Why Fireworks Should be Outlawed in New York City and other Random Thoughts

While stopped at a traffic light on my way to work last night, I heard a bang and jumped for cover ala Joey on Friends. You just never know in Harlem. Driver must of thought he had a tourist in his Cab.

Sitting up in my Harlem faschizzle,
booms and bangs crack the sky,
and colored sparks fizzle.

Someone just got shot or maimed, oh my!
The end is nigh,

Oh, right, it's the day after,
The Fourth of July.

Happy Belated Independence Day.



A dachshund and a Pit Bull can be best friends.



In the News recently

Twin brothers in a paternity battle:
Does this woman have a twin fetish? The article states that the brothers were unaware of the other's affair and that she had sex with both men on the same day. Why then, does one of them have to pay for this woman's complete irresponsibility. Did she know they were twins or did she only scream "oh god, oh god" during the second act? Was she trying to perfect her technique? Did she find the first so unbelievably attractive she just had to have the second one when she saw him.


The court named one, since DNA evidence shows that both men have a 99.9 percent probability of being the child's father, as legal father with all financial responsibility. That's just sad; either both pay or neither pay. I vote for the latter. Women are the ones who get pregnant and, in the case of a casual sex encounter, should be held solely responsible for their bodies. I really feel bad for the poor guys.

This ultra-feminist slant on sex and pregnancy brought to you by the readings of Camille Paglia from college.

Just One Garlic Knot Please: Part 2

Just One Garlic Knot Please: Part 1

I opened the foil package and saw the extra garlic knot. I know I could have thrown it out or given it to the dog or even eaten it. I also could have given it to a homeless person, but, in my experience, they only want money. But, by now, this foray for fountain soda had become an exercise of principle and an exploration into societal norms.

New York City hosts a cultural cornucopia of food;each block provides and opportunity to consume more calories than needed. Plus, it's much easier to pull your feet up to a vendor than park the car and head in to a restaurant.(Fast-food is unappealing to me in any circumstance and therefore will not figure into this discussion. We know their portions are Ginormous anyway) We don't have many chains here and most mood is freshly prepared by independent owners. Though, freshly prepared does not always translate into healthy or lower calorie.

Most of the independents in this city are foreign born, from countries without the obesity epidemic in this country. And we know from books like, "French Women do not get fat" and "The Mediterranean diet" that lower portions are the key to enjoying higher fat food without major consequences. Which begs the question: Why do these purveyor's insist on larger portions? Are they ingrained into the American Way of food? Are they just giving consumers what they demand? Or are they part of the grand conspiracy to keep Americans fat and sick reaping billion dollar balance sheets for the pharmaceutical and medical industry? Let's not forget the corporate farms and genetically modified food. (that's an entry for another day)

You may be thinking, chill out Shiny, it's just one Garlic Knot. The Garlic Knot incident is just one symptom of the many little things that add up to a large problem.


A few examples in support:

A fresh fruit cart offering cut pineapple, mango, and papaya plus blended shakes, made only from fruit and ice, parks near my hospital each morning. They know me pretty well-I get a shake for breakfast three times a week-, yet he still asks me if I want a large. At McDonald's we were trained to size up it the customer neglected to include a size, but at the fruit cart for a regular customer who always gets a small? My favorite is banana, pineapple, and strawberry and I wish I had a website for you. For New Yorkers seeking a lower calorie alternative to Jamba Juice-you have to beg them to nix the yogurt- head to the southwest corner of 168th street and Broadway.

Across the street from my other hospital sits an upscale deli complete with brick pizza oven, cold-deli case and 20 item salad bar for the lazy New Yorker. Yes, in New York we don't make our own Salad Bar salad's. After choosing the base, either Romaine, Spinach, or Mesclun, you hand the container to the counter person who then empties the greens into a large, steel bowl. Using chef style tongs, they toss the add ins you choose which can be as simple as croutons and exotic as marinated peppers, finishing up with dressing. The resulting combination is thrown together, Iron Chef style. We New Yorkers like it fancy. In eating these salads I've noticed a trend:When asking for an item perceived as "healthy", and therefore less flavorful, I get much less than a serving. Like he doing me a favor. "Sir, I promise you I really love broccoli; In fact, I'll pay for a double serving. When asking for an item that is perceived as tasty but not necessarily good for you, I have to stop them before the tongs clang on the bowl. "Sir, please that's way too much." Oh, the looks I garner.

Before moving to New York, coffee provided enjoyment and relaxation, but did not hold the same priority as my morning pee. Enter the coffee cart. The Coffee Cart, a New York institution, serves coffee, bagels, donuts, and fried egg sandwiches on just about every street corner in Manhattan. I frequent the cart next to the fruit man. They know me as well and I ask for the same thing each time: Large coffee, two sweet and lows with a little bit of half and half. Emphasis on the little, although they always give me something that looks like milk. Yes, I could head into the hospital and make on myself but where's the fun in that. I need New York Moment #852: getting a scalding coffee in the "Law and Order" cup from a foreigner while dodging blows and profanity from other desperate New Yorkers in search of morning fuel.



The best 60 cent cup of coffee in the world
So the question remains, Why, with all we know about how one becomes obese and it's emotional, physical, and financial effects do we continue to demand, expect or accept unnecessarily large portions. The man who served me two Garlic Knots when I asked for just one probably thought he was being nice. At the time, I laughed thinking he couldn't wrap his brain around the idea of one. ONE is not such a bad number. The points I've made are small things, the things most don't notice, and over time they become excess we don't need and never recall we had or enjoyed.

The Ageist, Sexist and Vertically Biased Heart-Rate Monitor

The heart-rate monitor I ordered from newegg arrived today. I've used one before and find it helpful to my workouts. The sensor encircles the chest and the signal transmits wirelessly to the watch. Mine is a simple model. It tells you your workout time, average heart-rate, and calories burned, though it does not GPS my location in Central Park or prepare a post-workout protein shake. Which is a good thing-I do not want big brother taking satellite images of me running for the special bus or picking up dog poop. Plus, protein shakes taste like sand.

The Ageist, Sexist and Vertically Biased Heart Rate Monitor

In order to take advantage of the calories burned readings, I needed to enter personal data: age, height, and weight. After pressing the 'mode' button ten times I landed on birth year; the snarky little monitor offered 1985. I scrolled up to 2050 then back to 1920 until finally landing on 1971. Can I assume that Oregon Scientific demographic numbers show that twenty-two year-olds make-up their largest consumer group, or do they figure old farts like me are too far gone and flabby to buy the product. Maybe I'm being too sensitive, but it made me sad. I'm not in the target group anymore. Doesn't anyone want to sell me something, unlike many younger people, I have money.

I hit the 'mode' again to reach height thinking that I shouldn't have a problem because 5'4" is average for women. 5'7" was the first choice. Snipey monitor, make fun of my stature now too. Dang thing went up to 8 feet before circling back to 2 feet. Now, the average height of a Dwarf is 3 to 4 feet, so I doubt any toddler 2 feet tall will be assessing their fitness during jungle gym.

The next step, placing the sensor on the chest, makes it clear why the starting height, is the average height for a man. The instructions say to fit the strap snugly just below the pectoral muscles. For optimal readings, it should lie above the heart while avoiding chest hair. I can't place it above my heart because my breasts are in the way. I imagine running with my boobs slapping against the black plastic. It's obvious that Oregon Scientific did not expect for vertically challenged thirty-six year-old women to purchase their product.

I ran in the rain tonight. The device worked perfectly and my heart rate averaged 123 beats per minute, burning 242 calories. I'm not really obsessed with calories data. The device is to keep my heart rate from slipping below 110 and motivate me during a long workout.



On a side note, I've owned three monitors and I find the chest strap/wrist transmitter to be the most effective. I purchased mine from newegg.com. I also found this comprehensive site while attempting to find statistics to support my theory that aged people, women and short men buy heart rate monitors making the 'Smart Heart' an ageist, sexist and vertically biased product(I didn't find any, but they sell all types of monitors).

The Miracle Pod

While preparing to work-out with the dog I dropped my Ipod three times. Still played. And as I was walking out the apartment, the leash, poop bags, and keys overloading my hands, the POD slipped from my armpit into the dog's water dish. It took me a moment to process the event. Well that is not good, I said, peering down at my 2ND most important electronic toy. I picked it up, turned it over and dried it off. The screen glowed. I plug the headphones back in; Barry Manilow sang to me. Bless the Beasts and the Children. It works.

I spent the next hour sweating to my precious work out mix which, to many of my friends' surprise, does contain any Barry.

That was three days ago and I'm still power walking to "Hips don't Lie". I know that, I, at Oddly Off Center, rarely write about a personal event without connecting it to a grander theme, but I think the story of how a pod became a Miracle Pod is worth deviation from my norm.
Can you hear the Miracle Pod in space?

I guess it is relevant because, for all of my quirks, I believe the MP3 player rivals Tupperware for greatest invention of all time. Have my entire musical collection in a device smaller than a cellphone blows my skirt up. I save space, in keeping with my desire to become a digital human: books, music, and documents. I could save money on rent if could just give up the books, nah I love the books. Plus, where would I shower after I sweat?

When I got my first one, I was high for three weeks, bopping and lip syncing all over town. Life really did have a soundtrack. I had walking playlists, subway playlists, sitting in Barnes and Noble playlists and, of course, running playlists. After the first one died, I heard sounds I had forgotten. Real Dialogue: couples fighting, stupid people trying to sound smart, smart people trying to sound stupid, and Oh my god, I can't believe she went out with him! Evesdropping! Interaction! Genius!

I got the new one but now I jack in mostly for exercise. I enjoy watching and listening to the world around me.

Just One Garlic Knot Please.

Satisfying a craving for a fountain soda at my local pizza joint last night led to stares and odd looks from the counter staff. While waiting for my cup of sugarless dirt water I spied a tray piled with the Italian contribution to gastronomic heaven:The Garlic Knot. My mouth filled with saliva and the taste of that doughy ball of bliss. I had to have one and I wanted only one. That would be enough for me.


A month ago 5 knots would have found their way into my stomach, but a photo taken at the "Weird Al" concert reminded me of the mission statement formed 3 years ago. I am not meant to be overweight my whole life;I am meant to be an athlete. Without expunging my entire back story I'll write the highlights, I was quite fat, once, topping out at 230 lbs. Three years ago I dropped 90 pounds had some skin cut away, landing at 140 with a flat tummy. Over the past two years I gained-admitting this for the first time-35 back. Ok, Ok it's really more like 40 lbs. Stop badgering me! In essence, my pea-sized subconscious couldn't process the skinny, but now we(me and my subconscious) are ready. We deserve the lone size 6 Banana Republic's draped in the closet.

Which brings back me to the topic of that perfect piece of crunchy ecstasy;I believe in moderation, not outright denial. Forbid that which you love, be it chocolate, potato chips, or liver pate(blech) and you will crack. And the breakdown will be pretty ugly. Anyone recall Kate's Secret, the disease of the week movie from the eighties in which Meridith Baxter played a bulimic. Moderation is the key. I know that a jar of Nutella does not last long in the cabinet, but out in the world I am less likely to go all Lifetime movie on a chocolate mousse cake.

So, the asymmetrical sphere of Garlicky Goodness lay nestled between it's friends calling to me. I stood tall, "May I have one Garlic Knot please?"
The men behind the counter cocked their heads about to reply in the negative. I offered to pay for an order of five and they could give the others away. The owner, who has made me many vegetarian gyro's dripping with tsatsiki, told the other "Just give her one!" He grabbed the foil, snatched TWO orbs and opened the oven.
"It's okay, you don't have to heat it," I offered. He handed me the package, his look saying, "Get out of the store crazy dog lady."


More to come on this story. Stay tuned!

Revenge of the Frizz

click to enlarge

Why I want to move to Vancouver

I have no need for a themostat; I only need to look at my hair. Much like the amount of leg swelling will inform a doctor of a patients cardiac status, my hair is a natural barometer and thermometer. Smooth wavy hair indicates 40-60 degrees with 60 percent humidity while the "Don King" do equates to 90 fareinheit and 100 percent humidity. Moderate curls supported by a flirty bounce translates to a mild 70/70, the weather of Vancouver, Canada.

I am not so vain as to move three times zones and another country away soley for my hair, but each New York summer I endure makes Vancouver a paradise. I spent 20 years in the South Florida humidity and never stepped outside unless I had too. Central Air is, and was, and equistite pleasure.

I tried all the products: gel, mousse, and of course the touted Frizz-ease. Before my hair thinned due to a tragic combination of genetics, diet, and medication I looked like "Weird Al" Yankovic, the early years. Now when the dew point rises I look like a troll doll. Nasa may be my only hope. If they could develop a creame that creates a no humidity, no heat zone around my head, needless suffering would end. I bet me and many others would pay top dollar for something like that.

Disconnected! Not!

A return to the topic of connectivity for a moment. One of my first blog entries discussed parents using cellular phones while their child recovered from anesthesia. Yesterday I cared for a child whose father was a candidate for a Blackberry Addiction support group-trust me they will exist one day. I am proud that I did not grab the Blackberry and shove it up his rectum. Had I performed the intervention, I may have been fired, but I might have saved the man's family. His wife sneered at him while he talked to me: head down, playing a GAME on his pint-sized idiot box. Just because the thing weighs less than 5 ounces does not make it OK; I bet you tell your kid to stop watching TV live by example, Sir.
I'm exposed to many examples of marital/familial dysfunction and function and this couple made me wonder more than ever. When they make love-if they even do- does he check the berry after the cherry. Does his wife have her own berry to attend to and does it give her more love than her husband. These scenes from the lives I am entrusted with fascinate me and they are often indicative of the whole show. Maybe they don't talk at all, maybe they only text each other.


When I visit my sister in Florida, I complain that the Television stays on until dinner. Shouldn't the preparation of the meal encourage chatter, so, we, as family remain connected. I love my multi-tasking, executive sister, but sometimes I wish she'd call me instead of shooting an email. Email's are for quick things: "meet me at five," "don't forget the apple pie," or "the test results are positive." Don't ask me how things are, I can't type that fast and I you really want to know then I'll subject you to the thirty minute diatribe.

On my flight back from Dallas, I read an article about Blackberry addiction. The author writes how users obtain a sense of importance from being on call 24/7. Most of the nurses I work with hate being on call. Will we like it if we get a blackberry? The man said that people expect him to be respond within minutes. I wanted to ask if the immediacy was a condition he placed upon himself. Do that make him feel special, needed? Does his family not provide that or has he removed himself from the equation. I watched the boy for two hours and except for a trip to the loo, the berry remained in his hand. On his way out, I grabbed one of his digits telling him I was concerned about a new condition called blackberry thumb.

I've said before that I am pro wired world, I just think we need to find the middle ground.



Instead of a picture, we have a funny video!

Don't be a gerbil, run/walk in the Open Spaces

I flew to Dallas/Fort Worth to visit my best friend and we took a side trip to Fort Worth-she lives north of Dallas- to see "A Few Good Men", starring Jensen Ackles at the Casa Manana theater in Forth Worth. Our hotel de crap, as my friend calls it, sits on a main drag parallel to an entrance to the Trinity River Trails

The night before, we drove along this trail, the lights of a restaurant beckoning us to swim across the river. After 20 minutes of weaving we realized that Denny's would have to do for our fancy sit down dinner and that the trail, winding through a park, was a good place make out or be murdered.


This morning I took a run/walk through part of this 35 mile collection of paved and natural paths connecting many of Fort Worth's parks. The city's park acreage is second only to Chicago, according the North Texas Outside Guide.

Urban Planners across the country provide city residents with plenty of green spaces in which to frolic, so why are the New York Sports Club's I pass daily always so full. Why climb stairs to the ether when you could scale real ones a see pretty things. Have digital readouts replaced one's mental cheerleader. Is exercise so painful that we'd rather drown our ears with loud music or watch TV so we don't have to invest in it. Has moving the body become one's daily dose of Castor oil.Fresh Air

I belonged to a gym once and used it for one month while my work schedule prohibited my Central Park hill workout. It's something I have to do during the day. The treadmill and stair climber bored me to point that I switched machines-and channels-every 10 minutes. The membership lasted two months. I, a self-appointed granola eating-tree hugger prefer to sweat outside.

I returned from my workout to the hotel room grinning with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair. "A good workout is like five Prozacs," I tell my friend.

At the Cafe Express ,a local fast, but fresh, food restaurant, we enjoyed salads and the company of a native Fort Worth bartender who had never been to the the Trinity Trails. He said he liked running on a treadmill so he could know exactly how far he'd traveled. I never asked if he was in training for anything, as that would be a good reason for needing to know your distance and speed. But why must we quantify everything. We count our years on earth, our money in the bank, and our jeans in the closet. Do we need to count our miles ran. Unless your a 5K wannabe, exercise should be about how it makes you feel, not how fast you can feel it.

On a side note I highly recommend the Cafe Express, they have locations in Dallas, Fort Worth and Houston. I hope one day we will have a fast and fresh food restaurant next to every Burger King, MacDonald's,Wendy's, and Taco Bell. Maybe then people could make better choices when they have to eat and run.

Welcome to my Brain-it's warm in here!

June, 3, 2007--I took a cab home from work last night at eleven pm. I chatted with the cab driver, mentioning that I had to go home and walk the dog in the rain. He ask if I had children. "No, I have the dog." I said.
"Can you have children?" He asked. That was something I've never been asked before. I told him yes, I had the working parts, but would rather adopt a child when I am a bit older. I spelled out my dog pound theory. Why create a child when there are so many who need loving homes. Not that I think people should stop having children, but there are plenty of couples out there picking up my slack.



Saturday May 19, 2007
Moments make life fabulous. My friend and I wandered up 23rd Street on our way home-me to the subway and uptown, she to 16th- and came upon a bar named and trying to be a Trailer park. She felt compelled to enter and order a "Sofia Copolla, 'champange in a can.'" She once scoffed at red wine served in a plastic cup, so why sparkling wine in a can? "It's so bad, it's good," she said, taking a swig of the bitter beverage. "Yep, so good," I said and headed to the pink leopard print bathroom."



Wednesday May. 9, 2007
I know someone who may need a good laugh. Here goes.
"You've got a Jodie Foster thing going on." Says Shelia sitting next to me on the plane. Obviously these are the ramblings of an already crazy person at 35 , 000 feet altitude after her third vodka tonic. The ride to Chicago started out nice enough; my seat-mate and I shared spirited conversation ranging from theatre, psychology, and drug addiction. She claims she is not an alcoholic but a lush. What's the difference? After the aforementioned last call for alcohol, she became really loud and obnoxious, never thought I'd miss a depressed drunk.

I hate when people ask me why I am not married. The deli man did today after I finally realized he was married to the woman who sells me Tylenol PM and Diet Coke. I don't flipping know why I am not hitched. Maybe I'm hideously ugly, have no personality, and kiss like a fish. Maybe I'm picky, or maybe I've never met anyone worth the effort or a relationship. Maybe, I should ask why is married because, from where I sit, they don't look that much in love or passionate. Maybe I should ask him that.

Save Tinkerbell from Paris

"I am not a purse!"
So Miss Paris Hilton was released from Prison today. The Australian reported that she was released due to an undisclosed illness after serving three days of a 45 day sentence. In the last three days I have read three different articles chronicling her stay in Jail. I know that her first day passed without incident and that she invented a perfume and cured cancer on the second and third. Or maybe she found her spiritual center. My question to the news media is "Do they really think we care?" And where are these people who care? Where do they live and how much time do they spend contemplating the life of the blond Flat Stanley. I am surprised by Google News; I thought them to be above pandering to the lowest common denominator.

Her early release does not trouble me, people are freed from prison all the time. Maybe she lost her marbles without her blackberry and lackeys to listen to her inane utterances. If California's law makers ignored Paris' fragile mental state or that of her, now motherless, rat-dog they may as well hand out condoms to fifth graders. Their incarceration of her in the first place does not impress me. Driving with a suspended license does not automatically make one a threat to society. Yes, she was warned but are they trying to make an example? If they want to bust her on something, how about dog abuse. Have we ever seen Tinkerbell walk on her own four feet. The dog probably has brain damage from all the flash bulbs popped in it's face. Really, it's her empty head and our obsession with the minutia of her existence that poses the greatest risk to society

Yes! I am White and Nerdy.

"Weird Al" Yankovic rocked the Palace Theatre in Albany, New York last night. My friend and I were one of the lucky 2,844 in attendance-yes the house was packed-and we sat in the fifth row. Close enough to catch a drop of perspiration from the parody king's perfect pores. Alas, no sweat fell from Al's brow, though he signed t-shirts and ticket stubs while smiling for photos with the die-hards who waited after the show. We were two of these die-hards. I shook his hand and my cheek felt a tingle from Al's unruly mane. The next morning, as I showered, I considered cloning the DNA from the sloughed skin from my hand to create my own Weird Al. I thought better of it(it would take twenty years to grow-up plus there would be legal ramifications) and washed my hand.



I've loved the man since I was fifteen and first saw him in concert at twenty-five. I admire the creativity shown in his lyric genius, but it's his showmanship, stamina, and vocal ability that endears him to me. Al executed every word and every note with perfect precision while dancing and gyrating through the high impact choreography. During "Your Pitiful", a parody of James Blunt's "Your Beautiful" Al removed layers of clothing, each costume a symbol of loserism, finishing the final measures of the song dressed in a pink tutu and fishnet stockings. My love for Al has never wavered; this tableau cemented him in my heart for life. I will marry the man who can and willingly humiliates himself for comedy. Unfortunately, Mr. Yankovic is taken, but I know somewhere there is a fart- joke making, Sartre reading, pop culture spoofing long haired freak looking for me. And to help him find me I now wear my new "White and Nerdy" ball cap for my Central Park Workouts and whenever it is appropriate to wear a hat.

During my youth I tried to hide my dorkish tendencies, eschewing the math team for a long shot at the drill squad. I didn't make it, I dropped the flag, but I could do equations in my head. There was a Nerd that liked me in school and I didn't let him kiss me at the football game because I was afraid what my "friends" might think. He left me notes in my locker containing hieroglyphics and possibly kligon. He made me laugh. And I miss him.

"Weird Al's"popularity stems from his own admission of Nerddom and the way he has made it "OK", sexy even, for one to be a nerd,geek, dork, or freak. The labels really are one and the same. He gives his devoted fans someone to look up to, someone to say, that they have made it being bizarre and abnormal. Today I read Shakespeare, listen to Barry Manilow, and watch Documentaries with pride;this blog exists because I am Oddly off Center. Weird Al did not make me a nerd, but he makes me proud to be one. He owes his longevity to finding his own place in music and for the most part created the parody genre. I shudder to think that my children may never know the brilliance of parody because the world may never see another "Weird Al" Yankovic.

When Complacency Rears it's Ugly Head

I'm on the plane to Chicago, talking to Shelia, before her second and third vodka tonic, about my reasons for this trip. I am going to a seminar at the Embassy Suites on Perianesthesia Nursing, my current work specialty. I explain-as quickly as I possibly can-about the extra certification I hold in the field and the hours of continuing education needed to maintain it. Thirty minutes later she says, "Sounds like that nursing is your main deal and theatre is your hobby." Ah, the words of wisdom from a lush.
I try to explain my way out of this label,"No, nursing is just the bread and butter, and I am just trying to get out of, blah, blah,blah" Yeah Heather, keep digging that hole.

So what or who am I? I know my purpose in a spiritual sense, I know why I am here on earth, but, looking back on the five years since graduating Theatre school, my actions in New York City would never lead someone to conclude that I am an actor. I've done one play, worked with an improv comedy group, and auditioned for a whopping four jobs. Of course light bulbs always flash in the brain while trapped in an aluminum tube seven miles high because your last thoughts as you plummet to earth in a fiery blaze should be about what you didn't do or what chances you didn't take.

I've taken more chances than I suppose I am alloted: skydiving, rock climbing, black diamond skiing, but have I ever devoted my life to my purported passion? I've risked bodily harm, but have I ever risked my emotional core. Nope, Nada, and Nil. During one semester in school, I quit my job and took financial aid to perform in two plays while carrying 20 hours of classes. That was safe devotion. New York City can beat the crap out you the same time it is ripping out your tender heart. So, why am I afraid? I love a good RUSH. This winter I went skiing more times than any other season and spent the rest of the time working. There was no time or money left for new headshots or dance classes. The surge I get from jumping out of a plane or slipping on a cliff two hundred feet high replaces what I am missing from pursing my true passion.

I've complained before about people seeking instant gratification at the exspense of the self and now I realize that's excatly what I've been doing. My job, compared to other nursing work I've done, is like a walk on fluffy clouds while wearing a halo. I love it and I make great money from it. Why would I want to be an extra on a movie set earning one-fourth my daily rate sitting around for the hope that I might be noticed. I decided to write my own stuff for me to perform at a grotty Manhattan pub, though I spend more time blogging and looking at pictures of good-looking men. Complacency has reared it's ugly head.

Complacency doesn't neccesarily have an ugly head nor is it a terrible place to live. It can be a happy zone, but soon the day to day bliss turns to yearning and I realize how I've wasted some precious time. I used to say that I had to grow into my look-I am not an ingenue; I used to say that I needed to lose weight-done that;I used to say I am not ready-never gonna happen. What the Fuck is wrong with me. It's time and I better act soon or I will be sitting in the rocking chair regretting a loveless and childless life. There is a reason I've made specific choices and I don't want to let them go in vain.

Okay so I'm going to get headshots and work on monolouges and take singing and dance lessons.
Can I take a nap first?

I knew there was a website for it. GO GOOGLE, GO

Do they shoot single people in Illinois?

I eat my free hotel breakfast in my hotel room while the movie Twister plays in the background. The clang of silverware tapping on ceramic dishes and the murmur of robust eaters filters in from the open dining area below. I was shunned from that place, so I eat alone. Ok, I know I'm taking a little dramatic license: the townspeople of the Embassy Suites, Chicago-O'Hare, did not brand me with an ornate and dark letter 'S', nor stand me in front of the omelet station to chuck stale watermelon at me. But, as I searched for table, I felt marked. The single people must be in bed sleeping off their hangovers from Saturday night’s Beer Fest and all the families, from the two weddings, are wolfing free bacon and sausage. I found one person by himself, approached him, and politely asked if I could take one of the three open seats at his table. He looked at me as if I asked for his liver, kidney, and corneas. He paused, and then told me his wife would be joining him. "Oh, thanks anyway," I said, adding that I was from New York and we just snatch any open anything. As I backed away, I spoke words that might have gotten me arrested. I was hungry; I didn’t notice the nuclear family conflagration. There were no signs reading, “Couples and Families,” and “Losers.” Otherwise, “I thought you were alone,” would have remained unsaid. Thankfully, he only gave me an evil eye rather than reveal the egg white omelet with spinach centered on my plate to the room. I contained myself and continued my procession through the large room. Each step echoed high school, when I always sat alone. I made one lap around the tables, refilled my coffee, and carried my plate upstairs.

Inside the hotel room bigger than my apartment I cry. I am not sure why-hormones maybe. I write the book on Alone: eating dinner out, going to movies, snorkeling in Belize, and road tripping to the mountains. It’s not that I hate people, I think this blog proves otherwise, but sometimes my friends can’t go or don’t always like my adrenaline fueled ideas of fun. So, why did his glare and the ensuing stares of others upset me. Feeling homesick for New York as I packed my backpack, I steeled myself to enjoy the day.

The power nap I caught on the forty-minute train ride to the city refreshed me and for the low price of a hot-dog, a homeless man walked me to Michigan Avenue home of Chicago’s famous Magnificent Mile. Did you know that Wood’s American Gothic, Wood’s Nighthawks, and Surat’s Sunday on the Grand Jatte all reside at the Art Institute of Chicago? Neither did I, but that’s not really important to the story.

Ashley, a friend of a friend, met me later in the afternoon and we walked up the mile, over to the shore of Lake Michigan, then back. She points out bastions of urban bliss, eateries and bars, and I retell my faux pas from this morning. She chuckles, explaining the difference between O’Hare and the city. “Out there you’re getting into the burbs,”she says with a lilt of leftover Arkansas, “it’s more of a Midwestern closed-off sensibility.”

That is the crux of it. People in the suburbs say that life in a big city is too fast, too harsh, and too lonely. I lived in the burbs for thirty years and I found the opposite: people are ruder, less accepting, and more insulated. Instead of confronting humanity by walking the streets or riding public transportation, one remains isolated inside a car or single family home. If you are single it’s easier to hole up in your house eating chocolate sauce out of the bottle talking to the cat than braving the looks you might garner sitting alone at a restaurant. In essence it’s okay to be alone, okay to be different and okay to make different choices in a city. At least that’s how I lived it. Yup must have been hormones.


The Art institute of Chicago

Finding the Funny

I was chomping on a veggie burger in the break room at work when one of my coworkers asked me what I thought about laugh therapy-I'm known as the funny one at my job. She went on to describe an Oprah show in which someone on the production staff went to therapy where the participates stand around and laugh and laugh. About nothing. Then they look at each other laughing and start laughing-that's funny so I started laughing. I told my co-worker that fake laughing seemed really stupid and one should just, "find the funny," it's everywhere.

Just got back from googling, "laugh therapy and Oprah" and discovered laughter yoga, an organization dedicated to promoting the benefits of laughing for no reason and imparting techniques of laughter in order to create spiritual understanding. According to the website the movement which began in 1998 has expanded to 4000 "laughter clubs" in over 24 countries. The therapy combines yoga movements with simulated laughter exercises. Of course we all know about the medical benefits of humor, but why must it be fake. The website proudly touts that the sessions prove that, "you do not need a sense of humor, be happy, or have a reason to laugh." Damm, why do I feel so sad now. Life has become so complex that people need to go in a room with other comically challenged to laugh themselves into a gaseous explosion. Maybe my parents raised me wrong but I thought the whole point of being a human was laughing my ass off.

It's is not my intention to belittle this organization-I am sure there are plenty of people who really need a good chortle- but I am troubled by the simulated part of the therapy. Why fake a guffaw or chuckle? . The banner on the website states that they are a, "Global movement for health, joy and world peace." I'm not touching the last article in that triad except to relish a memory of Sandra Bullock in the movie Miss Congeniality. Dr. Mandan Kataria says that the human body does not know the difference between emotional laughter or simulated laughter and that the health benefits are the same: lower stress, better immune system, lower blood pressure, etc. No argument from me there. But what about joy when the class is over does the person return to his/her original humorless state. Can they achieve joy without focusing on the reason they are joyless? The idea of feigning the byproduct of an emotion seems off to me. Why not work on rediscovering the happy gene. The therapy claims to free those individuals from their fears so they can cackle and snort when the opportunity is presented. If it works then more power to them, on the other hand, the movement appears to be another one of those," they're is something wrong with you, pay me money, and I'll give you a twenty minute laughter high." The laughter clubs are free but the classes are not.

Finding the funny
My revolutionary therapy involves looking at the world for the express purpose or laughing at it or those within it. There is funny everywhere, we just need to be alert or we may miss it: the man obsessed with his blackberry who walks into a light poll on Madison Avenue; the woman stuck in traffic on I-95 extracting a hardened snot from the upper reaches of her nose; and the child on the subway smirking at the contorted face of a stranger. I recommend we all watch people trying to parallel park an SUV into a space to small for a Yugo. The starts and stops and 90-point turns are hilarious. One time my dearest friends and I drove home after a video-store induced fight. We all had our own opinions on what to rent that night. Now, I can't recall who won, but a sofa positioned in the exact middle of the road dissolved the tension into an epic giggle fit, the kind that only need to be recalled by a simple, "remember the couch."



I've changed the banner on the top of my site, I figured people may be tired of my fart joke. The picture, which I took in Placencia, Belize, illustrates my mission for this blog; consider it for a moment and find the funny. DO IT NOW! Good, thanks. I realized that is what I do. No matter what I write about, or think about I always find the funny, the strange, the weird, and the quirk.
The laughter train in Finland, courtesy of laughteryoga.org. Now, that is funny.

Vomit happens. At least in my job.

A lovely woman vomited on me a few days ago after her hip operation. The event itself wasn't so terrible; the spew missed my eyes, nose, and mouth and I got to strut around the Recovery Room in my black tank top looking like 'Nurse Abby' on "ER". Nor is the event unusual. Post Anesthesia Care Units across the land feature a host of patients clinging to the stretcher rails retching, regurgitating, and hurling. We nurses hand out the anti-nausea drugs like New York City traffic cops dispense parking tickets. The lady had blown chunks after I gave her a medication to stop her severe shivering(an occasional side effect of anesthesia), plus once she disgorged her stomach of the offending coffee and curdled milk, she felt much better. Still, I squirted the serum of no heaving directly into her intravenous line. Her husband arrived, the first thing she said was, "I threw up?" Never mind the comfort she felt now that the violent shaking had ceased. This got me thinking about society. Human beings refuse to focus on the positive. And then I thought about instant gratification, pleasure, and restless leg syndrome.
As I charted the episode in my nurses' notes I thought about my thirteen-year career and all the times I've given a medication to ease an unpleasant feeling. Of those incidences, how many were really necessary or did I do it simply because we could. I cannot predict the future but my nurse instincts, honed from twenty-thousand plus hours of human observation, tell me the lady above would not have puked again. Yet, we reassure. We can fix anything and we can always make you feel better. Not so. My colleague's patient in the next bed vomited for hours and each time her nurse dutifully called the doctor, who ordered a different medication. We both knew the up-chucking was something the lady would have to deal with for the night. We called because most members of society place great faith in medicine. Defeat is not an option for either party.
A month ago I came down with a low fever and decreased appetite while visiting my cousins in Montreal. I don't often get sick but when I do, I retreat to the sofa with a bottle of Sprite. Wrapped up in blankets, I shiver and shake until sleep and the sprite works it's healing power. My cousin said I was silly for refusing to take Tylenol or Motrin; I countered by stating, "There is a reason for the fever, my body is fighting something." The end result: having taken the Motrin, I sweat the fever down, then slept the bug out. I felt fine in the morning. Had I not taken the pill, would I have had the same result? Judging from past experiences, yes. This anecdote highlights a typical western attitude toward illness, "if you feel bad take a pill." Get the instant gratification, so one does not have to deal with discomfort. Every one I know, for the most part, thinks the same way. I'm not saying that the Motrin harmed me in anyway, however, it was and often times is, unnecessary, as are many of the pills we take today.
On one of the rare nights in which I had a moment to watch television I saw a pharmaceutical commercial for Restless Leg Syndrome. What? McFly? I just read the link I provided from Web MD and according the symptoms, I have restless leg syndrome. I fidget too. Yes for some it's severe then they should already be at the doctor. Pill commercials on TV freak me out. Too much information.
In my local bookstore, I read the back of a book blaming the Pharmaceutical industry for making people sicker. The author claimed to have a quote in which the head of a major pharmacy company stated the following paraphrase: by the twenty-first century he wanted seventy percent of the population using one or more daily medication. Wow, I'm so happy those for-profit health care companies want to make society healthy. Can you imagine the sales meetings- "Let's go out there, do a great job, and make people beg their doc for our horse pill. One, two, three, break! Go Pill Popping." Or the montly board meeting-"Profits are down this quarter, Can we put something in the water?" In my experience, one pill begets two, two begets four and so on. That's not health care. Why the government wont mandate pill makers to become not for-profit boggles my mind, but my distaste for that branch of my industry is another blog. Stay tuned.
And have any of you checked out Web MD, my goodness there are making a world of hypochondriacs. A symptom checker?-did I miss the bus? Next time I have a twitch in my toe, or a pimple I'm gonna surf on over there and find out I have an incurable disease. My point in this tangential rant is to draw attention to the way we view ourselves in general. No matter how you believe our physical body came to be, it's a sublime design intended to balance and moderate itself without intervention. Medical people call this homeostasis and when sickness comes we should support this amazing vessel, not fight it. Vomit happens, we'll live.

Many thanks to Merriam Webster ,without their online thesurus, I could never have come up with the many synonyms and euphemisms for ralphing and 'riding the porcelain bus'.

Molly Shannon plays me in a Movie! or My Dad, The Grillmaster

Ah, I got your attention didn't I? The character Ms. Shannon plays in the movie Year of the Dog may as well be me, but sadly I had nothing to do with the film except seeing it yesterday. Shannon plays a single woman who gives her all her love to her dog, a darling Beagle named Pencil, and then through her relationship with Newt, a dog trainer/savior played with subtle simplicity by Peter Saarsgard, becomes an animal activist of sorts. I don't want to spoil anything, but I recalled many scenes from my own life. When she tells her family she's gone Vegan her sister-in-law panics. "Is that healthy?" She asks through pursed lips and fake concern. Her brother and sister-in-law obviously do not respect her decision and much like my own experience in 'going Vegan,' they dismiss it as a phase.
I went Vegetarian during summer camp 1987 and lived on peanut butter and jelly for three months. It did not stick. I devoured the carcass like a famine survivor upon my return home. My mother's love permeated each meatball she made from her special recipe and my father's gentle nature formed each hand-shaped ground beef patty. He used ketchup and egg in the mix. Don't tell. Food, in my house, like countless others, was love-the love you never spoke about, but knew was there. We had love in my house, don't mistake my words, but the love that comes from food sticks to the ribs long after the gristle is washed away by diet coke. At age thirty, I topped out at 230 pounds. And one day I made the choice.
My mom, dad, and neice visited me in Asheville, North Carolina during the summer of 2001. My dad and I drove to Home Depot where he bought me a small charcoal grill. My father stood by the merits of charcoal over fuel. "Better flavor," he said. I think it cost about 25 bucks plus five for the bag of briquettes I bet my father knew I'd never grill out on my own, even though I said I would. Asheville had a thriving community of Vegan tree-huggers and I was being wooed into their fold. But on this night, for one last time, I put away Peta pamphlets. My four-year niece sitting on the counter-top helped me spear cherry tomatoes and onions for kebabs while my mother placed condiments and dishes on the table. My half-Italian roommate offered up several flavorful seasonings, but my father simply rubbed his magic spice on the steaks then stood sentry at the grill nudging and turning each piece of meat. I wondered about the science behind his actions: Why move this piece away from the flame created by oozing fat, why move that one toward it. He could have worked at the finest steakhouse in the world because, whether it was just us or guests, each person chomped into a piece of gastronomic ecstasy. (except for the aforementioned half-Italian. My dad never gave up the secrets behind the geometry of grilling;he guarded his throne with a placid face, eyes darting to each slab of meat. Maybe he couldn't articulate the why behind his art. Maybe he didn't know, because maybe he'd always done it that way.
"Oh, that must be mom's." I said carrying the plate of kebabs and staring at a lone piece of meat.
"Yea, you know she likes it dead." He said smiling. The steak that night was the best I ever had. I was my last. In the six years since, I can honestly say that I never once missed the flavor, but, sometimes, when I pass the carneceria and the smell of cooking meat invades my nostrils, I am wistful for the grillmaster.

It's not really a magic spice

Lazy Dogs in Suburbia

Yesterday I piloted my maroon Daewoo hatchback-affectionately known as the "golf cart" or "spec" by friends and family-to my friend's four-acre compound in Middletown, NY. My mutt played in the swamp behind the house while I enjoyed my four hour respite away from the New York noise I treasure so, yet feel compelled to leave once in a while. Later in the day, a trip to Target proved that Sebastian, my dearest canine, is a lazy bum. I never thought him to be a lazy animal, sloth like and shiftless, yes, on occasion, but never lazy. He stalks squirrels, rats, and raccoons in Central Park. He dives in to the Hudson river to fetch sticks while keeping an ear open for deer, but refuses to put any effort in chewing a stupid rubber toy. My friend recommended a cylindrical rubber toy, the Kong, which the loving pet owner fills with cheese, peanut butter, or aerated liver pate. The toy is designed to keep your pooch's attention engaged with the extraction of the aforementioned treats instead of your shoes, your couch, or your Billy Joel LP collection. We returned home and filled the toys with the pate(my friend bought it for her dogs). Sebastian licked the Kong as far as his tongue would reach(ooh that sounds dirty) and ran to the swamp. I gave him the Kong for the ride home;he would have nothing to do with it.
Maybe Sebastian has no use for the machinations of yuppie dog owners. That is, in fact, what the Kong is. They feel bad that the dog is home alone so they buy these toys to keep them busy. I am one of them. Sebastian never chewed rawhides and I was not willing to rip apart a pig ear like my former roommate would. He just doesn't chew. This distresses me because he'll masticate a tree branch to death in the dog run. I feel bad knowing he's home alone, simply sleeping on the couch. You would not believe it, but they sell dog t-shirts at Target. This product has no purpose. It does not protect little chihuahuas or yorkies from the cold. Why does this exist? Sebastian would scoff at me if I attempted to put a sweater on him, "Mother! Look at my hair on the floor, I was born for cold." He'd run away if I brought out the 'rocker tee.' I hope there is a special place in the afterlife for people who abuse dogs in this manner. Paris and Britney will be first in line and they will be dressed in un-hot clothes and carried around by Amazon women with one breast.
I guess Sebastian may not be the ultimate city dog or maybe he is lazy. Perhaps he thinks that home is for sleeping and eating and outside is for everything else. One day we might have a place in the country where he can run like the wind.

Weather to Worry

“Is it raining out?” My father asks beginning his ritual morning rising of my brain from the dead.
I roll over and open my left eye to peer at the window.
“No.” I growl “Why?”
“Cause Al Roker’s getting soaked on the Today show,” he says with a glint of enthusiasm and twinge of worry. “Hey says it’s might snow this weekend but it could miss you.”
My father obsesses about my weather more than I do. Florida’s weather alternates between hot and hotter, so I figure the chance for snow, sleet, and hail holds more of an attraction for him. Plus, watching Al Roker in front of Dean and Deluca’s might help him feel closer to his thirty-plus year-old baby. Whatever the reason, I wonder why people, not just my dad, obsess about and, from what I observed this winter, despise bad weather so much.
Whenever the temperature drops below forty degrees my hospital disables the automatic doors to the main lobby. The sign placed outside the entrance reads, “Due to the unusually cold weather the automatic doors have been disabled.” Last I checked the temperature in February often plunges below twenty. What is unusual about that?
I’m not a geologist nor meteorologist, but I remember learning something in elementary school about rotation of the earth and the Northern Hemisphere being further from the suns rays during the winter months. The planet rotated and spun this way for billions of years so, except for some ice ages, it must know what it is doing. Sixty degrees on Groundhog Day scares the crap out of me. What have we done the earth? It seems that I am alone in that sentiment because during those wacky warm days even strangers on the bus mention how fabulous it is. And when the cold moves in, it’s grumble, grumble, and whine. Go move to Florida. Take my old apartment-one mile from the beach; bring truckloads of sunscreen and prepare to roast. I’ll stay in thirties.
On the off chance I actually watch the news I notice the weathermen, when delivering the news about a rainy day, adopt the attitude of a doctor breaking the news of an evil polyp. “Well it looks like rain in the middle of the week, but don’t worry there’s a warm front coming in to push those dark clouds away. It’ll be nice and sunny on the weekend.
Don’t misunderstand. I do not support dark, cold and gloomy days year round. I like the sun in the late spring and summer. I like lollygagging on a rock in Central Park. I just think that we should appreciate the change in weather and realize there is a reason for it. The planet would prune and die without RAIN. Snow protects grass from dog poop and footsteps when it’s frigid, so when spring comes it will grow strong. Okay, I made that up though it makes sense to me.
We are entering a scary time in regard to weather and the state of our planet. Some say that Doomsayer scientists exaggerate the threat of Global Warming. I’m not sure either way, but I do see a change from the New Jersey winters of my childhood to the winters of today.

Turn off your freaking Cell Phone !!

For the most part I appreciate wired technology. I think it's great that I can chat with my mother while riding the bus home from work. When browsing in Duane Reade I skip down the shampoo aisle while blathering to my friends about the events of the day or the most recent episode of Supernatural. Yes, I'm one of those people you probably hate, but what's the point of cellular technology if I can't be connected when walking my dog. I do, however keep my volume down and when I reach the checkout counter I stop talking.
On that note, there are times that the phone should be turned off. I work in the Recovery Room at a children's hospital in Manhattan, New York where countless parents text on their blackberrys as they and their children are getting prepped for Surgery. Why is this? Not two days ago while I was interviewing a parent prior to surgery their phone rang and they answered it. While I was talking, about going under the knife. In the recovery room parents hold their crying children struggling to shake off the effects of anesthesia in one hand and answer their phones with the other. Decked in three piece suits they beg me for wireless access; they want to use our computers. Arggh! My coworkers and I are tired of policing the recovery rooms. We are tired of being the bad guys about an act that is so rude and disrespectful it should never occur. What kind of message are these parents sending to their children? This pain/ stress/trauma that you are feeling is not as important as my job/ friend/therapist. My bluetooth remains fused to my ear so I don't lose one millisecond of my world. In essence, Your life is lesser than mine.
I understand some children have chronic illness and these surgeries/procedures occur weekly or some lucky children are drugged out cold from the anesthesia. Okay fine, text away, but don't answer the phone, the child next to you might be having a hard time. And don't do it while your getting you pre-operative interview-it's rude.
We turn off the phone on an airplane; We turn off the phone during our own dental work or pilates class. We turn off the phone at a movie so why can't turn it off during a major event like surgery. Why must we remain connected all the time. If someone-god forbid-dies while the phone is off they'll still be dead when it's turned back on. If an emergency occurs then a phone call to someone already in a hospital is not the best course of action. Suppose the baby starts crawling, by the time the nanny calls you've already missed the momentous event. They won't stop crawling if you don't answer.
I am all for a wired world, when used in a way that enhances the human connection, not that detracts from it.

Making Friends: What I learned from my Dog

Last night I took my mutt, Sebastian, to the dog run for a romp with his buddies. People say city dogs do not get out much, but my dog has a more fulfilling social life than I do. Toward the end of the evening as the sun began to set and other dogs headed for home Sebastian started to play with a gorgeous Husky named Kai. His mother and I had great conversation; she's quirky and weird, like me. The she expressed a desire for human contact to be like dog contact. "Why do we have to play games with each other?"She asked. Our dogs performed the rump and genital sniff; I guess that's akin to a handshake and hello in human behavior. They growled and barked out some territorial canine drama that needed to be said. Then they raced each other around the dog park while intermittently play fighting and doing dog stuff. That means they are best friends and will be forever.
Wouldn't life be easier if we made the decision to be friends with someone when you meet them. We know immediately if we like a person-if we connect with them. Why do we drag a burgeoning platonic friendship out like dating?
It's hard to meet someone when you come to a new city by yourself and when you finally find a person you think you could be friends with the rules must be followed: Exchange emails, find a reason to contact, then another reason, soon you may have coffee, not dinner, just coffee, then finally you score the phone number. On the first friend date you follow the same format as a romantic one: Don't talk to much about yourself, ask questions, and never talk about your ex-friends. When you part company with someone you really connect with you're giddy and hope they will call you back. A kink in any part of the system spells doom for the new friendship.
Dogs, it seems, do the same thing, yet they do it in two minutes and if, in the middle of their date, some dispute arises over the ball or humping they bark it out and move on.
The next time you're on a friend date and your platonic paramour wants to go for burgers when you want sushi try barking. "No I want sushi!"
"I want burgers!" "SUSHI!" "BURGERS!" "Italian?" "Okay"
I have about six friends because I don't really have acquaintances. Life is to short to put effort into friends that will never achieve first name only status in my cell phone or understand why I eat a whole bag of chocolate in one sitting. My two best and longest friends live in other states and looking back to when we met, there was some sniffing and barking, but otherwise we didn't play games unless it was Trivial Pursuit.
What do you think about the friendship dance? Have you had similar experiences?

Social Networks-I've used them to meet people when I first moved to New York City. They are not dating services, they are to get people together who are often like minded for friendships. I'm still friends with a few people.
Meet in.org
Craigslist is a great resource for meeting people too.

Sex and Dating

About I week ago I attended my good friend's debut with the City Opera of New York and later went to dinner with one of my girlfriends. We went to my favorite French bistro close by. As per our usual we took turns running through our week's worth of life. My friend likes to date and often will go out two or three times in one week with different men plus she has a man in San Franciso who is under the impression that she is exclusive to him. I don't judge my friend, I adore her, but I wonder why she is terrified of being alone. Her constant dating seems to be an attempt at always having a man in the port because her San Fran fellow has yet to show her that she is the one. Often our conversations take on a Sex in the City-minus two-feel as we always devolve into talk of Sex. She has a lot of it. I don't.
On this night she gently tells me that I will mostly like end up alone if I refuse to "put out." How many dates does it take I wonder. She says that eight is enough(pardon that). Excuse me! I am supposed to open my heart and body to someone after eight meetings. If each date consists of two to four hours of movies, dinner, and conversation then by this formula I should open my legs and let my love flow after 16 to 32 hours of interaction.
Wow! I knew my dog longer that before I let him lick me and week before he jumped in my bed. Heck my dog and I don't even spoon and I have known him for seven years. My two greatest best-friends in the world and I spent weeks together until our first full on hug and cheek kiss.
Nan, one of these aforementioned friends, sent me a CD of her pastor's sermon on reasons why one should not have premarital sex. I had some hard times as a result of promiscuity as a result I had been rethinking my position on the topic. She knows I am not a Christian but I have reached a level of maturity where I can remove the religion from the message. A few lines of Pastor Andy's sermon come to mind.
"When has premarital sex made your life truly better?"
Never, I think.
"Premarital sex only makes life more complicated"
Damm straight
Fire is awesome in the fire pit, it's dangerous running through the forest. (Not the direct quote)
I don't necessarily believe a couple need to be married by the law to be married in the heart. I say this, not as a way to give myself a loophole, but to clarify that I believe a couple can be bound and committed by the heart.
How do I maintain my chastity during these times when society devalues sex as a means to an orgasm and superficial romance?
1. I remember the few times I woke after a night of debauchery feeling really yucky.
2. I infrequently trim my private hair.
3. I remind myself that if any guy wants ME for me, he will wait.

Link to North Point Community Church where you can listen online to a variety of sermons by Pastor Andy Stanley and others. I am referring to The series Twisted part 4 Category of One.

What do you all think? What is your position on Sex and Dating? Do you have a time frame or do you prefer to feel the right moment?

Plumbing

Thoughts are like water
dripping through
a rusty pipe
after a bath
where you started to prune
because you couldn’t grab
the drippy drops of
luminous blue and
quantum theory
as they scramble away
from your brain.

One, and two,
three and four
the splashes
of neurology and
great metaphor
are separated from
the perfect tense
and the gray matter
that keeps them fresh
like sprinkles from the garden hose
making tulips grow.

When the pieces of
your lively mind
start to melt
and slip away
take a jar
that used to hold
movie stubs
from Superman; keep it close,
so you will have
a place to slosh
and reunite
the globules of
your mental strife
until the day
your brain
is the desert
just outside
of Bakersfield
and you’re trapped
in Tehachapi
without a bottle
of Arrowhead.

Transformation

She stands before my nakedness, black marker in hand,
and draws circles, lines, and ovals,
like a seamstress on fabric for the haute couture,
or a Prom dress for a giddy girl. Like me!
She, swathed in latex,
(ooh, miniskirts.)
will make a garment of me,
for me to wear eternally.

I lay on cold steel
and kiss the prince
as the swirling gas
stops the breath and
thoughts of fifth grade
when my sister, Marcie,
slides on Jordache without
a hitch, and I ache
to make them fit.
Can't breathe.

I lay in the ether
as she sculpts the curves,
removes the folds, and trims the fat.

I wake to a world of skinny jeans,
halter tops,
nights out with cosmos and Mesclun
Green, punctuated by a well-timed chuckle and
hairflip.
Can't wait to feel the love.