Am I Smiling with my Wrinkled Eyes

Today I made an age-related clothing choice which was a first for me. I've rifled through my closet to avoid looking too fat, too sloppy, or too mannish I engaged in a daily moment of self-deprecation because I'm not 100% behind my 'pretty' but I never once looked at the mirror and said, "I look old." Until today, Oct 20, 2009 5 months and 5 days away from my 39th birthday. Excuse me I need a shot of tequila.

I was on my way to a free panel for unpublished writers. Not knowing who I might

meet I wanted to look good which-when I put on make-up-I do. Maybe it's my new short hair, or maybe it's just the neckline of the sweater I had on first. It's a nice sweater, I got

it at the thrift shop for 5 bucks. Should I burn it? It's possible that the fold-over off the shoulder look should be reserved for supermodels and women who scoff at aging. Maybe it's the hat? No! I love this 3 dollar thrift store hat. My bad posture? I just wasn't feeling this look, I ripped it off and...

went with the blazer, Ann Taylor Loft, she's for young wom-

en right?

I felt younger and sexier. Check out that pose. Am I doing Tyra Banks proud by smiling with my wrinkled eyes.

I have no need to look like I'm twenty, but I refuse to age myself with clothing. I promise that I wont wear a leather mini-skirt or Hollister. Thirty-five forever, baby. Such a great age.

Employee of the Month

Yes, that's me. I am September's EOM for my workplace. While I do believe I deserve the honor in terms of my super-compassionate nursing care, I am not the most well-rounded employee. I lack any desire to participate in committees and I am often late to meetings. I've always considered myself a 'pit' person. Tripping over poop and blood in the trenches is where I belong.

But to be fair to myself, if the judgement comes solely about how I take care of my patients, I hit that ball over Fenway's Big Green Monster. After 16+ years in the health care biz, I can say with confidence that I am one awesome nurse. I have never said or will ever say any of the following:

"Oh you have to pee." Cock's head and pouts. "Let me get the aide for you."

"Both your arms are casted and you want me to feed you." Wags finger. "I can see thumb poking out of that."

"You're having pain...And you wonder why?" Clasps hands together in front of body. "You've just had you abdomen sliced open, that's why sweetie."

"Nurses don't give back-rubs anymore honey." Delivers toe pat/squeeze of false comfort." Do you see a gigantic hat on my head? This aint the dark ages."

The sad part is I am not just trying to be funny, I have heard these statements made by nurses. Many are overworked, yes, but many of them just don't care very much. I'll take my EOM and run, because despite my lack of administrative drive, since 1993 I've earned it.

The Power of Barry Manilow

My father raised me on one album, Barry Manilow Live.
Barry released the album in 1977, I was six. My father put it on the turntable every sunday and danced around the living room with me. The love I developed for Barry never released it's hold, often to the detriment of my mid-eighties teenaged social life. Now, I have over 5 hours of Barry Manilow in my Ipod, all the hits and all the new stuff. I am listening to him right now.

Ooh Baby, I love that Spandex.

This weekend I visited friends at their house in upstate New York. Their backyard opens up on 20 acres of woodland and swamp. On Sunday starting at noon we heard gunshots. Not just a pistol. Not like I know the specifics of gunfire, but I can tell the difference between a shotgun-sounds like a sonic boom- and an automatic-sounds like me after beans. Between noon and four I identified four unique weapon discharges. I was freaked out; I desired not to be felled by a stray bullet. My friends had complained to authorities about the violent intrusion on to their lazy 'wish our children and dogs could play in the backyard' weekends before. After four hours something had to be done.

My friends husband plays in a band, therefore he has amplifying equipment at his disposal. He thought about blaring Culture Club, or Skid Row into the woods.

"No," I said, "they might like that. I've got 5 hours of Barry Manilow at the ready."

We hooked it up to two speakers, wrapped my pod in plastic, pressed play and went inside. We play dirty, baby.

After thirty minutes of angst filled, melodic, 150 decibel Manilow, a woman appeared from the woods. She claimed they were having a skeet shooting party and were unaware of my friend's proximity. Success. Truce declared.

What can we learn from this incident? How can Barry Manilow music achieve world peace? Unfortunately, for the Fanilows out there, I think we know.

Fuming...at the Pro-life

Pardon this post and any grammatical errors it may contain. I just turned off NBC nightly news after watching a little girl, no more that 6 or 7 years-old, holding up a sign that read, "Obama Lies, Grandma Dies" First of the parent that put that sign in her hand should be shot along with the PETA Person who scared a little boy so much that never wants to eat Chicken McNuggets again.

Back to the little girl: She has no idea what the words she hoists so proudly mean. She may as well be holding a Che Guevara sign. Her parents must have told her that Big Bad Obama wants to deny her oatmeal-cookie making grandma health care simply because she is old. The Karma you send out tonight may bite you and your parents in the behind little girl. However, I pray that your grandma will pass quickly in her sleep, not to be found until morning so she will not have to suffer the pain and indignity of ICU care. I pray that you never see her with a tube shoved into her throat forcing oxygen into her lungs. The tube will make her lips dry out, chap and bleed. The ventilator will make her chest rise and fall making you believe she is alive. She'll need a feeding tube to eat, a bladder tube to pee, and a rectal tube to prevent diarrhea from burning her bottom. The doctor will cut her neck to place a large IV with three separate openings for continuous cardiac medicine which constitutes a 24-hour code blue. With this therapy, she'll linger in the ICU for months before her frail body gives out. She'll be immobile, dependent on the nurse, or your mom, to moisturize her skin, swab her mouth, and change her position to prevent a crater forming in her ass.

Not many have seen what I, and my fellow nurses, have seen. Not many have caused the pain that I, and my fellow nurses, have caused. Not many have wished they could give an overdose or morphine which I, and my fellow nurses, have wished. Not even the family or the physician can appreciate the torment people feel at the end of their lives. Family and doctors visit for ten minutes at a time. The nurse holds a 24 hour vigil at the beside.

Obama wants Americans to do now, what we should have done 20 years ago during the boom of life-prolonging technology: Talk about our wishes. To be counseled on end-of-life care. He wants healthcare to honor the patient's living will, even when the children on the other side of the country disagree. When one fill out the health care proxy or the living will they think they are safe from barbaric heroic measures. Not the case. One dissension among your next-of-kin and they will lubricate the tracheal tube. And you'll be the little girl's grandma: trapped in your head, unable to scream.

Obama's plan does not mean one will be denied heroic measures if they want everything pound of medical care. The plan wants us to be informed and make our own decisions without our family's input should that be our choice. If you want everything done come on down; I'll get my tubes ready. The extra money will come from the millions not spent on those who'd rather slip away in peace.

America's Got Talent (Not)

Tonight's regularly scheduled blog about my Greyhound bus trip will be replaced by an analysis of tonight's AGT.

I got sucked into this show, but my roommate's obsession with reality TV. I've seen Jillian vacillate between Ed and Kipton, celebrities and athletes duke it out on Superstars, and shallow people "Date in the Dark." Thanks J, I'll be getting a new tv next week.

OK, here's my Analysis:

GrtSkate: This group rocks, great song, great synchronicity and costumes. I'd vote for them and they'd make a perfect Vegas show. I'm so jealous of their skating. I've been skating for years and all I can do is stop and go backwards.

Thia Megia-- Lea Salonga, Miley Cyrus, and every Broadway Diva called they wants their sound back. I jest, but I don't see pop star. If she develops her acting ability she'd have a great career in Musical Theatre.

The Platt Brothers--They rocked. And I agree with the judges-not focused. Plus they made the Hoff look constipated.

Diva Girls...Guys--Go to the East Village for a lip syncing, mobility challenged Tranny in 5 inch Stilletos. Nuff Said. Actually I can go 4 blocks away at Suite

Manuela Horn- WTF?

Grandma Lee--I want to take her home, put her in a rocking chair and listen to her all day. LOVE HER! Voted for her.

Mosaic-- Yea.. well.. Rockapella and the Groove Society do it better. Way better.

Acrodunk-- It's like the Harlem Globetrotters on Flubber. Everyone loved it, but I thought it lacked something. Could they put together an interesting hour and a half show in Vegas?

Arcadian-- Bite me Piers, a virtuoso pianist plus amazing dancer would make a great act. And he had a theme. This boy was born for Vegas, and L.A, and Broadway, and London's West End. Awesome, Awesome.! Love him.

Drew Thomas Magic--Kinda cool. And he's kinda cute. Vegas has tons of magicians though.

Kevin Skinner--Stop crying! Go to Nashville.

Lake Houston Dance--Prepubescent girls who can pirouette in unison. Yippee. To quote my roommate, "they were on speed." Is David on Crack?

Overall, a few gems. And most of them have some talent.

Arcadian and the Granny for the final.

The 1000 dollar Cockroach Killer

Meet Giles. Giles has Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. Giles is allergic to something that makes him scratch and lick himself to scabby bald mess. Giles nudges my face at 4 in the morning. Giles is a pain in the ass. But he stalks and kills an insect like the Orkin Man. Good Kitty, now get off my head.

Last summer my pre-war-the first one-railroad apartment became infested with rats and mice.

I learned alot about rodents that summer from Juan, my butt crack displaying exterminator. Like rats and mice don't get along and one will trump the other...usually. However, my abode is long and narrow with two separate piping systems. Lucky me! After phone calls and letter to the management office plus three visits from Juan. I was instructed on how to fix the problem. I called in sick to work and with the help of Abbey, my neighbor afflicted with back problems, I moved all my furniture and found every crevice in the baseboards. My phillips head screwdriver served me well that day as I shoved steel wool into every opening.

Later that night, Jon, a cat rescuer, carted three felines in from Brooklyn. Imagine sitting next to that guy on the subway. There was a slim orange short haired cat who wanted nothing to do with me and hissed at the Sebastian, a tiny tiger who paced at the window and Biggie, a white and grey long-haired who climbed in my lap. Biggie also displayed calm when nose to nose with a Basset Hound back at the rescue. How the heck is this this sloth going to kill a rat. Since the new cat's major criterion was getting along with a shepherd mix, Biggie got the nod. You can see how that relationship worked out.

Giles had Giardia when he first came to me and he suffered a massive diarrhea attack. That's 200 dollars at the vet for fluids and medicine. Then Sebastian had to be put on anti-parasite when I cause him snacking on the litter box. It took a month for our home to be parasite free. Then came the hair loss and open sores. The cat had to be put on a special low allergen diet: Dick Van Patten's Natural Balance Duck and Green Pea. I'll have the spinach, Sebastian will have the by-products, and the cat will have the duck. No, not the pheasant, the duck. And a glass of your finest Merlot, please.

Three months later he's better but still chewing, and licking, and gnawing. At night, he sounds like he's sanding grandmother's old hope chest. We went to a DERMATOLOGIST. Yes, the cat has a dermatologist. He's infected, he's itchy. If this round of antibiotic doesn't work out, he will most likely need allergy testing and shots which can cost a 1000 dollars.

With all the antibiotics and food allergies he has earned the nickname, Sir Shits Alot.

But I keep him, because I've fallen in love with him and because he can kill a cockroach in 5 seconds.

Good Kitty, now stop kneading my stomach, I'm not pizza dough.

Peeing with the door open

I have a confession to make: I pee with the door ajar. If in someone's house who I just met I'll maintain some modesty. But overall, after knowing someone for over a month, in the name of chronometric economy, I'll skip the crucial step of shutting the door. Unless there's a party and the living room is just off the hall. . My parents made me this way. They also encouraged belching at the table. My father burped the alphabet.

My best friend came from a home where a slip in gas passage earned parental fury. We met at age 18. Her sphincter activated only in a soundproof, sealed toilet after great rumination. By age twenty we took turns in gas station bathrooms.

At age 24, she shocked me by dropping her pants, sitting on the rim of my car's passenger entry, and peeing on the side of the road. My pride welled as she pulled up her pants without anxiety as cars whizzed by. On I95 in South Florida, She'd done a good clean pee, no dribbles. The student becomes the teacher.

She got married two months ago. A week after her honeymoon she called me. “OMG! We poop with the door open.” She explained that not having a door on the master bathroom gives them two choices: dash into the living room while the other performs their evacuation, or remain blanketed in their warm bed. “I don’t think I’d be this free if it wasn’t for you," she claimed.

"Aww, thanks friend. Glad to have helped free up your martial toileting, but remember I only pee in front of you.” Pooping is a behind the scenes activity.

But what’s the big deal. We can't deny that humans would rather announce their need to void rather than their urge to defecate. No one wants to take a dump at the office. Why is peeing a more socially acceptable activity? Maybe because peeing uses our conventional genitalia and pooping employs our ‘alternative’ or ‘back door’ breach. Is it the odor? The production of solid matter? The grunting? Perhaps those inclined to share sustain the mystique of a number 2 for good reasons; a good poop affords us the peace to read our guilty pleasures, like Road and Track or Consumer Reports.

Michael Jackson

Last night I morned the loss and celebrated the life of Michael Jackson. After discussing his death and music contributions with my roommate, J, I headed to to ITunes and purchased the Fat and Eat It videos. After all, one of Mr. Jackson's greatest contribution to my life, aside from the awesome Black or White, was providing "Weird Al" Yankovic with parody fodder. According to "Weird Al", the parodies thrilled Michael Jackson.

Actually, I liked Michael Jackson and grew up on his music. I remember sitting in my best friends living room glued to MTV waiting for the Thriller video to air. In 1982 we lacked tech wonders like You Tube and media players. We ran home after school plopping ourselves in front of MTV. Clasping our hands together, we'd straighten our backs each time a Bryan Adams video ended chanting "Thriller, Thriller" at the television. The music network back when they aired music ran promos announcing when the 14 min video would air. Often it would play 5 times in prime time. And children everywhere squealed. My father's middle management position did not afford our family a VCR until 1984, so he bought my sister and I the album. I played on Thriller until I had memorized every syllable. Whenever some says, "Darkness Falls," I launch into Vincent Price's rap. "...across the land, the midnight hour..."

At twenty I liked a boy who loved Mr.Jackson and fell under his spell again. Our small college Hillel group drove around Lake Worth Beach with Black or White and Vanilla Ice blaring out the window. I watched the video on You Tube tonight (Is that Tyra Banks?) and remembered the good days when a video told the story of a song. Not like today's artsy and hyper-sexual renderings.

His music played everywhere today: the radio in my cab, the hospital cafeteria,Subwaytm. I never bopped around like that while getting seasoned fries on my lunch break before. I sang under my breath and danced under the counter as I payed for my veggie patty sub. The King of Pop made me do it. It's got a great beat and you can dance to it. Pure music from a thirty-something's age of innocence. The counter man said that his death reminds us that life is short. I said it makes us wonder why we don't appreciate something until it is gone. When he was alive we didn't listen because we focused more on his strangeness. Now we remember how good the music was. And how good it made us feel.

At the end of his trial, our media professor assigned someone to check their internet phone every five minutes. The not guilty made me happy. I felt the poor guy was being run through. I never cared about his persona or his scandals, that's not my business.

I'm glad the music played everywhere today and I relived some great moments.

Thank you Mr. Jackson from my whole singing and dancing heart.

The Pill Shooter

I am jumping for joy tonight. I finally got my cat to take a pill. Some backstory: My cat Giles has a skin allergy which causes him to scratch and lick himself sore. After I exhausted all of my vet's knowledge in fighting it, she sent me to a specialist, Dr. Pikes of Animal Allergy and Dermatology.

The assistants descended on him, taking samples from every part of his body. He has both fungal and bacterial infections on his sore spots. I was nervous about the pills since I tried before. The aftermath of the pilling session looked like I'd plucked a chicken: white hair everywhere and scratches on my arms. Enter the pill shooter, a long narrow tube with a plunger. The E how website has amusing directions on how to use this product here. I really like number three.

"Calmly talk to your cat and explain why he needs a pill, and what you are going to do, and that it will be quick and will not hurt."

Of course he'll understand. Giles, honey, you are scratching the shit out of yourself and frankly I can't hear the sound of your sandpaper touge abrading your bald flesh anymore. So I am going to open your mouth and shove this little bitty pill into it. Okay, If you don't scratch me or bite my fingers it will be over in a second. And I promise, It will hurt me more that you. 'K pumpkin.

I did comfort him and I was quick and it worked. YEA! The crushing and mixing was getting on my nerves.

If it's not Gatorade

Today at the Performing Art Library I went to the ladies and found one clean bowl for my golden water. After making my deposit I held back my urge to slam open the door and run into the study area announcing:

"Whoever left the neon yellow green liquid in the toilet and did not flush, if that's not gatorade, you need some medical attention stat!, cause that is so not normal."

Peace.

Why I love NY

A taxi slammed into my local pizzareria a few days ago. When I arrived home at 5pm to find red lights and sirens filling the street.

By 7pm the restaraunt was open for business. The only evidence of injury was boards nailed to the side.

Seep into my brain and make me see follicle.

Hello All,

Some of you may know that I, Heather Waghelstein, have female pattern Alopecia. I have had two hair transplant and I am trying to save money for a third, and final procedure. This all happened four years ago. In my desperation I spent about 5 thousand on weaves, wigs, and special products. Then when I went for the transplant the doctor told me that creams and shampoo's don't work. I accepted it, grieved for my hair, and saved money. Now, four years later I have some good success, my hair is long, but I want my skull cap back. My friend uses Nioxin and encouraged me to do the same. It costs as much my fancy shampoo and conditioner, so I am trying the product. Also I went to the dermatologist and she told me to increase my Iron intake since I don't eat meat.

You're supposed to let the conditioner sit for three minutes--my scalp got mentholated. I felt it pucker like that one time when I used vaporub. I have to give it props for it's ability to condition my dry as a desert hair so I'll keep using it. Two weeks later, I think it's working, my hair does look a tad fuller. Or is that the product diffusing into my brain, making me see things. Ahh! That's how 9 out of 10 people report the noticeable change in the appearance of hair.

Riding the Rails

I went to visit my friend in Baltimore on Thursday. Instead of renting a car which I usually do since I bring my dog, I took the Amtrak regional from Penn Station to Baltimore's Penn Station. The $92 one-way ticket was a bit pricey compared to car rental(with a corporate discount), but the 2 1/2 hour stress free journey lured me into the bucket seat.

Driving I-95 between New York State and Washington D.C. sucks the big exhaust pipe due to extreme traffic, over-defensive driving, and never ending construction. My friend and I once took 8 hours to return from a Weird Al concert in D.C. The trip on a slow Saturday can take 4 hours. To spare myself another trip on the New Jersey turnpike I took the train.

What a lovely time I had. I sat in the club car, at a booth across from a nice lady already working on her laptop before the train left the station. I had kept my computer on the charger before leaving. Each seat has a power outlet. Oh. WOW. Coffee, soft seat, and electricity. Throw in wi-fi and I'll never leave the train. I'd like to go cross country just for the shits and giggles.

To go from New York, NY to San Francisco, CA it takes 62 hours and $200 for the a coach seat. Add a roomette for approx 500 dollars. It's cheaper to fly, though I think the experience of 2 1/2 days confinement plus the view make train travel a valid and interesting option.

Bicycling in New York City

Yes! Moving at 20miles per hour on a bicycle 6 inches away from a bitter sanitation worker moving at 45miles per hour in a garbage truck is one way to fight depression and feel alive. Weee! I am Nuts. My thighs burned plus the hills induced panting, but I arrived at my destination, the Performing Arts Library in Lincoln Center, in 22 minutes-the same time the subway takes.

I am all for biking in the city and I believe it is a great way to help the environment. I'd be happy if Mayor Bloomberg(who does take the subway to work) found a way to limited the amount of cars in our fair city. We shouldn't ban them; honking horns and exhaust fumes give NY it's character. Without cars we'd be...Amsterdam-without the copious amount of grain.

There are rules to biking in the city.

Ride with the traffic on the right side of the street where there is no bike lane. My friend Ray thinks we should ride against traffic. This morning I realized why you go with traffic: A head on collision between bicycle and car is far more deadly. Get sideswiped and you might break a collarbone.

Use bike lanes when possible. Learn the hand signals. Behave as you are in a car meaning that you follow all signals and signs. Use protective gear--HELMET. And lastly, put your balls of steel on before you leave the house.

Some websites.
Transportation Alternatives
New York Cycle Club

The Library is great to work but...

You have to drink your coffee or soda in a clandestine manner.

My one week off starts today and I, instead of running out of town, am spending it at home in the Big Apple. I woke at 10 am today, walked my dog, then came to the New York Public Library- The performing arts branch in Lincoln Center. The collective creativity in the 5 block center will permeate my brain and I will write better. I am writing a book. The title of my book is This Is So Not Pretty: Finding Love and Beauty on TV. . In 2004 I was on the show Extreme Makeover and I am writing a book about the experience. I've taken classes and found some amazing people to help me in my journey.

So with every bit of free time I have, I hunker down with my pen, paper and laptop and write my brains away. I am powered by coffee and music plus for some reason I can't get the same amount done at home. But Manhattan coffee shops can get a bit pricey: there's the coffee, plus the cute little sandwiches with avocados for 7 dollars. Then the batteries on the laptop give out, so I must transfer to a power source usually a Starbucks. Then I have to buy another coffee, then the cookies at Starbucks looks so good and they have sugar. Now I am getting extra calories. You can see how this becomes a spiral.

So the Library is my solution. It's free and quiet. I have my music with Itunes and there is no food to tempt me. But they have that annoying no drinks rule. Here's what I did, am doing right now: I bought a tight thermos that doesn't leak, filled it with life-giving-java and every so often pretend to hunt through my bag then take a quick sip.

Now I must get back to writing my book.

New York Senator-Kirsten Gillibrand

Heather speaks: I find it difficult to take this woman seriously. First, her name: it's KIR-sten not Kristen. What is she... 20? She sounds like the head cheerleader at my high school. When I was a freshman, she was a senior; I wonder if she would have picked on me? Either I am getting old or she is too young to be a senator.

I do like her platform though. She supports marital equality, small businesses, and understands the differences between Upstate and Downstate.

Let's hope for good things from Kirsten.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Rockapella in concert. Watch the amazing Jeff Thacher at 1:30 perform solo.


I finally spent my ITunes Channukah card a few days ago.... on Rockapella and electric versions of some classical pieces. I found a great "Flight of the Bumblebee" and spent an hour looking for a well done "Sabre Dance." Alas, I did not find anything worthy. But I did rediscover Rockapella. Remember Where in the World..., the PBS kids game show that proved the sorry state of the education system. Kids couldn't find Spain on an outline map. The a cappela group provided transitional music plus choral cues during the show. When the crowd roared "Do it Rockapella" at the end the talented quintet launched into the song that put them on the map. The clever lyrics blew my skirt up. I'm sure my crush on the tall man with the jutting jaw and cornrows had something to do with my making Where in the World after school appointment televsion. Geek to the core-I am, was, and always will be.

I learned that the group is still recording orginal music and touring here and abroad. I downloaded a bunch of their tunes. The music, produced soley by vocal, is fun, fresh and displays the group's range. The harmonies are pitch perfect. The vocal percussion, aka beat box, of Jeff Thacher will amaze your ears. Soon you'll forget that sound comes from a human being. I was smiling from the first note and singing along by the last.

My Parents...

have arrived into the technological age. Three Waghelsteins online at the same time. What are the odds? P.S. They live in the same house.

My Bloody Valentine-3D

Saw this movie yesterday with my friend, Ray. Ray liked it and his shoulder stayed warm because my head remained buried in it. I never liked horror films ever since my sister made me watch Amityville and Friday the 13th(a new one is due to hit theatres in spring). I saw this one to support an actor I like. This movie amazed, terrified, and disturbed me. Took me a while to get certain images out of my mind before sleep last night.

The production values and effects rocked as did the 3D. The gore was so realistic plus they did an amazing job of keeping you guessing between all the possible suspects. The story is simple: Big murder spree by miner with a pick-axe then the murderer gets killed and buried. Ten years later the sleepy town of Harmony falls victim to the same killings. Did the murderer rise from the dead or is it a copy cat? Plus there's some angst and lost-love thrown in for good measure. The plot is secondary to the presentation and if you like gore fests this one will have you screaming at every swing.

Brain Farts

I've got to get my dog a job. He sleeps all day in my bed or the couch and I'm sure he's learned to use the remote control. When I close the door to leave for work at 6am he gives me this look. Somedays I swear he's thinking, "sucker." Later around noon he turns to the cat, "ok, you get the beer, I'll turn on Animal Planet." It's like having an unemployed husband. When I come home it's all, "take me out, I have to pee," or "love me, I missed you all day." I'll forgive him for the needing to pee, I'm thankful he's housebroken. But he can be annoying with his licking and pawing. Oh, men.

My roommate and I had a debate about PC v. Mac. She feels that more Mac people frequent Starbucks than independent coffee shops because the are willing to pay more for a label. I disagreed. I find more Mac users at indie coffee shops because they know quality and are free thinkers that eschew coporate dribble. Starbucks tastes like burnt floor, yet has the most caffiene. PC's work like the telegraph, yet have the most power for the dollar. Indie coffee tastes better but wont have you buzzing. Mac works like the wheel, but costs more.

I took care of an eight month old baby after his ear tube surgery. I held him in my arms until the parents arrived. The mother took a look at her crying child and yelped, "Oh my god, what's wrong with him? He looks so different." She was so upset I insisted the father hold him. I talked her down the baby was fine. They went home happy. But after I laughed heartily with my co-workers. Did she not know she was bringing the baby in for surgery with ANESTHESIA. Anesthesia induces an altered state of mind.

Odd News

Since I have nothing scintillating to write I will post some links to cool stories

107 year old Chinese woman seeks first husband. You go girlfriend. Have you had the wedding night talk. Will you use protection?

Computer geeks learn to flirt "It's not the size of your hard drive..."

Dairy Milk Chocolate bars contain......milk!

and a funny video for you to enjoy

Did she get some last night?

You can't win in this world.
I am, on most days, a happy and chipper person but as Winona Ryders Veronica said in the Heather's, a bitchin movie btw, "if you were happy every day of your life you'd be a game show host." Since I am not channeling Wink Martindale daily, I have my moments of crank. I start work at 630 and it takes me a while to get going with myself. My collegues notice the moment I am lackluster. "Whats wrong, you're not my usual self." "Oh just tired, or didn't sleep." Give me a chance to be human people! Gee. We all have ups and downs that are not fueled by the moon's gravity on our uteri. Is it possible that my usual self is just a facade I put on for you people. Maybe inside I'm constanly in a depressed rage. Ok, kidding. People crave consistentcy and if something falls out of that norm that worries them. If the workplace bitch flashes a smile and a wave everyone assumes "she got some last night."

Bizarre New York Moment #583

Walking down 106th a shriveled woman approached me and the dog. Her knarled fingers grasped the handles of her walker as she spoke in a gutteral Eastern European accent. "Hello, can you help me." My five foot four frame towered over her hunched shoulders.

"What do you need?" I said twirling Sebastian's leash to hold him at my left side.

"Can you read something to make sure the English is good." I looked at my watch. I wanted to get the dog walked so I could get home to write plus on a good day I forget comma's and switch tenses. Maybe editing a wrinkled woman's words would be the kick my copy career needs. The octogenarian knew to ask me; something told her I would stop.

Her eyes danced as we took a spot on the bench outside her building and she produced a letter written in script. She tapped the paper:"Read, check English." The letter was 6 pages , though her handwriting large.

The first paragraph summarized her thwarted attempt to be a 'witness for a court case.' I did not find an error. The second and third focused on each obstacle she encountered on her way to Pearl St. The operator at the court hung up on her repeatedly. When she finally reached someone they gave her the same room number as her apartment. Interesting. She called another 5 times; they told her it was a different room, the room above her. That's the police officer's room who, by the way, harass her consistenly. Hmmm! I look at the building marquee. "Red Oak Senior Housing". At this point my nurses brain labels her as paranoid and delusional, but as the plot congeals so does the letter

The cab driver-she called him a taxist, how cute-didn't know the way, construction diverted traffic, and the police blocked her entrance. So she is allowed to leave and she got downtown, but she mistook common New York events as a greater power. It's possible she's mildly nuts. She was an hour late for court. She found the room just as the official closed the court. Every one started to file out, but not my slavic sprite. She walkered herself onto the platform shouting, "I am here to witness..." The official said "No, court is closed." The police gently asked her to leave. Her skinny stems stood firm. They removed her with force. In her letter she writes of other's 'witnessing' after her ejection. Is some authority trying to silence her? Maybe she's someone of importance or threat. She pleads with the organization. The letter ends.

Her lanquid writing held few mistakes. I found it pleasant, like a ride on a stream. I presume English is not her first language, yet she displayed a mastery of our word. I corrected little, a comma here, extra word there which she had me make directly on the page. As I walked my dog down the street, I imagined her returning to the floor nestled below the police office. She will rewrite the letter on fresh paper by candlelight, pausing only to dip her quill. Readying herself for the revolution. I gave her my number. Next time I hope her fingers are stained with ink.

It puts the toilet paper in the...

Found in bathroom at an upper west side nail salon.
Sadly, I'm so conditioned that I complied with the request.

When Britney Spears enters your subconscious.

I'm up at 3am tonight because....

Last night -I am not kidding or inflating the truth of my R.E.M sleep- The phoenix of Pop crawled into my brain. I was 17 in the dream which would make Britney about 2 but lets suspend reality for a moment. She was the age she is now and I was living on her compound/ranch. I asked to borrow her burgundy BMW. She asked for my driver's license! Stunned, I asked my mother whose appearance at the compound seemed natural. My mother had forgot to bring it. "I just wanted to drive the car mom, I should be allowed to drive the car."