on the Capitals.

It was not even close to a fair match. The Capitals goalie, Maxime Ouellet, took a puck on the helmet early in the second period and spent the rest of the game trying to get his focus back. His movements were slow and he looked as if he was having an enormous amount of difficulty concentrating.

It was a long year and a half. Come Saturday, I'll be in front of the television for the Penguins home opener.

Milan Malpensa

In an attempt to save a few dollars on our Paris adventure, I booked our flights through Air Aitalia. I did this with the full and conscious knowledge that it is not the most reputable of airlines. It meant an additional layover in Milan's Malpensa airport and a longer travel time. But it also meant some extra money for a decent meal or a cheesy souvenir (we brought back a corkscrew/can opener combination with an etching of the Eiffel Tower and the word "Paris" in case you were wondering).

Never, ever again. While our flights on Aitalia went smoothly, our two trips through Malpensa were enough to put us off Italy, let alone Milan. Which is a depressing thought, because who wants to think badly of Italy? After all the art, culture and food they have contributed to the world through the ages?

Putting aside, for a moment, that it is a minor miracle that native speakers are able to navigate the airport, and I'm pretty certain I saw multiple Italians get lost. Signage was poor at best, and incredibly confusing. There are no maps displaying the layout of the airport. Add ongoing construction and surly employees (possibly because of the ongoing construction noise?) After dashing madly through several terminals and going through customs twice, we managed to make it to our flight to Paris.

It was on the way back through Malpensa that my dislike was confirmed. J and I had purchased leather jackets and had arranged all the forms necessary to have the VAT Tax refunded to us.

The customs official (a woman) in Malpensa refused to honor the refund because J and I had worn the jackets while still in Paris. In her opinion, this made the goods "used" and not eligible for the refund. When I protested her decision, based on the fact that we had not been informed that the goods could not be worn, she proceeded to unleash an invective in Italian to her partner, calling me a liar. Even the other customs official, a male was horrified by her behavior.

I left the customs office shaking and in tears.

Next time, we will fly Air France.

A Chocolate Affaire

Always interested in something new and different, no matter provincial it might seem, J and I packed ourselves into our car and drove into the mountains for “A Chocolate Affaire”.

Seven Springs made a wise choice by starting small, with a pair of goodies tents, a few vendors and live music. Since it was a perfect fall day the long line we had to wait in to obtain our chocolate treats was not a burden.

During our wait, we spotted the most interesting looking man. He was sporting silver horns through his nose. They were quite distinctive, curved in the style of a longhorn steer. Combined with an expensive leather jacket and kick-ass leather boots, he was quite a sight at the bottom of the slope. His three compatriots were also strikingly dressed, although they did not sport the same level of commitment to body modification.

The cannolli was excellent and the chocolate rum balls were dreamy. The chocolate creme brulee was a bit of disappointment.

Miscellaneous Observations

Observation 1:

When one is a bus rider, one must develop a self-defense mechanism for dealing with the fruits and nuts one is occasionally forced to share space with. Since engaged reading and headphones are not always an adequate means of self-defense, I find that pretending that I am deaf and dumb (or don't speak English) is rather effective. While it does not deter the said fruit from engaging in conversation, it does frustrate them a great deal when they do not get a response from me and leads to a great deal of amusement for me when I give an audible farewell to the bus driver before disembark.

My latest experience in frustrating a fellow rider occurred on Friday, when a rather nasty man, dragging a five gallon paint bucket (with what appeared to be potato peelings) and a bag of groceries, boarded the bus and settled into one of the handicapped seats near the front. He attempted to engage me in conversation as I was reading, and I automatically switched to deaf/dumb/non-English speaker mode as his behavior was highly eccentric.

Shortly after the man had settled down, a blind woman with a service dog boarded the bus. I rose to offer her my seat, but she found a space near a friend and began talking.

Nasty little man decided a little amusement was in order and started throwing cereal on the floor for the dog to eat. When the blind passenger realized that he was feeding her service dog, she started to yell at the man to stop. An argument broke out between the two of them. The blind woman was justifiably furious that the man was feeding her dog. Nasty little man claimed that the dog's sniffing of his potato bucket upon boarding meant that he was hungry.

Naturally, nasty little man turned to me and attempted to justify his bad behavior. As my stop was coming up shortly, I simply gazed off into the distance, nodding out of time to his remarks and smiling vaguely. I would have preferred to hit him with the book I was holding, but that would have been a waste of a perfectly good novel. I said a cheerful good evening to the bus driver when I left the bus and prayed that the man was not behind me.

Observation 2:

Pittsburgh is not exactly the wealthiest of cities. The demise of the steel mills has sent multiple neighborhoods into poverty. One of those neighborhoods is South Braddock.

Locals may wonder why darling husband and myself were driving through Braddock early Sunday afternoon. We were meeting friends to watch the Steeler game and the Parkway was its usual cluster. Depressing does not begin to describe what it feels like to drive through that neighborhood. It looks like a bomb hit it.

As we pulled up to a light behind two trucks, we saw a woman standing on the street. She was middle-aged, appeared to be pregnant and was stopping every vehicle at the light. She initiated conversations with the two vehicles in front of us and the one behind. As we were driving off I realized that she was a prostitute.

Surreal.

Thrown Out

For over a year and a half I have been going to the Health and Wellness Institute run by the YWCA. Yesterday I received a letter announcing that the non-profit was closing the fitness center, gym and pool. Members with time remaining on their contracts could contact the YMCA and transfer their membership. Those who paid in advance could receive a refund. Very sorry, exhausted all options, end of story.

I am sick at heart. For myself yes, but also for my fellow members. Although I am not the most social of people, the routine of seeing the same women week in and week out was familiar and comforting. All types of women came to the gym. Young, elderly, fit and infirm. African-American, White, Christian, Jewish and Muslim. What will happen to them?

The Louvre Metro Stop Entrance

I don't have a story about this stop. The juxtaposition of grand old buildings with a modern and funky structure just worked for me.

The Bus Ride - A Short Story

Every morning I ride the bus to work. Parking is expensive and I do not enjoy the stress of rush hour traffic, so the bus is the right choice for me.

One cannot help but overhear conversations when riding the bus. It may be a means of transportation, but it is public transportation, which means that there is no such thing as a private conversation.

Two of the more memorable fellow passengers on my route are recovering Meth addicts. These two women are walking proof that using a substance capable of blowing up buildings and generating toxic waste is a very bad idea. Their conversation gives me hours of mental entertainment and good stories.

One day this past week, the two meth addicts boarded the bus. They were joined by a third companion, a man of an indeterminate age, and all three were upset. One woman was nearly hysterical, holding her nose and wrist and crying. Her two companions had to hold her up as the three of them trudged up the aisle to the back door.

As the ride progressed, it became clear that the three had just been in a car accident. The man had a shallow cut across his forehead. The hysterical woman had bashed her nose and right wrist hard off the dashboard.

As they continued talking, more of the story was reveled. The man with the cut never bothered to renew his driver's license. The woman with the broken nose had a suspended license. One of them was driving (I never determined which one). And they were complaining about how surly the police were.

You think?

Thou Shalt Not Murder

"I don't know about this doctrine of assassination, but if he thinks we're trying to assassinate him, I think we really ought to go ahead and do it. It's a whole lot cheaper than starting a war, and I don't think any oil shipments will stop. But this man is a terrific danger, and this is in our sphere of influence, so we can't let this happen. We have the Monroe Doctrine, and we have other doctrines that we have announced, and without question, this is a dangerous enemy to our south, controlling a huge pool of oil that could hurt us very badly. We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability. We don't need another 200-billion-dollar war to get rid of one strong-arm dictator. It's a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with."

--Pat Robertson

I did not want to talk about politics on this blog, but Pat Robertson's latest statement cannot be ignored. This is a man who is not qualified to herd goats, much less people.

What I find the most disturbing about Robertson's statement is how clearly is points to the underlying streak of meanness that runs through religious conservatives of all dominations. There are far too many of them running around who lack the very basic sense of mercy and compassion for the flaws and failings of other humans. For a self-proclaimed "Minister" (a Master's of Divinity alone does NOT make you a man of God) to espouse the deliberate destruction of another's body is reprehensible. That Robertson's ilk have weaseled out of condemning him by declaring him to be a bit cuckoo is equally disturbing, but unsurprising.

Let us not split hairs either. To advocate the destruction of another human being, whether it be their body or their soul, is immoral. "Thou shall not murder" may have applied to the physical body when Moses brought those commandments down the mountain, but the teachings of Christ, who the above congregation profess to follow, clearly extended that commandment to a person's spirit. If you destroy a person's soul, you have committed murder, even if the body remains.

Unfortunately the Pat Robertson's of the world do not see it that way.

Axel

Introducing one of the world's more interesting creatures.

Axel.

Axel is our disabled cat. He was born with deformed back legs (one veterinarian described them as "put on backwards"). In spite of the fact that he is a biped, he can climb stairs and furniture, run and is an excellent mouser.

He is also one of the most intuitive animals we have ever had. He does not like to be alone, stresses out when he sense tension in the house and would spend all day, every day outside if he were able.

He can charm anybody, including cat-haters. Faced with his killer purr and engaging manner, all melt before him.

We love him dearly.

Boules

This photograph was taken in Les Halles, the former central marketplace in Paris. The area is now a massive park and underground mall.

As we walked the grounds, we noticed a group of men playing boules. After some discussion it was decided that I was a better choice to sneak some photos in, as I am the "cuter" of the two of us.

I did not want to get too close and ruin the men's play.

Other misadventures in Les Halles included several very uncomfortable moments with a madwoman. Apparently we were sitting on "her" bench and she did not approve. She did not sit down after we moved, just nodded in a satisfied manner and wandered off into the park.

Determining What is Right from What is Easy

I've thought a lot about how I wanted to frame this next entry. I've told this story to close friends and their reactions have always been of the "oh my God, how awful" variety.

As a sophomore in college I was put in the difficult position of having to file a complaint against one of my professors. What made the situation more painful was that Professor "G" was a brilliant, animated teacher who lectured from memory. I had enjoyed my first class with him so much that I decided to take a second one to fufill an elective.

I was poorer than usual that term and buying my books piecemeal with the proceeds of my work study checks. I put off purchasing Professor G's last book (of seven on the required reading list) until shortly before the term ended.

Only to discover that the bookstore had sent all the copies back.

Frantic, the only option I saw was hunt Professor G down and find out what my alternatives were. I was not the only poor student in the class and was aware that the majority of my classmates had not purchased the book either.

When I told Professor G that the book had been sent back, he reacted in a fashion that was completely in character with his personality. He started advancing on me, speaking loudly. In my attempt to put some distance between us I backed right into a wall. He had me cornered and grabbed the sides of my unzipped jacket. I could not say anything at that moment. All I knew was that something had gone terribly wrong and I was afraid.

He let go of me when one of the other professors came out of his office to see what was happening. With a casual "Is everything alright here?" Professor G came to his senses and backed off. I collected my wits and fled without another word.

I don't wrestle with whether I did the right thing. Had I known what was to come in the next month, that friendships would be irretrievably broken, that the Director of Housing would treat me like a criminal, that the administration would attempt to slap the label of sexual harassment on the situation because they could not find another label to fit, I still would have reported him.

I admit, I did not make it easy for the school. For one, I turned down the option of dropping Professor G's class. I am pretty certain that I could have walked away with whatever grade I currently had (which turned out to be an A), but I could not do that. If I had, I would have been afraid of him, and I did not want to be afraid.

For another, I rebuffed every single attempt that the administration made to turn it into sexual harassment. Professor G may have suffered a lapse in judgment, but he never acted in a sexually inappropriate manner towards myself and I never observed him act in such a manner towards other women. He would have acted exactly the same if I had been a male instead of a female. While a male student may have brushed the incident off, I could not. Male or female, the second he laid a hand on a student, he crossed the line.

In the end, Professor G was not granted tenure and moved on to teach at several other colleges. As far as I know, he is still teaching.

As for myself, I understand firsthand the difference between what is right and what is easy.

Get Out of My Lane!

I changed my workout schedule to mornings three weeks ago to get myself out of a rut. It has been a long three weeks adjusting to the new time schedule and I hope it will pay off in the long run. The upside of working out early (as I do not have to BE at work until 9am) is that I get to lift and swim. The downside is that I go to work tired (temporary) and very hungry.

I have one thing to say to three people who enter the pool area, usually after I have been doing laps for 15 minutes.

GET OUT OF MY LANE.

Seriously. Get out. I don't understand why you find it necessary to push me out of my lane every single damn time I'm in the pool. Is it because I look younger than anyone else there, so you think I'm an easy target? I'm really sorry that you suffer from anxiety when separated from your best friend and pool buddy, but you are a grownup. I'm not talking about when the pool is crowded either. I'm talking about stealing my lane while I am swimming when half of the lanes are open and just happen to be the ones you don't like. If you want your favorite lap location get up earlier. Did not your mother teach you any manners at all?

Changes

I ordered my new laptop yesterday.

I ordered a 14" iBook G4/1.42GHz, 1GB memory/100GB hard drive, OS Tiger 10.4. I could not purchase it at the Apple store (More on that experience in a minute) because of the larger hard drive.

Because of the nature of my employment I have used Macintosh computers more frequently over the past two years. I have come to respect the design and function of Apple's machines enough that I have been lusting after one for over a year.

What I was not impressed by was my experience at the Apple Store. I blame 85% of the negative experience on a group of men who somehow managed to take up 3 of the 5 members of the floor staff, even though only 1 of them was actually purchasing a computer. I blame the other 15% on poor training and scheduling, as the ability to extricate oneself from a mob is a necessity and proper scheduling is a must when working in sales. It took an hour to corner a harried, but cultishly friendly salesperson, and discover that they could not put a new hard drive in at the store. More memory? Yes. Larger hard drive? No?

Home we went. The next morning I took a deep breath and placed my order. My current machine, a trusty and highly functioning IBM Thinkpad A31 will be cleared of it's 20GB of music and turned over to my husband. Although I am reserving the right to claim it back occasionally to play "The Sims" until I get a Windows emulator set up on the new machine.

Now I wait. A week seems like a long time right now.

Training

I have been training for our (still theoretical) trip to Argentina next summer.

Unfortunately, it has not been going well.

I am not athletic. To be athletic implies that a person has adequate amounts of grace and co-ordination needed to run and kick, dribble, throw or hit a ball. Since I can do none of the above and can break bones by standing on a low bench, my options for exercise are limited to walking and swimming.

In addition to my lack of co-ordination I have one bad knee, and chronic inflammation of the sciatic nerve on my right side.

Sciatica is one of those weird ailments that you think strike only the elderly until you wake up one day with pain so bad that it takes 15 minutes to get out of bed. One night, I went to bed feeling fine and woke up unable to walk. I did not have insurance, so the best I could hope for was that the pain went away. Eventually it did.

Once I had insurance, I saw a physician. X-rays were taken and discussions were held. In the end I was handed a diagnosis (Sciatica) and told to keep doing what I was already doing - swimming, free weights, yoga and walking. Apparently, while the condition is recurring, the best therapy is regular exercise and two ibuprofen.

So training moves slowly.

Accident Artifact

In my study sits an old wooden work bench. It was put together with tongue and groove construction and glue. No nails. I use it as a footstool to prop my feet on while I write. Other purposes this bench has served is as an entertainment center (television on top, vcr suspended between the two supports below), a bed-side table and a rib-breaker.

Literally. I broke two of my ribs on that bench.

In the fall of 1996 I was single and alone on a Friday night with nothing to do and no desire to go anywhere. I decided to hang my bedroom curtains, a menial job I had been putting off.

Rather than walk to the other end of the apartment and grab one of my sturdy kitchen chairs, I decided to use the bench, currently serving as a beside table. Tall enough that I could reach the curtain rods, thread the curtains through and replace the rods, it seemed like a very good idea at the time.

An additional, rather important detail: The feet of this bench are placed three inches in on both sides.

While attempting to straighten a curtain, I moved too far over to the left side of the bench. The bench titled up two legs, towards my body. I fell directly into one of the not-very-rounded corners, breaking two ribs on the right side of my body.

While I remember the pain, I cannot adequately describe what it felt like to have two bones split apart. I remember spending a very long time on the floor after I fell, mainly wishing that my cats would come back and comfort me.

I was also uninsured at the time. I could not afford to call an ambulance and I was in too much pain (and far too poor) to drag myself to my car and drive to the hospital. I called my mother, a registered nurse, instead.

I spent the next six weeks popping the painkillers I was prescribed when I totaled my car earlier that summer, applying bags of corn directly to the site of the break and trying (in vain, as it turned out) to keep my two cats from walking over me while I slept. The latter lead to the worst-pain-I-ever-felt-number-2, when my 15 pound black cat decided to use my body as a conduit from the foot to the head of the bed and stepped directly on the break.

I keep the bench as a reminder to not be stupid when it comes to hanging curtains.

Cathedral of Notre-Dame, Chartres

While walking through the village of Chartres, we heard a voice call out "Excuse me, do you speak English?"

Four women from Thailand were involved in an argument with a local resident over a meter. They were trying to feed it. An elderly man, who spoke neither English nor Thai, was preventing the process by placing his hand over the slot.

J and I acknowledged our command of our native language and attempted to sort out the dispute. The man started speaking (rapidly, with much gesturing and facial expression) directly to me.

"What is he telling you?" one of the women asked.

"I don't know" I replied. "I don't speak a word of French".

At this announcement the entire group, including the man, burst into laughter.

Eventually it was sorted out. It was an off day for parking and the meter did not have to be fed. They agreed to put their money away for another day and we cheerfully exchanged "bonjour's!" with our new friend.

During our walk back up to the the cathedral grounds we exchanged our impressions of France. J and I were scheduled to return home Thursday of that week and the women had arrived in Paris that morning, rented a car and were embarking on a two-week driving tour of France, with Chartres as their first stop. Aside from a truly embarrassing moment when I confused the countries of Thailand and Taiwan (which provoked more laughter) it was the most natural conversation I ever experienced with absolute strangers.

On 24 December 2004, less than two months after our magical encounter, the coastline of Thailand was devastated when an earthquake in the Indian Ocean triggered a tsunami. Did those women survive? Did they lose a parent, a husband, a child? Or were the losses just things, like photographs of J and I, taken steps outside the shadows of Chartres Cathedral?

Sunday Tea

If you are ever in the neighborhood of 37 Rue de Bucherie, Paris on a sunday afternoon, stop at George Whitman's Shakespeare & Company.

If you are lucky, you will be invited to climb the stairs to the fourth floor and take tea with the owner. The table is large, the tea is served in baby food jars and the walls are papered in books. In one corner stands the world's most comfortable camp bed, piled high with thin old blankets and comfortably worn pillows. The primary color palette, from books to table, chairs to shelves, pillows to blankets is brown, splashed with yellow and faded red.

If you are lucky, Parisians and expatriates will crowd into the room, to practice their English or refresh a memory of home. One will argue that you cannot be American, because your accent sounds British (the side effect of too many Victorian novels maybe?), another will be kind enough to correct your bad French, recommended must-see's of French cinema, and share his hopes of graduate school.

If you are (un)lucky, four o'clock will come quickly and the owner himself, 91 year old George Whitman, will storm into the room, shut off all the lights and throw you out by sending you down the stairs through the black door.

If you were there, Sunday, 17 October 2004, thank you for being so kind to a muddled traveler.

Why I Don't Travel With Family (His)

Early in our marriage, my mother-in-law, M, arranged a family day trip to the Sight and Sound Millennium Theatre in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. She purchased tickets for the theatre'’s production of Noah, the Musical”.

It was an plan conceived out of a desire to provide her family with a day'’s worth of fun so wholesome that all adults in the party would feel like they were eating saccharine straight from the tiny little packets.

It was a dreadful idea.

I am not a morning person. I get up early (around 5:45 most mornings) by necessity, not preference. Left to my natural rhythms, I am most productive when I am permitted to stay up until 2 or 3 am and sleep until 10 or 11.

The summer we attended this show, I was on break (I worked for a school) and had been able to slip into my natural cycle. Getting up early to go see an overtly religious play 6 hours from home was definitely NOT my idea of a good day. But we were freshly married, having financial problems and had been "“persuaded" in joining the rest of the gang under the premise that " “it will be nice for the two you to escape your problems for a few hours!"”

Incident #1: The walkie-talkies.
My father-in-law, bless his control freakish heart, purchased two sets at the flea market and passed them out in such a manner that all cars could be in contact with all other vehicles in the caravan. What ensued was 6 hours of listening to my husband's two nephews act their age. The only elaboration I can add is fart jokes. Six hours straight of fart jokes.

Incident #2: The "Train Museum".
Lancaster County hosts some nice outlet stores, including QVC. Because we left home so early, we had 2.5 hours to kill before the show. My sister-in-law and myself campaigned for a stop at the QVC outlet. We even got a majority agreement.

Instead, we had to stop and spend an hour looking at a boxcar left near a tiny tourist trap in the middle of a cornfield. We were outvoted by my husband's (then) two year old nephew and my father-in-law. Near the boxcar was set of shops selling fudge and generic tourist junk.

My father-in-law swears to this day that he thought it was a museum. Funny, the rest of us saw it for what it was - a tourist trap. You could not even climb in the car. It sat there like a siren, luring us to purchase overpriced t-shirts and bad fudge.

Incident #3: What do you get when you take a child who is afraid of the dark and afraid of animals to see Noah in a theatre?
Answer: You get a child who screams bloody murder for 30 minutes straight before the show. Directly into my ear. Without coming up for a breath. Neither of his parents saw the show, as they spent the entire performance outside the theatre.

Incident #4: What do you get when you try to interfere with a parent's attempt at discipline?
Answer: You get a very tired, very angry sister-in-law screaming at her father in the middle of a crowd of 500 people. We were standing 20 feet away and we could hear her clearly.

Incident #5: So where do you eat in Pennsylvania Dutch Country?
You eat at Hoss's. There is no more to be said about the subject.

Conclusion:

1. A massive migraine.
2. A guided trip to and from the rest stop bathroom due to the urgent removal of contacts lenses and the failure to bring my glasses.
   
3. A vow to never go on another trip of any duration with his family again.

Almost five years later I remain steadfast.

Lovers by the Seine

"Lovers by the Seine" is my favorite moment on film. J and I were walking across one of the bridges and I saw the two sleeping in each others arms on the quay. It was too cliche of a moment to not get it on film.

People who see this photo always ask why I did not zoom in more on the couple. I don't think the picture would have worked as well without the frame of stone and water. They lie so close to the edge of the quay, without any fear of falling in because they have each other.

Defining Oneself

"Belletristic": A writer of belles-lettres; written and regarded for aesthetic value rather than content.
Synonyms include: academic, bookish, literary and liberal.

"Cat": A small carnivorous mammal (Felis catus or F. domesticus) domesticated since early times as a catcher of rats and mice and as a pet and existing in several distinctive breeds and varieties. A spiteful woman.
Synonyms include: puss, tabby, kitty, mouser and admirer.

So what?

Many years ago, I went through a period when I wrote a lot. Primarily letters to friends and family. Many of these letters were typed on my computer's word processing program and I have been very fortunate, three computers later, to still retain a file of missives. Letter writing was my way of absorbing the unfolding events in my life.

Lately inspired by Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate, I have decided to resurrect my desire to tell stories by, well, telling stories.

As for the blog name, I love to read and like cats. But I am not spiteful.