Facebook is full of FAIL, and yet I am suckered into it like anyone else. What I really love is when I get a friend request from someone I don't know, don't have any friends in common with, and proves to be totally, 100% disgusting.
With that I give you Stevey and his wonderwall:
I think my favorite in that list is "Cheese or Oral Sex?" I would like to know if, in the history of humankind, someone has ever had to choose between the two. I'm pretty sure you can have both, if that's what you desire. I didn't realize they competed against each other often enough to warrant a Facebook group.
Lest you think Stevey is some sort of PERVERT, let it be known:
I thought my mind had been blown when we got cartooned. Then Sara found out that someone had entered us into LiveJournal popculture notoriety. Witness this dedication! My personal favorite.
Theeeen, as if that wasn't totally dudical, Siddhartha Mitter from WNYC interviewed me, Sara, Baratunde Thurston, and Julie Klausner. You can catch it online!
But then shit got REALLY crunk because The New Yorker invited us to work their festival this weekend which meant we got into a super swank opening party resulting in amazingness.
Yes, Sara has blogged about it because she is not full of molasses like sorry ole me, but the following ensued (after a lot of champagne):
1. I told author Jeffrey Eugenides (author of Virgin Suicides and Middlesex): “I really loved Middlesex. I have read it repeatedly, and I really relate to it, although I’m not a hermaphrodite.”
2. I thrust a drunken fist in the air at the sight of Alan Cumming's Barack the Vote tshirt and he gave me a peace sign. LOVE.
3. I witnessed a very pretty, very tiny Regina Specktor talking to a trio of hipster douchebags.
4. Sam and I rode the elevator up with Oliver Stone and his posse.
5. Salman Rushdie was walking around and I had to restrain myself (I was only 2 champagnes in so this was still possible) from whispering to him "Padma's a bitch" and then running out of the room.
6. On the walk up Park Avenue towards our homeland, Istarted playing with garbage, including a discarded bra and a shoe, and threw them in the air because I was feeling like Mary Fucking Tyler Moore:
7. Ended up sitting on a sofa across from WESCRAVEN and his amazing, beautiful, warm, friendly wife Iya Labunka (producer on Heathers) and having a butt ass long conversation full of wonder. Highlights included:
- Telling Wes Craven: "My brothers got years of mileage terrifying me with fanfic enchanced Freddy Krueger stories, 'SO THANKS A LOT, WES!'"
- Calling him WESCRAVEN at every possible opportunity.
- Talking about zero gravity sex (Buzz, Neil, we all agreed you probably cranked one off in space).
- Hearing the awesome tale of how Iya and Wes met.
That was pretty much the best party I ever went to. It was also very pretty in that hotel with light bulbs on the ceiling.
And the next day we got to perform at the New Yorker Festival's Humor Panel for 350 people. We were the fluffers for the panel. Witness the happiness.
WITNESS US MEETING Samantha Bee, who is soooo funny and nice in person (and even prettier).
If you thought the story was going to stop here, you were wrong. Because then, by some miracle, we got to meet Margaret Cho that same night. I have the pictures to prove it.
I'm not quite sure how a weekend like that can be topped!
Y'all I am not feeling Blogger as of late. Blogging in general was kind of riding my jock in an way I did not enjoy. Some jock riding is pleasurable. But this kind was chafing. So I've switched to Tumblr because it's what all the cool kids who read Gawker do. Also, I kind of like how I can just post a pic and be done with it.
I have been MIA from this blog, but for good reason. Usually it's laziness or boredom, but this time my reasons are valid.
Back in February 2002, one week before getting married, Sam and I adopted a kitten. Unemployed, depressed, and bored I had felt like getting a pet would be a good idea. We were living in New Zealand at the time and it is truly a country of cat lovers. I never had a cat before, only dogs my whole life. But I had befriended a neighborhood cat a year earlier in New Zealand and I was becoming a convert.
At the shelter, I was put in a room full of kittens. Four of them were playing frantically with each other, one sat slightly off to the side watching, and another one used its little claws to climb up my pants. I was a little freaked out by this needy cat. He would hiss if any other cat approached me. They were all equally cute, but I was on the look out for personality.
That's when I had a second look at the kitten sitting off to the side observing. He was a little white ball of fluff with patches of grey tabby and beautifully lined eyes. I sat down next to him and placed him on my lap. He sat there, so calm, so content and looked up at me for a good minute. I was sold.
We named him Boo because he was so dear. One of our first wedding photos is of Sam and I cuddled up with a tiny kitten Boo. He was officially part of our family.
Our apartment was located on a hill with a low brick walled path making its way to the stairs. When Sam and I would return home from work, we could see his little striped tail making its way down the path - he was always waiting for us eagerly at the end of the day.
Not even two years after adopting him, we decided to move to the States. We didn't have any family or close friends that we could leave Boo with, and truth be told, we couldn't deal with losing him. Thankfully, Boo is a calm, accepting, relaxed cat who traveled well.
Never much of an adventurer, Boo adjusted pretty well to being an indoor cat. He has been with us through so much. Sam and I sleep with Boo every night. Sam is the biggest spoon, Boo is the littlest.
And now he is very, very ill.
Boo is fighting very hard right now. And true to form, he's been as sweet and calm and steady as always. This week we have learned that Boo has a bacterial infection in his liver, diabetes, and yesterday he threw a clot that has weakened his hind legs.
I'm not sure my little guy is going to make it. I know Sam and I will do as much as we can to help him live a good life. Last night we camped out with a mattress on our living room floor and tended to Boo to get him his food, water, and into the litter box. Whenever one of us is out of view, he looks around - waiting for us.
He is eating and drinking well. He is grooming himself. He is able to move his back legs better than yesterday. He is resting and generally being adorable.
This cat is worth more to me than any other pet I've had. Sam jokes that Boo is my familiar - and I can't disagree with that too much. We have a very special connection. Losing him will be one of the hardest things I've ever had to face. I know that makes me lucky - I have had the good fortune of not having to face a lot of loss in my life. And as much as I can tell myself "people have to watch their children die of AIDS and/or starvation in Africa and here you are losing your shit over a cat" I can't help but want to do all I can to make this little cat healthy and happy again.
Seriously, I am willing to pull some Pet Sematary type shenanigans.
If you're reading this and have a pet, give him or her a cuddle. Let them know how much they're loved every chance you get.
As for Boo, all we can do is hope that this clot was a result of his liver infection and watch out for another one. Tomorrow he goes to the vet again. If you're into hippie bullshit or that whole God thing, or maybe you believe in the power of positive thinking, here's a picture of Boo. Please wish him the best, whatever that might mean.
I was a chubby kid in the 1980s. This meant a lot of things for me: t-shirts over bathing suits, a shameful two year run of performing in nursing homes and community theaters as Shirley Temple, and overfed corduroy thighs rubbing against each other loudly in school hallways. Mostly, I found a way to make chubby work for me, which is probably why I haven't strayed too far for too long from it in life.
As I got older, the chubbiness came to be a worry. It became something that my mother decided must to be dealt with. In a spirit of misguided camaraderie, my mother decided to sign us up for a Jazzercise class. This both depressed and enraged me.
Why was I stuck in a local school's gym with middle-aged housewives doing the grapevine to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" when I could be sitting at home, finishing my stack of Ramony Quimby books? Why were these women using soup cans as weights? Why did my equally sedentary video game addicted brothers not have to partake in this hell?
The good news was, the classes stopped. My mother's dislike of group activities was, I thought, a win for me. I envisioned aerobics free Saturdays for miles. Peaceful afternoons spent reading in my room or drawing. But those dreams were smashed when she showed up with a newer, even more sinister fat-busting weapon in her arsenal.
I was familiar with the concept because I was inundated with their ads.
These tireless, slim, long haired tween succubi had spent weeks taunting me on TV with their belted leotards. How was I supposed to enjoy my episodes of Jem and Little House on the Prairie with these sluts prancing around and "working out" with fucking pom poms? (If you would like to contest me on the slut charge, I offer you seconds :10 through :12 of blatant whore moves that baton girl is working in addition to the commercial's denouement - a preteen girl closes out every commercial with a perky bending over motion.)
Hope you're in shape enough to hold that position for the rest of your life! Because you're fucked!
I was conflicted. The toy was purchased and a shame spiral began - maybe it really was this easy! Maybe the only difference between me and the skinny girls was that I hadn't twirled batons!
I did not half ass this. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, these kits were the key to a new me I decided to go all the way. Equipped with a battery operated boom box, I marched to our front lawn, sweatbands firmly fixed to my forehead, weighted bracelets on my wrists, ready to usher in a newer, bouncier, slimmer Diana. The kind of Diana that would no longer have to go to the husky department at Sears or have to play Santa at the next Christmas play.
At the time, I was sure that my moves were unrivaled. I thought I may well have been tapping into some unknown source of grace and talent that would have otherwise never been discovered. This was finally my ticket to being the sexier child the ads had promised!
What my neighbors witnessed, however, was an afro-ed, tubby eight-year-old furiously waving a rhythmic ribbon, several palsied attempts at baton twirling, and the heart-wrenching sound of me singing La Isla Bonita.
Mercifully, at some point I realized that light baton twirling and multiple failed attempts at the bicycle were not going to turn me into someone else. I would give up Get In Shape, Girl! for Sit On My Ass, Girl! which I could do with little risk of public humiliation and only slightly less self-loathing.
It was almost two years ago that I believed that America, as a nation, was doomed and would continue on a breathtaking downward slide in almost every arena. What brought me to this conclusion?
Someone named "Sumthin" shitting on a floor on Flavor of Love.
Greenlit cable dating show from established production company seeks mentally disabled male and female contestants of all ages and races.
"Single and Special" will be a tasteful mix of "The Bachelor" and "Life Goes On." "Single and Special" already has the endorsement of the Special Olympics. Pilot available upon request.
Tri-State area contestants preferred. Will have mental health care professionals on set at all times.
Please email photo and short bio, with dating history, to SingleandSpecial@gmail.com.
Which makes me wonder - did they have a replacement all along and just wait until someone noticed and was upset or did they have some finger puppet maker on lockdown to whip up something "a little less racist?"
This weekend was Passover, and my friend's two year old son was sent home with a very special lesson from his Jewish day care center. He was given a plague kit to chew on over the weekend:
The bubble wrap is inspired, and also, if boils were that much fun to pop, I'd be begging for them. I was impressed by the macabre nature of this kit. I'd really thought Catholics had cornered the market on gruesome religious paraphernalia for children, but damn, this is good. I'm not sure it quite takes it to the level that my Martyrdom of the Saints coloring book that I had back in the day, but it's quite the contender.
While I'm down with plague games for kids, wanna know what I'm not down with?
Can I get a....
If you're so inclined, I'd suggest contacting the sellers and asking them to come up with another representation of "Darkness" that isn't reliant on racial hatred. What is the message? "I AM CURSED WITH THE PLAGUE OF BEING BLACK...IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!" Damn.
This entire week I have woken up no later than 6 a.m. In Diana world, this is unheard of. The jet lag, friends, is heady stuff.
What can I say about New Zealand that will do it justice? To get a bit sappy, New Zealand nourishes what's left of my soul. If you can look at any of these completely unaltered photographs, imagine yourself in that scene, and not feel awe, look in the mirror because you may no longer cast a reflection.
Tonight I got to see a close friend of mine, Erin Jackson, on stage for Comedy Central's "Live At Gotham" and it was amazing to see her up there. I'll skip the sappy details of me getting misty eyed, but I will just say that not only was she hilarious, but she looked BEAUTIFUL!
Sometimes tranny midgets with sinister cackles and haunting dance moves are not enough to scare me shitless. Sometimes I need something stronger than just contemplating the expansion of the universe to shake me of that nasty habit I have of sleeping soundly at night. Thankfully, there's this to keep us all awake and re-enacting the last scene from The Blair Witch:
Y'all, I think I caught the bird flu or some shit. I am celebrating today because it's the first time I have a normal temperature. I am still mouth breathing hardcore, like Puffy Combs, but I am grateful for the loss of the fever. Can anyone educate me as to why the flu makes your entire body sore?
On a totally serious tip, here, I want all of my girlfriends to read this excerpt titled "Love Your Fat Self". It doesn't matter if you're fat or skinny, it's some shit that people need to read. I am constantly amazed by the lack of discussion on the psychology of being overweight. Losing weight is really not that difficult. It's a simple formula we all know. Keeping weight off over a lifetime is what is nigh impossible, and a lot of that has to do with the fact that we keep neglecting how much emotion is tied up with our relationship to food.
Here are some chicken nuggets of goodness:
Thirty-five percent of those who diet go on to yo-yo diet, dragging their bodies through a cycle of weight gains and losses; 25 percent of those who diet develop partial- or full-syndrome eating disorders. As the mindfulness expert Susan Albers writes: “The dieting mind-set is akin to taking a knife and cutting the connection that is your body’s only line of communication with your head.” There is little hope for long-term improvement in health when this vital line is severed.
A starving person can ache just as deeply inside a thin body. Our dissatisfaction is never, at its deepest, about our bodies. This is why fat women and thin women often experience the world in similar ways. If a thin woman feels inadequate and “thinks fat,” she may endure less hate coming from the outside in than a fat woman does, but just as much criticism and sadness from the inside out. Likewise, if a woman of any size is able to stop her negative self-talk and accept herself, she may experience the world with a little peace of mind.
In fact, studies show that prolonged weight loss is more often the result of psychological work. In a two-year study conducted by nutrition researchers at the University of California, Davis, behavior change and self-acceptance were far more effective in achieving long-term health improvements in obese women than America’s most lucrative scam: dieting.
Gareth’s monologue provokes a storm of self-reflection. I would never say anything rude to a fat man or woman about his or her weight, but would I think it? I preach tolerance, but would I consider dating someone who is overweight? When I compliment Gareth on her new haircut, is there a part of me that feels relieved that she is undeniably beautiful despite being fat? Do I identify her anger more quickly than I would a thinner friend’s? Do I patronize her by complimenting her eyes, her sense of humor, her determination—as if the rest of her doesn’t exist?
Just as racism is not primarily about frightened white women clutching their purses but about the seemingly mundane, unconscious voices in our heads—Why do black girls have to be so loud? That Latina woman is probably a great nanny. This new Asian guy is probably really smart—sizeism is not about the drunken man who screams “fat bitch” at Gareth on the subway as much as it is about the march of hateful inner monologues: That girl would be so pretty if she would just lose some weight. I wonder what’s wrong with her, must be lazy. This fat bitch is taking up more than her share of the bus seat.
Last night I displayed my love for my husband by agreeing to watch Chris Matthews for several hours, covering the Iowa Caucus. His thin, rubbery, chicken lips frighten me. I cannot look away as they glisten under the lights. I lose track of what's being said because I am fixated by his thin lip ribbons and the amount of spittle and spray they generate. But, yesterday, I took one for the team and said nary a word about the saliva fireworks pouring from his slit of a mouth.
I have used the result of 2004 as an excuse to engage in true political apathy. Things are heating up, however, and I can't lie and say I didn't feel a twinge of hope in my fossilized political heart last night.
It's at this point that I need to get right to the point and tell you, under no uncertain terms, that I believe Huckabee to be the tool of Satan. Now, I don't actually believe in God, but I believe in Satan, and Huckabee is his meat puppet.
Charges: What's worse, a calculating politician pretending to be a devout Christian, or a genuine heartland preacher who didn't come from no monkey? Huckabee is both -- a Southern Baptist who rejects Darwin, wants to give everyone a gun and thinks people with AIDS should be quarantined, and a seedy, corrupt politician who's never seen a payoff so low he won't stoop to pick it up. Democrats see Huckabee as easily defeated in a general election, but they shouldn't be so sure -- Smooth talking preachers tend to do well in this country. Huckabee is well-spoken, kind-faced, and the opposite of wordly -- he's Obama for hicks.
Exhibit A: "I got into politics because I knew government didn't have the real answers, that the real answers lie in accepting Jesus Christ into our lives... I hope we answer the alarm clock and take this nation back for Christ."
Sentence: Just as he's about to win the GOP nomination, a freak gust of wind catches Huckabee's excess skin and carries him out over the Atlantic, where he drifts for hours before God appears to him, tells him He's a Unitarian, and sends him to hell.
Genius. However, I really feel that the artist responsible for the piece could have done more with that text than have this goober's face poking out of a corn field. This is what I would have liked to see: Huckabee soaring through the air, his pliant, supple folds of excess flesh volplaning him across the heartland where swarms of calico-clad homeschooled virgins breathlessly await their shepherd, hands in the air, giving praise to the Great Huckabee Sugar Glider in the Sky.
If anyone wanted to actually photoshop something more artful, I'd be happy to post it. I have no ability to even somewhat gracefully attach a Huckabee head to a sugar glider's body. Make do. Let my words form the picture.
I particularly enjoyed how Huckabee had Chuck Norris and his hot wife front and center during his victory speech. Mama Huckabee has been shunted off to the side. But, hey, I guess she should just be grateful he let one member of his family on stage.
The other night I was eating in a Cuban restaurant when the piercing voice of a total ear rapist ruined my meal. I turned and saw that the voice was coming from a total skillet-face - the kind who cannot be shamed non-verbally into STFU. Triple bonus points because this girl was on what appeared to be a first date. Here are some pearls of political and racial wisdom that came from her very Caucasian mouth:
"Obama is just as much white as he is black. If he wins, it's not like a big deal for black people or anything."
"He was raised by white people, so he's pretty much just white."
"I'm just saying black people shouldn't be all about him because he's not really black."
I think Obama would be really hyped to hear that a white Columbia grad student on the Upper West Side has officially weighed in on his racial status as "not really black."
But I will depart from my usual negativity and say that this morning I am feeling long dormant pangs of hope.
If you couldn't infer from previous comments, I'm not what you would call a religious person. While raised to believe in the J-man (and I remain a big fan of his purported work) and Catholicism, I have since my late teen years been pretty agnostic. It came on rather suddenly, but it has stuck for the most part. There have been times when I have wondered what to call myself. The word atheist brings up rather gross associations involving strident university students who gather when their Magik and LARP schedules allow to scoff at people and their religions. I'm not really interested in that.
My interest in talking about my own views only comes up when someone else's views try to dictate my actions. Then I get strident.
In a country where 92% of the population believes in God, and atheists are ranked as the least trustworthy citizens in the land, it would be nice and inspiring to see more people make their lack of faith public. It is tiresome to have to explain to someone how you can actually have morality without religion. That is sadly a brand new concept to a lot of people.
So, with all this said, I present to you a very good piece of reading by Sam Harris. It is food for thought...a large Christy waifer for the non-believing brain. I've extracted some of my favorite excerpts for your reading pleasure!
I never thought of myself as an atheist before ....I think that “atheist” is a term that we do not need, in the same way that we don’t need a word for someone who rejects astrology. We simply do not call people “non-astrologers.” All we need are words like “reason” and “evidence” and “common sense” and “bullshit” to put astrologers in their place...
We are faced with the monumental task of persuading a myth-infatuated world that love and curiosity are sufficient, and that we need not console or frighten ourselves or our children with Iron Age fairy tales. I don’t think there is a more important intellectual struggle to win...
So, let me make my somewhat seditious proposal explicit: We should not call ourselves “atheists.” We should not call ourselves “secularists.” We should not call ourselves “humanists,” or “secular humanists,” or “naturalists,” or “skeptics,” or “anti-theists,” or “rationalists,” or “freethinkers,” or “brights.” We should not call ourselves anything. We should go under the radar—for the rest of our lives. And while there, we should be decent, responsible people who destroy bad ideas wherever we find them.
Now, it just so happens that religion has more than its fair share of bad ideas. And it remains the only system of thought, where the process of maintaining bad ideas in perpetual immunity from criticism is considered a sacred act. This is the act of faith. And I remain convinced that religious faith is one of the most perverse misuses of intelligence we have ever devised. So we will, inevitably, continue to criticize religious thinking. But we should not define ourselves and name ourselves in opposition to such thinking.
What stood out to me about Harris' speech is not only how he acknowledges the human need for something larger, something most people call spirituality, but he tackles a very large misconception that non-believers exist to spoil everyone's good time.
My concern is that atheism can easily become the position of not being interested in certain possibilities in principle. I don’t know if our universe is, as JBS Haldane said, “not only stranger than we suppose, but stranger than we can suppose.” But I am sure that it is stranger than we, as “atheists,” tend to represent while advocating atheism. As “atheists” we give others, and even ourselves, the sense that we are well on our way toward purging the universe of mystery. As advocates of reason, we know that mystery is going to be with us for a very long time. Indeed, there are good reasons to believe that mystery is ineradicable from our circumstance, because however much we know, it seems like there will always be brute facts that we cannot account for but which we must rely upon to explain everything else. This may be a problem for epistemology but it is not a problem for human life and for human solidarity. It does not rob our lives of meaning. And it is not a barrier to human happiness.
I may be in a huge minority in this country but I can't help but be really sold by the majority of what Harris is presenting here.
Sorry this entry wasn't so much fun. Hopefully I'll be able to work something completely inane next time.
Facebook is full of FAIL, and yet I am suckered into it like anyone else. What I really love is when I get a friend request from someone I don't know, don't have any friends in common with, and proves to be totally, 100% disgusting.
With that I give you Stevey and his wonderwall:
I think my favorite in that list is "Cheese or Oral Sex?" I would like to know if, in the history of humankind, someone has ever had to choose between the two. I'm pretty sure you can have both, if that's what you desire. I didn't realize they competed against each other often enough to warrant a Facebook group.
Lest you think Stevey is some sort of PERVERT, let it be known:
I thought my mind had been blown when we got cartooned. Then Sara found out that someone had entered us into LiveJournal popculture notoriety. Witness this dedication! My personal favorite.
Theeeen, as if that wasn't totally dudical, Siddhartha Mitter from WNYC interviewed me, Sara, Baratunde Thurston, and Julie Klausner. You can catch it online!
But then shit got REALLY crunk because The New Yorker invited us to work their festival this weekend which meant we got into a super swank opening party resulting in amazingness.
Yes, Sara has blogged about it because she is not full of molasses like sorry ole me, but the following ensued (after a lot of champagne):
1. I told author Jeffrey Eugenides (author of Virgin Suicides and Middlesex): “I really loved Middlesex. I have read it repeatedly, and I really relate to it, although I’m not a hermaphrodite.”
2. I thrust a drunken fist in the air at the sight of Alan Cumming's Barack the Vote tshirt and he gave me a peace sign. LOVE.
3. I witnessed a very pretty, very tiny Regina Specktor talking to a trio of hipster douchebags.
4. Sam and I rode the elevator up with Oliver Stone and his posse.
5. Salman Rushdie was walking around and I had to restrain myself (I was only 2 champagnes in so this was still possible) from whispering to him "Padma's a bitch" and then running out of the room.
6. On the walk up Park Avenue towards our homeland, Istarted playing with garbage, including a discarded bra and a shoe, and threw them in the air because I was feeling like Mary Fucking Tyler Moore:
7. Ended up sitting on a sofa across from WESCRAVEN and his amazing, beautiful, warm, friendly wife Iya Labunka (producer on Heathers) and having a butt ass long conversation full of wonder. Highlights included:
- Telling Wes Craven: "My brothers got years of mileage terrifying me with fanfic enchanced Freddy Krueger stories, 'SO THANKS A LOT, WES!'"
- Calling him WESCRAVEN at every possible opportunity.
- Talking about zero gravity sex (Buzz, Neil, we all agreed you probably cranked one off in space).
- Hearing the awesome tale of how Iya and Wes met.
That was pretty much the best party I ever went to. It was also very pretty in that hotel with light bulbs on the ceiling.
And the next day we got to perform at the New Yorker Festival's Humor Panel for 350 people. We were the fluffers for the panel. Witness the happiness.
WITNESS US MEETING Samantha Bee, who is soooo funny and nice in person (and even prettier).
If you thought the story was going to stop here, you were wrong. Because then, by some miracle, we got to meet Margaret Cho that same night. I have the pictures to prove it.
I'm not quite sure how a weekend like that can be topped!
WTF? who ARE you? and how can I be you when I grow up? So EXCITING!!! Padma is a bitch, what does she know about food? She's so tiny? And Margaret Cho... have you showered yet? If not I'm gonna hunt you down in the city tonite and touch you... because you touched her and a third degree touch is as good as me being there myself ;)
I heart Margaret Cho so much I would have hugged her.
I know you were happy because in the picture with Cho you smiled with your teeth. Toothy grin = childlike glee. Your husband will probably never be able to make you cum again, and it's all WESCRAVEN's fault!
Y'all I am not feeling Blogger as of late. Blogging in general was kind of riding my jock in an way I did not enjoy. Some jock riding is pleasurable. But this kind was chafing. So I've switched to Tumblr because it's what all the cool kids who read Gawker do. Also, I kind of like how I can just post a pic and be done with it.
A Very Special Blog Entry: Diana Learns About Life's Unfairness (Again)
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I have been MIA from this blog, but for good reason. Usually it's laziness or boredom, but this time my reasons are valid.
Back in February 2002, one week before getting married, Sam and I adopted a kitten. Unemployed, depressed, and bored I had felt like getting a pet would be a good idea. We were living in New Zealand at the time and it is truly a country of cat lovers. I never had a cat before, only dogs my whole life. But I had befriended a neighborhood cat a year earlier in New Zealand and I was becoming a convert.
At the shelter, I was put in a room full of kittens. Four of them were playing frantically with each other, one sat slightly off to the side watching, and another one used its little claws to climb up my pants. I was a little freaked out by this needy cat. He would hiss if any other cat approached me. They were all equally cute, but I was on the look out for personality.
That's when I had a second look at the kitten sitting off to the side observing. He was a little white ball of fluff with patches of grey tabby and beautifully lined eyes. I sat down next to him and placed him on my lap. He sat there, so calm, so content and looked up at me for a good minute. I was sold.
We named him Boo because he was so dear. One of our first wedding photos is of Sam and I cuddled up with a tiny kitten Boo. He was officially part of our family.
Our apartment was located on a hill with a low brick walled path making its way to the stairs. When Sam and I would return home from work, we could see his little striped tail making its way down the path - he was always waiting for us eagerly at the end of the day.
Not even two years after adopting him, we decided to move to the States. We didn't have any family or close friends that we could leave Boo with, and truth be told, we couldn't deal with losing him. Thankfully, Boo is a calm, accepting, relaxed cat who traveled well.
Never much of an adventurer, Boo adjusted pretty well to being an indoor cat. He has been with us through so much. Sam and I sleep with Boo every night. Sam is the biggest spoon, Boo is the littlest.
And now he is very, very ill.
Boo is fighting very hard right now. And true to form, he's been as sweet and calm and steady as always. This week we have learned that Boo has a bacterial infection in his liver, diabetes, and yesterday he threw a clot that has weakened his hind legs.
I'm not sure my little guy is going to make it. I know Sam and I will do as much as we can to help him live a good life. Last night we camped out with a mattress on our living room floor and tended to Boo to get him his food, water, and into the litter box. Whenever one of us is out of view, he looks around - waiting for us.
He is eating and drinking well. He is grooming himself. He is able to move his back legs better than yesterday. He is resting and generally being adorable.
This cat is worth more to me than any other pet I've had. Sam jokes that Boo is my familiar - and I can't disagree with that too much. We have a very special connection. Losing him will be one of the hardest things I've ever had to face. I know that makes me lucky - I have had the good fortune of not having to face a lot of loss in my life. And as much as I can tell myself "people have to watch their children die of AIDS and/or starvation in Africa and here you are losing your shit over a cat" I can't help but want to do all I can to make this little cat healthy and happy again.
Seriously, I am willing to pull some Pet Sematary type shenanigans.
If you're reading this and have a pet, give him or her a cuddle. Let them know how much they're loved every chance you get.
As for Boo, all we can do is hope that this clot was a result of his liver infection and watch out for another one. Tomorrow he goes to the vet again. If you're into hippie bullshit or that whole God thing, or maybe you believe in the power of positive thinking, here's a picture of Boo. Please wish him the best, whatever that might mean.
Damn, you know I gots some good vibes comin' at yo cat (plus, apparently yesterday when Sam came over to get the pee strips, I was drunkenly asleep naked on the bed. But apparently Ces did not exploit this and Sam did not come inside the house. At least this is what they report.)
You guys are all in my prayers. I'm divorced at 30 and have two cats ("the girls") that I love with all my heart. Every animal who has ever crossed my path has been a huge part of my life, and every time each and every one of them has been called home by God (YES, I believe animals go to Heaven), I've mourned just as much as a regular person. People who don't understand the love you feel when you have a pet who is a part of the family are missing out on one of the many wonderful joys of life.
Boo is a gorgeous baby, and we've all got our hands and paws pressed together for you! Good luck on the results!!!!
I was a chubby kid in the 1980s. This meant a lot of things for me: t-shirts over bathing suits, a shameful two year run of performing in nursing homes and community theaters as Shirley Temple, and overfed corduroy thighs rubbing against each other loudly in school hallways. Mostly, I found a way to make chubby work for me, which is probably why I haven't strayed too far for too long from it in life.
As I got older, the chubbiness came to be a worry. It became something that my mother decided must to be dealt with. In a spirit of misguided camaraderie, my mother decided to sign us up for a Jazzercise class. This both depressed and enraged me.
Why was I stuck in a local school's gym with middle-aged housewives doing the grapevine to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" when I could be sitting at home, finishing my stack of Ramony Quimby books? Why were these women using soup cans as weights? Why did my equally sedentary video game addicted brothers not have to partake in this hell?
The good news was, the classes stopped. My mother's dislike of group activities was, I thought, a win for me. I envisioned aerobics free Saturdays for miles. Peaceful afternoons spent reading in my room or drawing. But those dreams were smashed when she showed up with a newer, even more sinister fat-busting weapon in her arsenal.
I was familiar with the concept because I was inundated with their ads.
These tireless, slim, long haired tween succubi had spent weeks taunting me on TV with their belted leotards. How was I supposed to enjoy my episodes of Jem and Little House on the Prairie with these sluts prancing around and "working out" with fucking pom poms? (If you would like to contest me on the slut charge, I offer you seconds :10 through :12 of blatant whore moves that baton girl is working in addition to the commercial's denouement - a preteen girl closes out every commercial with a perky bending over motion.)
Hope you're in shape enough to hold that position for the rest of your life! Because you're fucked!
I was conflicted. The toy was purchased and a shame spiral began - maybe it really was this easy! Maybe the only difference between me and the skinny girls was that I hadn't twirled batons!
I did not half ass this. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, these kits were the key to a new me I decided to go all the way. Equipped with a battery operated boom box, I marched to our front lawn, sweatbands firmly fixed to my forehead, weighted bracelets on my wrists, ready to usher in a newer, bouncier, slimmer Diana. The kind of Diana that would no longer have to go to the husky department at Sears or have to play Santa at the next Christmas play.
At the time, I was sure that my moves were unrivaled. I thought I may well have been tapping into some unknown source of grace and talent that would have otherwise never been discovered. This was finally my ticket to being the sexier child the ads had promised!
What my neighbors witnessed, however, was an afro-ed, tubby eight-year-old furiously waving a rhythmic ribbon, several palsied attempts at baton twirling, and the heart-wrenching sound of me singing La Isla Bonita.
Mercifully, at some point I realized that light baton twirling and multiple failed attempts at the bicycle were not going to turn me into someone else. I would give up Get In Shape, Girl! for Sit On My Ass, Girl! which I could do with little risk of public humiliation and only slightly less self-loathing.
I am adding this blog to my "Top Ten Things I Love About Diana Saez" list. We were already buds, but I think our shared Get in Shape, Girl! experiences have brought us even closer.
Don't know if I've ever told you this, and it really has nothing to do with this blog but I think I love you most because you say the things that are in my head. Now if I could only say the things that are in my head, I'd be in business ;) You're my [comedy] touchstone, Emma -- um, I mean D... I watched Terms of Endearment Wednesday nite.
It was almost two years ago that I believed that America, as a nation, was doomed and would continue on a breathtaking downward slide in almost every arena. What brought me to this conclusion?
Someone named "Sumthin" shitting on a floor on Flavor of Love.
Greenlit cable dating show from established production company seeks mentally disabled male and female contestants of all ages and races.
"Single and Special" will be a tasteful mix of "The Bachelor" and "Life Goes On." "Single and Special" already has the endorsement of the Special Olympics. Pilot available upon request.
Tri-State area contestants preferred. Will have mental health care professionals on set at all times.
Please email photo and short bio, with dating history, to SingleandSpecial@gmail.com.
Which makes me wonder - did they have a replacement all along and just wait until someone noticed and was upset or did they have some finger puppet maker on lockdown to whip up something "a little less racist?"
This weekend was Passover, and my friend's two year old son was sent home with a very special lesson from his Jewish day care center. He was given a plague kit to chew on over the weekend:
The bubble wrap is inspired, and also, if boils were that much fun to pop, I'd be begging for them. I was impressed by the macabre nature of this kit. I'd really thought Catholics had cornered the market on gruesome religious paraphernalia for children, but damn, this is good. I'm not sure it quite takes it to the level that my Martyrdom of the Saints coloring book that I had back in the day, but it's quite the contender.
While I'm down with plague games for kids, wanna know what I'm not down with?
Can I get a....
If you're so inclined, I'd suggest contacting the sellers and asking them to come up with another representation of "Darkness" that isn't reliant on racial hatred. What is the message? "I AM CURSED WITH THE PLAGUE OF BEING BLACK...IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!" Damn.
This entire week I have woken up no later than 6 a.m. In Diana world, this is unheard of. The jet lag, friends, is heady stuff.
What can I say about New Zealand that will do it justice? To get a bit sappy, New Zealand nourishes what's left of my soul. If you can look at any of these completely unaltered photographs, imagine yourself in that scene, and not feel awe, look in the mirror because you may no longer cast a reflection.
Tonight I got to see a close friend of mine, Erin Jackson, on stage for Comedy Central's "Live At Gotham" and it was amazing to see her up there. I'll skip the sappy details of me getting misty eyed, but I will just say that not only was she hilarious, but she looked BEAUTIFUL!
Sometimes tranny midgets with sinister cackles and haunting dance moves are not enough to scare me shitless. Sometimes I need something stronger than just contemplating the expansion of the universe to shake me of that nasty habit I have of sleeping soundly at night. Thankfully, there's this to keep us all awake and re-enacting the last scene from The Blair Witch:
Y'all, I think I caught the bird flu or some shit. I am celebrating today because it's the first time I have a normal temperature. I am still mouth breathing hardcore, like Puffy Combs, but I am grateful for the loss of the fever. Can anyone educate me as to why the flu makes your entire body sore?
On a totally serious tip, here, I want all of my girlfriends to read this excerpt titled "Love Your Fat Self". It doesn't matter if you're fat or skinny, it's some shit that people need to read. I am constantly amazed by the lack of discussion on the psychology of being overweight. Losing weight is really not that difficult. It's a simple formula we all know. Keeping weight off over a lifetime is what is nigh impossible, and a lot of that has to do with the fact that we keep neglecting how much emotion is tied up with our relationship to food.
Here are some chicken nuggets of goodness:
Thirty-five percent of those who diet go on to yo-yo diet, dragging their bodies through a cycle of weight gains and losses; 25 percent of those who diet develop partial- or full-syndrome eating disorders. As the mindfulness expert Susan Albers writes: “The dieting mind-set is akin to taking a knife and cutting the connection that is your body’s only line of communication with your head.” There is little hope for long-term improvement in health when this vital line is severed.
A starving person can ache just as deeply inside a thin body. Our dissatisfaction is never, at its deepest, about our bodies. This is why fat women and thin women often experience the world in similar ways. If a thin woman feels inadequate and “thinks fat,” she may endure less hate coming from the outside in than a fat woman does, but just as much criticism and sadness from the inside out. Likewise, if a woman of any size is able to stop her negative self-talk and accept herself, she may experience the world with a little peace of mind.
In fact, studies show that prolonged weight loss is more often the result of psychological work. In a two-year study conducted by nutrition researchers at the University of California, Davis, behavior change and self-acceptance were far more effective in achieving long-term health improvements in obese women than America’s most lucrative scam: dieting.
Gareth’s monologue provokes a storm of self-reflection. I would never say anything rude to a fat man or woman about his or her weight, but would I think it? I preach tolerance, but would I consider dating someone who is overweight? When I compliment Gareth on her new haircut, is there a part of me that feels relieved that she is undeniably beautiful despite being fat? Do I identify her anger more quickly than I would a thinner friend’s? Do I patronize her by complimenting her eyes, her sense of humor, her determination—as if the rest of her doesn’t exist?
Just as racism is not primarily about frightened white women clutching their purses but about the seemingly mundane, unconscious voices in our heads—Why do black girls have to be so loud? That Latina woman is probably a great nanny. This new Asian guy is probably really smart—sizeism is not about the drunken man who screams “fat bitch” at Gareth on the subway as much as it is about the march of hateful inner monologues: That girl would be so pretty if she would just lose some weight. I wonder what’s wrong with her, must be lazy. This fat bitch is taking up more than her share of the bus seat.
Last night I displayed my love for my husband by agreeing to watch Chris Matthews for several hours, covering the Iowa Caucus. His thin, rubbery, chicken lips frighten me. I cannot look away as they glisten under the lights. I lose track of what's being said because I am fixated by his thin lip ribbons and the amount of spittle and spray they generate. But, yesterday, I took one for the team and said nary a word about the saliva fireworks pouring from his slit of a mouth.
I have used the result of 2004 as an excuse to engage in true political apathy. Things are heating up, however, and I can't lie and say I didn't feel a twinge of hope in my fossilized political heart last night.
It's at this point that I need to get right to the point and tell you, under no uncertain terms, that I believe Huckabee to be the tool of Satan. Now, I don't actually believe in God, but I believe in Satan, and Huckabee is his meat puppet.
Charges: What's worse, a calculating politician pretending to be a devout Christian, or a genuine heartland preacher who didn't come from no monkey? Huckabee is both -- a Southern Baptist who rejects Darwin, wants to give everyone a gun and thinks people with AIDS should be quarantined, and a seedy, corrupt politician who's never seen a payoff so low he won't stoop to pick it up. Democrats see Huckabee as easily defeated in a general election, but they shouldn't be so sure -- Smooth talking preachers tend to do well in this country. Huckabee is well-spoken, kind-faced, and the opposite of wordly -- he's Obama for hicks.
Exhibit A: "I got into politics because I knew government didn't have the real answers, that the real answers lie in accepting Jesus Christ into our lives... I hope we answer the alarm clock and take this nation back for Christ."
Sentence: Just as he's about to win the GOP nomination, a freak gust of wind catches Huckabee's excess skin and carries him out over the Atlantic, where he drifts for hours before God appears to him, tells him He's a Unitarian, and sends him to hell.
Genius. However, I really feel that the artist responsible for the piece could have done more with that text than have this goober's face poking out of a corn field. This is what I would have liked to see: Huckabee soaring through the air, his pliant, supple folds of excess flesh volplaning him across the heartland where swarms of calico-clad homeschooled virgins breathlessly await their shepherd, hands in the air, giving praise to the Great Huckabee Sugar Glider in the Sky.
If anyone wanted to actually photoshop something more artful, I'd be happy to post it. I have no ability to even somewhat gracefully attach a Huckabee head to a sugar glider's body. Make do. Let my words form the picture.
I particularly enjoyed how Huckabee had Chuck Norris and his hot wife front and center during his victory speech. Mama Huckabee has been shunted off to the side. But, hey, I guess she should just be grateful he let one member of his family on stage.
The other night I was eating in a Cuban restaurant when the piercing voice of a total ear rapist ruined my meal. I turned and saw that the voice was coming from a total skillet-face - the kind who cannot be shamed non-verbally into STFU. Triple bonus points because this girl was on what appeared to be a first date. Here are some pearls of political and racial wisdom that came from her very Caucasian mouth:
"Obama is just as much white as he is black. If he wins, it's not like a big deal for black people or anything."
"He was raised by white people, so he's pretty much just white."
"I'm just saying black people shouldn't be all about him because he's not really black."
I think Obama would be really hyped to hear that a white Columbia grad student on the Upper West Side has officially weighed in on his racial status as "not really black."
But I will depart from my usual negativity and say that this morning I am feeling long dormant pangs of hope.
If you couldn't infer from previous comments, I'm not what you would call a religious person. While raised to believe in the J-man (and I remain a big fan of his purported work) and Catholicism, I have since my late teen years been pretty agnostic. It came on rather suddenly, but it has stuck for the most part. There have been times when I have wondered what to call myself. The word atheist brings up rather gross associations involving strident university students who gather when their Magik and LARP schedules allow to scoff at people and their religions. I'm not really interested in that.
My interest in talking about my own views only comes up when someone else's views try to dictate my actions. Then I get strident.
In a country where 92% of the population believes in God, and atheists are ranked as the least trustworthy citizens in the land, it would be nice and inspiring to see more people make their lack of faith public. It is tiresome to have to explain to someone how you can actually have morality without religion. That is sadly a brand new concept to a lot of people.
So, with all this said, I present to you a very good piece of reading by Sam Harris. It is food for thought...a large Christy waifer for the non-believing brain. I've extracted some of my favorite excerpts for your reading pleasure!
I never thought of myself as an atheist before ....I think that “atheist” is a term that we do not need, in the same way that we don’t need a word for someone who rejects astrology. We simply do not call people “non-astrologers.” All we need are words like “reason” and “evidence” and “common sense” and “bullshit” to put astrologers in their place...
We are faced with the monumental task of persuading a myth-infatuated world that love and curiosity are sufficient, and that we need not console or frighten ourselves or our children with Iron Age fairy tales. I don’t think there is a more important intellectual struggle to win...
So, let me make my somewhat seditious proposal explicit: We should not call ourselves “atheists.” We should not call ourselves “secularists.” We should not call ourselves “humanists,” or “secular humanists,” or “naturalists,” or “skeptics,” or “anti-theists,” or “rationalists,” or “freethinkers,” or “brights.” We should not call ourselves anything. We should go under the radar—for the rest of our lives. And while there, we should be decent, responsible people who destroy bad ideas wherever we find them.
Now, it just so happens that religion has more than its fair share of bad ideas. And it remains the only system of thought, where the process of maintaining bad ideas in perpetual immunity from criticism is considered a sacred act. This is the act of faith. And I remain convinced that religious faith is one of the most perverse misuses of intelligence we have ever devised. So we will, inevitably, continue to criticize religious thinking. But we should not define ourselves and name ourselves in opposition to such thinking.
What stood out to me about Harris' speech is not only how he acknowledges the human need for something larger, something most people call spirituality, but he tackles a very large misconception that non-believers exist to spoil everyone's good time.
My concern is that atheism can easily become the position of not being interested in certain possibilities in principle. I don’t know if our universe is, as JBS Haldane said, “not only stranger than we suppose, but stranger than we can suppose.” But I am sure that it is stranger than we, as “atheists,” tend to represent while advocating atheism. As “atheists” we give others, and even ourselves, the sense that we are well on our way toward purging the universe of mystery. As advocates of reason, we know that mystery is going to be with us for a very long time. Indeed, there are good reasons to believe that mystery is ineradicable from our circumstance, because however much we know, it seems like there will always be brute facts that we cannot account for but which we must rely upon to explain everything else. This may be a problem for epistemology but it is not a problem for human life and for human solidarity. It does not rob our lives of meaning. And it is not a barrier to human happiness.
I may be in a huge minority in this country but I can't help but be really sold by the majority of what Harris is presenting here.
Sorry this entry wasn't so much fun. Hopefully I'll be able to work something completely inane next time.
