interrupted

It’s one of those times when the world seems anemic and grim, when I shrink in disgust from what we cavalierly call civilization. The horror continues unabated in Iraq; today alone 170 people were killed in Baghdad. It doesn’t seem like anybody can staunch the flow of hemorrhaging violence in that country. Steady and resolute, the genocide continues in Darfur. In the past month the DC area has witnessed a slew of murders in PG County, a hit-and-run road rage incident in Montgomery County that left two people dead, a domestic murder-suicide in Montgomery County that left two little children and their father dead, and a domestic murder-suicide in Frederick County that left four little children and their father dead and their mother missing. On and on it goes.

And then there’s Virginia Tech. There are layers upon layers of tragedy here. Young lives interrupted. A Holocaust and cancer survivor who endured so much, only to be gunned down in his classroom in the mountains while protecting his students. Freshmen just starting out in life. Seniors on the cusp of graduating. Aside from the professors who were killed, all the victims were kids. Just kids. Just over a decade ago I was one of those kids. Not at Virginia Tech...but in the end, a college is a college is a college. When you’re a 20-year-old college student, whether you’re in a community college in Montana or a massive university in Munich, you don’t expect your world to end on a bluebright Monday morning in April. You don’t expect your world to end when you’re sitting in class in your sweatshirt and jeans, backpack at your feet, notebook and pen or laptop in front of you, thinking about Finals and summer break, maybe, or just thinking about when you can grab your next cup of coffee.

There’s nothing I can really say about this tragedy that hasn’t already been said—more astutely and eloquently, I may add—by the media and folks online. There are a few issues I discussed with friends that I’d like to mention here as well, but I will only do so in a few days’ time. Why? Well, over on the BBC News boards, accusations are flying between pro- and anti-gun believers. Between Americans and countries where guns are illegal. The Virginia Tech situation is bound to devolve into a screaming match about America’s gun culture and whether the right to bear arms is really a right at all. This is on top of the blame being heaped upon the university’s administrators and security force for not doing more to stave off the tragedy. I guess that’s inevitable, but here’s the thing: do we really need to talk about this now? Only two days have passed since the massacre. We don’t even know the names of all the victims yet. Not a single victim has been buried yet. Before everyone starts slinging blame, hunting for scapegoats, and lambasting the US’s gun policies, can’t we just have a period of peace when people reflect on what really matters—the victims and the people left behind?

You think it’s a day like any other. What you don’t realize is anything can happen. And then it does. It happens. And there’s so much left unsaid. And it was all just wasted time. –Harriet Sansom Harris, in Six Feet Under


I could have told him that nothing was safe and that no matter how careful you were and how hard you tried, there were still accidents, hidden traps, and snares. You could get killed on an airplane or crossing the street. Your marriage could fall apart when you weren’t looking; your husband could lose his job; your baby could get sick or die. I could have said that nothing is safe, that the surface of the world is pretty and sane, but underneath it’s all fault lines and earthquakes waiting to happen. –Jennifer Weiner, Little Earthquakes


What you were preparing against—that never happened! All the best-laid plans could not prevent the disaster against which no plans had been laid. –George Stewart, Earth Abides


Bottom line is, even if you see them coming, you’re not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So, what are we, helpless? Puppets? Nah. The big moments are gonna come, you can’t help that. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. That’s when you find out who you are. –Max Perlich, in Buffy the Vampire Slayer


You must not let terror overtake you.
It is a bone breaking in the middle of the night.
It is a misspelled word.
It is everything you thought you knew
becoming unknown, the leaves
stripped from the tree,
all the greenness orange and dry,
it is a pain past bearable, you must not.
–Susan Griffin, “Prayer for Continuation”


But everything went wrong for me and upside down, the nature of things was reborn for me. – Vinsentsos Kornaros, Erotokritos


Learn the darkness.
Gather round you all
the things that you love, name
their names, prepare
to lose them. It will be
as if all you know were turned
around within your body.
–Wendell Berry, “Song in a Year of Catastrophe”

song heard most recently before posting:
Thief of Your Heart—Sinead O’Connor

Easter with the Sopranos

Easter, Easter, Easter. I spent it working, reading (a fabulous disaster book), updating my quotes pages, and watching the first disc of Season 2 of The Sopranos. Oh, and listening to my upstairs neighbors gather with their extended clan for the sole purpose of tormenting me with their noise levels. (So, in turn, I jacked up the volume on my TV so their Easter would be peppered with Tony Soprano bellowing “You fucking fat sack of shit!” and the like.) Also, the first thing to fully wake me on Easter morning wasn’t the noisy neighbors getting ready for church, but the sound of Plath vomiting on my bed. Then I realized that my period had started, too. Happy Easter to me!

Well, it’s not a holiday I celebrate anymore, anyway. To me it really only matters if you’re religious or a kid. Or, if neither applies to you, it’s worth celebrating if you have nice family traditions to uphold. We started going to a fancy Easter buffet at the Hershey Lodge and Convention Center when I was in junior high, I think (or maybe 6th grade at the earliest), and this was something I always enjoyed. The meal was great, there were loads of decorations and a big ice sculpture, and a tux-clad pianist played lovely tunes while we ate. Plus the hostess looked like Dionne Warwick, which, back in the ’80s, I thought was kind of cool. This all began before my parents divorced and my grandmother died, so as the years progressed, the tradition felt like a relic from a better era (even though, okay, technically things were much better after my parents split—those are two people who never should’ve married each other). But when we stopped going to Hershey ’round about 2001 or 2002, because they were raising their prices and the food quality was dropping, I took that as my cue to stop celebrating the holiday altogether. There just didn’t seem to be any point to schlepping up to PA for a holiday that didn’t matter to me.

My sister invited me over for dinner, but I wanted to make some headway with my latest freelancing project and also tackle some long-overdue website updates. Plus I just didn’t feel like getting dressed or going anywhere. Getting dressed and going somewhere are so overrated. For Easter dinner I ate some vegetarian salmon and that was the extent of my celebratory fressing.

My plans to check out the cherry blossoms with Mom and Bill on Saturday fell through. We cancelled on Friday night because we thought the weather was going to be worse than it was. The weather was okay in the end (it remained quite cold but we only received a dusting of snow), but by then it was too late to really do anything about it. I added quotes to my website, watched an excellent German film (The Tunnel), read the aforementioned disaster book, and edited two chapters of my freelancing project.

Since I’m moving backwards here, I’ll mention that I cleaned on Friday night for the first time in ages. I even went to Target beforehand to stock up on new cleaning supplies. Although I knew Mom probably wouldn’t visit after all, because the weather forecast wasn’t looking so great, I decided that a clean apartment would be good for me; perhaps it would even disrupt this paralyzing stasis I’ve been in lately. But really, part of what drove me to clean was my embarrassment over Wednesday’s intruder seeing my disgusting apartment. He used or at least looked at my toilet, and it was foul. It seriously looked like a toilet from Trainspotting. I was just so humiliated, it drove me to clean.

Oh…wait. Did I ever mention my intruder? It’s not a huge deal, really. Last Wednesday I got home from work and one of the first things I noticed was that the door to the laundry room was hanging wide open. I figured the cats must’ve pushed it open—it’s happened before, although never that wide. Then I noticed that my thermometer/hydrometer, which is perched on a little shelf outside the kitchen, was facedown on the floor. Then I noticed that the big plastic container of cat food that I keep in the laundry room was sitting in my living room. Then I noticed that my toilet seat was up, like a guy pissed in it. What. The. Fuck. Well, I’m not that stupid—I understood that someone had been in my apartment. And that someone was clearly one of my upstairs neighbors (the laundry room connects my apartment to their side of the house) or a service employee sent in there to examine the house’s phone connection box, or the water valve, or the gas/electricity meter (all of them are in my apartment). But why? That’s what I want to know. Why would they come into my apartment? And not call me beforehand? Or, in an emergency (like if flooding were imminent and the water valve had to be turned off immediately), why didn’t they at least tell me afterward? Nobody said a word to me. I was pissed. And I felt violated to some degree. Plus, let’s not forget that the last time they had a service employee enter my apartment without asking me, he broke the stained glass star I’d just brought home from Iceland. And there was that one time my previous landlord entered my apartment (without first asking me), to fix one thing or another, and ended up breaking one of my San Francisco magnets and the stained glass Chagall piece I bought in Chicago. So, to say that I’m touchy when it comes to upstairs people entering my apartment without my permission would be an understatement. And since then, I have been locking my door every day. Yes, I learned my lesson, thanks.

So…back to Friday. I’m not an unclean person (haw haw haw, well, in some ways I am)—I’ve always prided myself on keeping a clean and tidy apartment. But ever since my landlord and landlady died two years ago, leaving me thinking that I’d have to move, my apartment has been in disarray. Possessions are packed away and boxes are stacked everywhere. I gave up dusting and cleaning except on a sporadic basis because I just didn’t care anymore. All I want is to get the hell out of there, but naturally the housing market exploded when all this began, and I couldn’t afford a home. I could move into another rental, but…ugh. No thanks. I need to avoid that if I can, for a lot of different reasons.

Anyway, so I cleaned on Friday to eliminate the Trainspotting toilet and all the other nastiness plaguing my apartment thanks to my apathetic sloth. Halfway through the cleaning frenzy I ended up getting badly scratched by Freyja, who I tried to put into the living room while I was vacuuming the bedroom. She’d been in the bedroom and got a crazed, wild-eyed look of panic when she thought I was going to corner her with the vacuum. I decided to carefully pick her up and move her into the living room so she wouldn’t feel trapped. Simple, right? It misfired. She became a puffy, yowling ball of knives and within seconds I was spurting blood. Excellent. But I have to say that I’m impressed with her ability to rip a gash in my chest without actually tearing my shirt. That’s quite a skill to have.

Speaking of cats, the disaster book I just finished mentioned that the narrator’s cat was a gray tabby who yelled a lot. I nudged Plath and sneered, “Why does that sound familiar?” Then the cat disappeared for a while and the narrator was afraid that one of her starving neighbors ate him. I scooped up Plath in a death-clinch, buried my face in his stomach, and screeched, “Plathy, I won’t let the neighbors eat you! I WON’T! I’ll smother you and your sister before I allow the neighbors to eat you!! I’ll keep you safe, I promise you! I won’t let you be their dinner!!!” He was just like, Oh, Jesus Christ.



song heard most recently before posting:
Con te partiro—Andrea Bocelli

shakes on a plane

A big YAY! to the FAA, who graciously decided to maintain its rule that cell phones can’t be used on planes. They say it’s because there’s no conclusive proof that phones won’t interfere with a plane’s navigation/communication tools, but I’d like to think a certain amount of common sense—or at least a fear of air rage—also has something to do with it. Because, let’s be honest here, I can’t imagine the general public would honestly be okay with having to spend hours in a confined space listening to a dozen one-sided cell phone conversations flittering about the cabin. Especially when you consider how many people still talk LOUDER THAN NECESSARY when using cell phones. Planes are annoying enough as it is, unless you’re lucky enough to afford First Class, which I’m not. You’ve got the cramped space, the long toilet queues, the stale recirculated air, the crappy in-flight entertainment, the crying babies, the whining toddlers, the seat-kickers, the push-their-seats-so-far-back-they’re-lying- in-your-lappers, the people behind you who gab loudly at 3am when you’re attempting to snag even a few minutes of precious sleep. Imagine throwing cell phones into the mix. Cell phones with egregious ringtones. Surely I wouldn’t be the only person shaking with rage? Granted, not everyone hates cell phones as much as me, but even people who use them and love them would surely find their patience wearing thin after listening to nonstop cell-gabbing on a long flight. A quick puddle-jumping flight might be okay, but a transatlantic, transpacific, or transcontinental flight? Highly unlikely. Air rage already exists; won’t cell phones make it worse? For me it’s bad enough when the plane lands and everyone immediately pulls out their phones to start gabbing while the plane slowly makes its way to the gate. I can’t imagine dealing with that on a long flight to Europe. So kudos to the FAA, and let’s hope they don’t change their minds on this one.

A big BOO! to Mother Nature, who, after giving us a tantalizing glimpse of spring’s balmy, delicious powers, proceeded to smack us over the head with the blunt hammer of winter. I actually like cold weather—I love winter and I much prefer cold weather to hot weather. [PA Dutch accent] Well I do believe I mind the heat something awful now, ain’t? [/PA Dutch accent] But this is the one weekend when I’d like warm, calm weather, because Mom and Bill are planning to visit me tomorrow so we can see the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin. Shivering beneath the blossoms won’t be fun, but it’ll be doable. What won’t be doable will be visiting the blossoms if they’re all dead/missing from the subfreezing nighttime temperatures, the flurries, the strong winds. Heck, we even had hail the other night during a thunderstorm. So, basically, at this point I’m not sure if our day will have be cancelled yet. The cherry blossoms outside my office are still holding strong, so presumably the ones at the tidal basin are doing okay as well, but the images shown on the National Parks Service’s online Cherry Blossom Cam aren’t very helpful. It’s hard to tell from those images whether the blossoms are doing okay or not. If they are still around tomorrow and Mom’s visit proceeds as planned, I think I’ll suggest that we eat lunch at the Elephant & Castle, a British pub in DC, mostly because they serve curry chips, and I heart curry chips. Whether our day gets canceled or not, my weekend will also involve working (shocker!) and doing some massive updates to my quotes collection. Yawn.


song heard most recently before posting:
Looks Like We Made It—Barry Manilow

the cat burglar with zit cream smeared on her face

I assumed the mantle of babysitter on Saturday and managed to watch my beloved little niece Olivia overnight without inadvertently killing or maiming her (my childcare experience is minimal, to say the least). Spending time with her is always a treat, even though getting her to eat and potty isn’t so easy. We spent loads of time outdoors blowing bubbles, zooming around the driveway (her on the little horse scooter I bought her for her first Christmas and me on my rollerblades), playing with rocks, and playing hide and seek. I read several books to her, we watched cartoons, and we built snakes with Play-Doh. On Sunday afternoon her parents and I took her to an Easter Egg hunt at a park in Frederick, followed by a stint in the park’s playground. The best part of the hunt is the fact that we totally forgot to bring along one of her 80 million Easter baskets, so she had to use an Henri Bendel shopping bag as her basket, as that’s the only bag that could be found in her parents’ minivan. It awesomely made us look like a bunch of rich twits.

The only downside: when I let the dawgz out on Sunday morning, I accidentally set off the burglar alarm. My sister set it when they got home at 3am and I didn’t realize this, so I didn’t disarm it before opening the door. The next thing I knew, a trooper was ringing the doorbell. Oops. Seeing as how I was in my pajamas and bare feet and had a toddler scampering around my legs, it was pretty clear to him that I wasn’t a burglar, although who’s to say Olivia and I weren’t a cat burglar team in disguise?

The big spenda hunts for eggs.

song heard most recently before posting:
Duden (Talvin Singh remix)—Natacha Atlas

cool Britannia

Yous guys! These are halycon days for connoisseurs of British low culture! First I found out that my favorite Geordies, Ant and Dec, are coming to America to host an American version of the wildly popular German TV show Wetten Das…?, and then I found out that everyone’s favorite chavtastic trainwrecks, Jordan and Peter Andre, have a reality show coming to E! in April! YESSSS! (*pumps fist in air*) Plus! Posh and Becks are getting their own reality show in America, too! Mark my words: I won’t rest until Jade Goody joins this esteemed echelon of British “performers” shoving their celebrity onto bewildered Americans.

How much do I love British pop culture? Well, if the fact that I’m willing to fork out five bucks for a single imported issue of heat magazine doesn’t clue you in, then let me say this: when I was in London last fall, I actually ran back to my hotel so I wouldn’t miss X-Factor and Ant & Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway. Folks who know me know this: I don’t run. No sir, not me. I even got a doctor’s note to get out of running the mile in high school. So clearly this was a big deal for me. Sweat pouring off me, my camera bag smacking into my aching thigh, my blistered feet shrieking with every pounding footfall, I was like, “...*pant, pant*...gotta get...*pant*... back...*gasp*...Ant and Dec...*pant, cough*...must...see...Simon...” It’s all about priorities, people.

Me with the height of wonderful British trash: Pick Me Up magazine.

As he mentioned on his blog, Shawn and I recently got into a discussion about wandering uteruses. Because that’s what normal thirtysomethings do. But here’s the thing—the discussion’s languidly meandering path actually makes some semblance of sense when viewed as a whole, and it’s pretty interesting, too, because it leads to darker themes that fill your average feminist with the fury of a thousand suns.

Here’s how it began. I found a cool website that allows you to read transcripts from every trial conducted at the Old Bailey between 1674 to 1834. One of the cases listed concerned a woman who, “to the disgrace of all womankind, did commit Buggery with a certain Mongrel Dog, and wickedly, devilishly, and against nature had venerial and Carnal copulation with him.”

Shawn said to me, “Not that abuse of animals is acceptable, but all I keep thinking of is the witch trials. The neighbors probably didnt’ like her, so they made stuff up. They probably killed the dog too.”

I agreed that the alleged dog buggerer was probably innocent, because women really got the shaft in those days. If they had even a slight inclination to be independent or unconventional, if they refused to adhere to the party line, if they dared to enjoy sex…they were decried as witches or lunatics and were subsequently burned at the stake (or drowned/pressed to death) or thrown in an asylum.

Shawn then mentioned a book he owns which is all about the portrayal of women in Victorian art and culture. It talks about the doctors and scientists who were dead serious when they declared that women have a lower intelligence as men, they have brain damage from losing blood each month through menstruation, and because they’re barely human they are naturally prone to fits of masturbation and hysteria.

I told him that this was very similar to what I learned in my Abnormal Psychology class at Scranton and my Sociology of Psychiatry and Mental Health class at Goldsmiths. We learned about how easily and frequently women were institutionalized for hysteria, which was supposedly caused by “wandering uteruses.” Plato believed that a uterus would wander if it was deprived of sexual activity and Hippocrates thought it wandered around the body looking for love or pining for a child. When it bumped into other organs, diseases developed. Later psychiatrists associated wandering uteruses (and out-of-control sexual desire) with all levels of hysteria. If a woman got upset or cried, it was chalked up to her wandering uterus.

This inspired me to blow the dust off two of my books on the subject. From Women, Madness, and Medicine, by Denise Russell:

As the nineteenth century progressed medical discourse attempted to turn many moral categories into medical ones. What in the past had been wrong came to be seen as diseased or unhealthy. In particular, medicine appropriated the social right to pass judgment about sexuality. … When female sexuality got out of line, psychiatry could be brought in as a corrective force by either incarceration or an asylum, “rest cures” in private mental institutions, or intimidation in private consultations.

… Women who tried to engage in political activity ran the risk of committal to a psychiatric institution, and women who pressed for greater educational opportunities found that doctors were leading the debate against them—claiming that the risk of insanity was too great. At this point it is clear that a link has been made between women and psychiatrists as moral guardians. The latter are needed by the patriarchal culture to keep women within their narrow role boundaries.

Finally, the medical view of women’s health regarded her reproductive functions as pathological: menstruation, pregnancy, and menopause were all looked upon as diseases. Yet it was the reproductive function that defined woman’s nature.

Given my political and religious leanings and my distaste for blind conformity, I suspect I would’ve been burned as a witch or thrown in an asylum back in the day. But then again, I generally keep a low profile and fly beneath the radar screen as an act of preservation, so maybe I could’ve hid my heresy well. However, it’s possible that people would’ve detected it anyway. Last year I wrote a blog entry about how my friends and I were indifferent to the whole idea of fitting in with our peers, but that really only began around 10th grade. Up through 9th grade, although I hosted lofty, and some might say delusional, ambitions for my career, in my day-to-day life I wanted nothing more than to be normal and fit in with everybody else. I never entertained overly grandiose hopes about actually cracking the popular crowd’s inner circle, but I was still hoping to move up socially. At the same time, I wanted to blend into the background. I mean, I didn’t want to be invisible—I just wanted to be so completely normal I wouldn’t stand out. Thus the big bangs, frosty pink lipstick, blue eyeliner, Esprit shoulder bag, the latest faddish sneakers, etc.

But it didn’t work. Kids—those crafty bastards—can smell differentness on you no matter how well you try to camouflage it. It leaks from your pores in sour waves. And they will pounce on you—the runt of the litter—as if their very act of self-preservation depends on it. This alienation, coupled with clinical depression and a hearty splash of regular ol’ teen angst, caused eruptions of tortured journal entries and poorly-written, maudlin poetry to spew forth from my hand. Poems with titles written in Latin and French. Poems about Anastasia Romanov and the war in Belfast. And I’d lock myself in my room, moodily writing in my journal and singing along to Les Misérables (the West End version, natch). I could feel Fantine’s pain. After all, being a poverty-stricken, starving single mother in pre-revolutionary France, and being forced to sell your hair, teeth, and body in order to put food on your kid’s table, totally equates to struggling in algebra class and having a bitchy sister.

Later (last month, specifically) I parlayed that woe into six submissions (three journal entries, three poems) to the Cringe Book. Hopefully my submissions will be accepted so my adolescent angst can be loosed upon an unsuspecting public.

Anyway, I’m drifting off-topic. I’d just like to marvel about how far the psychiatric field has come since those heady days when doctors advocated clitoridectomies to cure hysteria (recommended and performed by Isaac Baker Brown in the 1860s) and removal of the ovaries and cervix to cure hysteria (recommended by James Israel in 1880), and blamed hysteria on wandering uteruses. Psychiatry is still flawed, and some might even say a tad barbaric, but it’s nothing compared to how it used to be. For this I am thankful.

And my uterus? Don’t worry about her wandering too far—she’s too lazy to move off the couch, bless her hysterical little heart.

song heard most recently before posting:
Tercer Verano—Jere Laukkanen’s Finnish Afro-Cuban Jazz Orchestra

this is my 100th post!

Angela pointed me to an interesting article that talks about how scientists are testing a pill that may erase—or at least blunt—traumatic memories. This could essentially eradicate post-traumatic stress disorder and create a real-life Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Not ever having been a victim of authentic, down-and-dirty, shake-you-to-your-bone-rattling-core trauma, it’s probably not fair for me to say whether this is or isn’t a positive scientific advancement. How should I know if selective amnesia would ultimately be detrimental or beneficial to a trauma survivor?

Some people will point out how suffering makes us stronger, and how every memory, experience, and scar makes us who we are—adding another tile fragment to the mosaic of our selves. I do think we are ultimately the sum of our experiences...or, at the very least, we are profoundly shaped by those experiences. Our personalities are shaped not just by our neurons, synapses, DNA, and brain chemicals but also by the events of our lives. That goes for the good and bad: we are shaped by having loving parents just as much as we are shaped by having monstrous parents. But if I were unfortunate enough to inherit the latter, I think I should have the right to say, “I know I can learn something from this, and I know I can use this to help me avoid making the same mistakes with my own kids, but all I really want is to forget the abuse and neglect I experienced at the hands of the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally.”

Besides, saying that suffering makes a person stronger insinuates that those who are lucky enough to have mellow, positive life experiences are weak, and that’s not always true.

Let’s not forget, either, that trauma survivors aren’t the only people affected by the trauma. It effects everyone around them, too—hence the support groups for spouses of alcoholics and children of Holocaust survivors. Destructive cycles can be deepened and propagated through trauma. A woman who endures a horrific childhood might subsequently subject her own children who an equally horrific childhood, because that’s all she knows, and she’s too fucked up from her childhood traumas to break the cycle of abuse. And those second-generation sufferers can turn around and do the same thing to their own children. Isn’t it possible the PTSD-inhibiting drug could stop those cycles?

People will haul out the old adage: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” But the thing is, while that’s certainly true for some people, it doesn’t account for everyone. Sometimes it’s “What doesn’t kill me breaks me” or “What doesn’t kill me turns me into a haunted shell who wakes up screaming every night and flinches at every sound and barricades himself into his home because he’s too terrified to step outdoors.”

People will point out that positive things can result from trauma: laws get passed, charities get created, awareness gets raised…and none of this would happen if traumatized victims either weren’t traumatized or if they had the traumatic memories stricken from their brains. It’s an interesting angle that has merit. Would Simon Wiesenthal have become as voracious a Nazi hunter as he was if he hadn’t survived the Holocaust? Would John Walsh be as powerful a crusader for missing children as he is if his son hadn’t been abducted and murdered? Would Tori Amos have founded the highly-successful Rape and Incest National Network if she hadn’t been raped at knifepoint? Maybe not. Probably not. Would an incest victim get her offending uncle put behind bars and away from other kids if she can’t remember that he ever molested her? Surely not—most people aren’t in the habit of campaigning to get their relatives thrown in jail for no discernable reason. But is it fair to ask one person to be a sacrificial lamb for the sake of many others? Is it fair to ask a traumatized father to embrace—instead of erasing—the pain that comes from his child being snatched, beheaded, and thrown in a canal, just because embracing the pain may cause him to channel it into ways that will help other victims and bring criminals to justice? Is it fair to tell him he’s not allowed to take this PTSD-inhibiting drug because positive societal strides won’t be made if memories of his son are deleted or dulled?

Ultimately, it’s his choice. That’s what I think this whole scenario boils down to: if the PTSD-inhibiting drug becomes available, every victim of trauma should be given a choice—maybe immediately, maybe after a waiting period—about whether it should be taken or not. The person who says, “I don’t want to take this drug to forget the genocide I endured because I want to use my experiences to help ensure that no other genocide ever happens again” is just as valid as the person who says, “I want to blot out every last visceral, gruesome memory of the genocide that haunts my every waking second.” Neither choice is better than the other.

I guess this argument has existed time and time again in other disguises. You’ve got the deaf rights advocates who disapprove of cochlear implants because getting an implant insinuates that being deaf is a deficiency and disability that must be corrected, and you’ve got the deaf people who are like, “Dude, I just want to be able to hear. It doesn’t mean deaf culture is invalid or I’m deficient—it just means I want to hear that Snow Patrol CD everyone is talking about.” You’ve got depression advocates who are all about embracing wacky serotonin levels and the creativity and insight they sometimes spawn, and you’ve got the depressed people who say, “I just want to get well. I just want to wake up in the morning without crying or lying paralyzed in my bed.” The PTSD-erasing pill seems to fall into this same category of being saluted by some sufferers and decried by others. On and on it goes.



song heard most recently before posting:
New Test Leper—REM

Happy Vernal Equinox!

From The Wicca Book of Days, by Gerina Dunwich:

On the first day of Spring the Spring, or Vernal, Equinox is celebrated by Wiccans and Witches throughout the world. Spring Equinox (which is also known as Festival of the Trees, Alban Eilir, Ostara, and the Rite of Eostre) is a fertility rite celebrating the birth of Spring and the reawakening of life from the Earth. On this sacred day, Witches light new fires at sunrise, rejoice, ring bells, and decorate hard-boiled eggs—an ancient Pagan custom associated with the Goddess of Fertility. The aspects of the Goddess invoked at this Sabbat are Eostre (the Saxon goddess of fertility) and Ostara (the German goddess of fertility); in some Wiccan traditions, the Green Goddess and the Lord of the Greenwood are worshipped on this day. Like most of the Pagan festivals, Spring Equinox was Christianized by the Church into the religious holiday of Easter, which celebrates the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Some beauty to kick-start the season:

Wee Planets

incredible paper sculptures from artist Jen Stark



song heard most recently before posting:
The Partisan—Leonard Cohen

ice ice baby

Yesterday morning I plucked a sheet of ice off the birdbath and, seeing that it was clear and brilliantly alive with fissures, I placed it on a sunny patch of sidewalk outside my house and got down on my knees to take some macro photos of it. Then I looked up and saw my neighbor staring curiously at me while he warmed up his SUV. Yeah, yeah, so I like photographing ice! You gotta problem with that, sonny boy? Okay, I do concede that it may’ve looked strange to see a girl in a nice skirt, knee-high boots, and a trench coat squatting on the ground, contorted in an unladylike position, with her camera shoved up against a piece of ice.

The good:

Last night, the fourth anniversary of the mess in Iraq, my friend Debbie and I met up for dinner at an Indonesian restaurant in Wheaton, Sabang, which has an eye-poppingly huge vegetarian menu. They’re not exclusively vegetarian, though, so it was a good opportunity for a carnivore like Debbie and an herbivore like me in dine together in Ebony and Ivory-style harmony. As much as I was jonesing to try the vegetarian lobster, I just couldn’t justify spending $23.95 on it (isn’t that the cost of real lobster?). Besides, what if I hated it? I’ve got to be stingy right now (see below) and can’t warrant spending almost $24 on something I could end up hating. Now, granted, it’s rare for me to meet a mock meat I don’t like, but anything is possible. So I went with the vegetarian cod in sweet and sour sauce with grilled vegetables instead. Mmm-mm! Heaven on a plate. For desert we got banana fritters that were so divine, they almost made me cry.

The bad:

David, my tax-preparing superhero, gave me the preliminary numbers of what I’ll owe the IRS this year. This is the second year in a row my freelancing shot me in the foot, tax-wise, because none of my freelancing checks get taxes taken out of them (not my choice, believe me). After last spring’s horror (I owed nearly $5,000 in federal and Maryland taxes), I decided to start paying quarterly taxes during 2006. This helped knock down how much I owe this year, but the damage still runs deep: I owe $2,671 in federal taxes and $557 in Maryland taxes. My 2007 quarterly federal tax payments will be $1,120—up from the $550 payments I made in 2006—and my quarterly state tax payments will be $410—up from the $250 payments I made in 2006. Methinks I’ll have to start peddling my flesh down on Logan Circle in order to pay these bills (not that anybody wants my flesh, mind you).


song heard most recently before posting:
Into Dust—Mazzy Star

Narcissistic much?

I need to submit a photo to classmates.com and to my employee intranet, so last night I staged a photo shoot and took like 300 photos of myself—much, I’m sure, to the amusement of my neighbors, who now surely think I’m the walking embodiment of narcissism.

I ended up deleting most of the photos because I disliked one aspect or another. In photographs I have an unfortunate tendency to either A) look like I’ve got a gigantic goiter, or B) look unbearably smug (a coworker of mine, on the other hand, looks like a junkie in every photo; she has complained that she can’t even send out photo cards at Christmas because she always ends up looking like a heroin addict propped up in front of a Christmas tree). My driver’s license and National Library of Medicine library card embody both the goiter and smugness traits, whereas my passport photo skips both and instead makes me look like I’m missing teeth. And have tangerine skin. Well, my perseverance finally paid off last night—I managed to snag a slender handful of shots where I look semi-human (I’d look more human if I Photoshopped my malformed forehead, but I just can’t be bothered). I know that being so persnickety about this photo makes me look incredibly vain, but I’m not! Take one look at me on any given day you’ll see what I mean. I’m quite comfortable looking slovenly, thank you very much.

Meanwhile, In discussing one his favorite paintings, Shawn inspired me to think about some of my own favorite works of art. I’ve been lucky enough to hit some amazing museums and galleries in my life, and so I’ve seen more wonderful art than I can even recall. But here are some favorites that stood out over the years.

The Death of Marat - Louis David

I saw this on a postcard in the Louvre giftshop and fell in love. I now have a framed poster version hanging in my apartment and the original postcard is in my cubicle at work. The postcard version has two extra brilliant lines of writing engraved on the wooden box: N’ayant pu me corrompre ils m’ont assassiné (Not having been able to corrupt me they have assassinated me). Later I got this engraved on a cheapo necklace at HersheyPark.

Death of Marat 1 - Edvard Munch

I have a small version of this in my apartment, clipped from an old JAMA cover. I’d love to score a larger version.

The Giants, the Witches, and the Daughter of the Sun - Rudolf Koivu

This was a stamp on a letter I received from a Finnish penpal in 1990. It remains in a small frame in my living room, and until 2005 I never knew the artist’s name. At that point I was in Helsinki and ended up in the Finnish Postal Museum on a whim, and while there, I suddenly thought, “Hey, maybe I can track down that stamp, using 1990 as a starting point!” It worked!

Valium - Damien Hirst

My favorite piece from this Goldsmiths alum (I’m mentioning his alma mater because that’s where I studied in London). Celtic knot-like patterns appear when you move away from the painting.

The Wounded Angel - Hugo Simberg

I plan to buy a copy of this beautiful painting when I move.

Ophelia - John Everett Millais

This is hanging in my bedroom, but it needs a better frame!

Concentric Circles - Wassily Kandinsky

I know: such a cliché. I really like a lot of Kandinsky’s work, but this is the one that reels me in the most.

Last but not least is Marc Chagall. Love him. I can’t even begin to describe how much I love the man. Mmmm, let’s see. I’ve had a few Chagall calendars over the years, I use a Chagall mug at work, I bought a Chagall matryoshka in Russia, I have several of his prints hanging in my apartment and cubicle, I own a Chagall nightlight, in Chicago I bought a piece of stained glass showing one of his paintings (but my idiot landlord [and I know I shouldn’t say that, because he’s now dead] later broke it), and I have Chagall coasters on my coffee table. Plus I have two books about him. Oh yeah, and I named my cat Freyja Bella—the middle name being a nod to Chagall’s first wife. Love him. Among my favorite paintings are:

The Promenade

The Birthday

Pink Lovers

Au Dessus de la Ville

Chryssoie

Lovers in the Red Sky

Les Fiancées de la Tour Eiffel

Couple in the Window

Le Couple

Lovers and Flowers

La Mariée

Couple on a Red Background

Le Champ de Mars

Clearly there’s a theme going on: my favorite Chagall paintings are consistently the ones showing a luminously happy couple (usually Chagall and Bella) clasping each other in ecstasy. See? Proof that I’m not completely dead inside.

song heard most recently before posting:
Darts of Pleasure—Franz Ferdinand

going to church

This morning I had to smear automotive paint on my shoes, because they somehow obtained ugly black scuffs on them that I can’t seem to remove. The shoes in question are shiny silver mary janes, and since my car is silver, too...well, even a dyscalculia-riddled fool like myself can put two and two together.

My sister and her husband have recently rejoined the Catholic church after many years away. He was technically raised Catholic, but it was done in a really half-assed, inconsistent way. Meanwhile Kristen, like me, was put through the whole rigmarole: mass every week and on holy days, CCD every Sunday, Confirmation classes every Wednesday, no meat on Fridays during Lent, etc. But when we turned 18 we were allowed to drop church, if that’s what we wished to do. And drop it we did—like the proverbial hot potato. This means that aside from attending the occasional Catholic wedding, Kristen hasn’t been to mass since 1989...yet now she’s going every week, and she even went to confession. How surreal it must seem! I haven’t been to confession since 1991, several months before I was allowed to stop attending church in 1992, so if I went now, I’d have to say to the priest, “Uh, it’s been 16 years since my last confession, and that includes my college years, sooooo...um…yeah, needless to say, we’re gonna be here for a while.”

Now my niece has to get baptized, but, oddly enough, their church does baptisms during regular mass, instead of during a special ceremony. So in late April I’ll be sitting through a full mass for the first time since Christmas Eve 1994, when I was studying abroad and attended midnight candlelight mass in Germany with my friend Laura and a few of her friends. I think the majority of us did it just for kicks—solely to do something Christmassy while spending our first Christmas away from home. I’ve been to a few Christmas Eve services since then with my grandfather, but they were all at his Protestant church. I haven’t actually done the Catholic thing for over 12 years (aside from being a bridesmaid in a Catholic wedding in 2003). It should be interesting indeed...especially if the priest takes one look at me and screams, “GET OUT, HEATHEN!!!!!!!” Or maybe “Jezebel” or “heretic whore of Babylon” or “sinful stench in the nostrils of the righteous” (™Miss Peel) will get bandied about? One can only hope.



song heard most recently before posting:
Kreuzberg—Bloc Party

hola, Brody!

Welcome to the world,
Brody Hamilton Leavens!
March 5, 2007 · 10:15 am · 6 lbs., 7 oz. · 20 inches

song heard most recently before posting:
I’m the Girl—Heather Nova

dark side of love

Shawn and I decided to compile a list of our favorite anti-love songs, and March is an appropriate time to do it (for reasons I won’t explain here).

So, here is my Dark Side of Love list, which will grow in the future, and which currently covers (in no particular order) different elements of breaking up (sadness, bitterness/hatred, regret, fury), unrequited love, toxic love, dying relationships, obsession, betrayal, the idea that being single is best, etc.

Your Ex-Lover is Dead – Stars
The Moment I Said It – Imogen Heap
Fallen for You – Sheila Nicholls
I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You – Colin Hay
Toxic – The Chapin Sisters
You are the Dark – Joseph Arthur
Fools in Love – Inara George
I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor
I Who Have Nothing – Shirley Bassey
On My Own – Les Misérables
You’ll See – Madonna
I’ll Never Fall in Love – Mary Chapin Carpenter
You Don’t Bring Me Flowers – Barbara Streisand/Neil Diamond
Love on the Rocks – Neil Diamond
Worn Me Down – Rachael Yamagata
Famous Blue Raincoat – Leonard Cohen
Overs – Simon & Garfunkel
The Dangling Conversation – Simon & Garfunkel
No Man’s Woman – Sinéad O’Connor
Jealous – Sinéad O’Connor
What Doesn’t Belong to Me – Sinéad O’Connor
The Last Day Of Our Acquaintance – Sinéad O’Connor
Troy – Sinéad O’Connor
Autumn Leaves – Eva Cassidy
I Wish I Was a Single Girl Again – Eva Cassidy
It’s Good to be a Single Girl – Varttina
As Heaven is Wide – Garbage
Not My Idea – Garbage
I’m Alive – Heather Nova
Jennifer’s Body – Hole
Ghost – Indigo Girls
Sundrenched World – Joshua Radin
What if You – Joshua Radin
Absolutely Zero – Jason Mraz
Otherwise – Morcheeba
It’s Only Love – Heather Nova
It Doesn’t Matter – Alison Krauss
All Cried Out – Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam
All at Once – Whitney Houston
Always Something There to Remind Me – Naked Eyes
Against All Odds – Phil Collins
Can’t We Try – Dan Hill & Vonda Shepherd
Could’ve Been – Tiffany
Didn’t We Almost Have it All – Whitney Houston
Foolish Beat – Debbie Gibson
Heartbreaker – Pat Benatar
I Hate Myself for Loving You – Joan Jett
Look Away – Chicago
My Heart Can’t Tell You No – Rod Stewart
No More Rhymes – Debbie Gibson
Separate Lives – Phil Collins & Marilyn Martin
Separate Ways – Journey
True Devotion – Samantha Fox
Where Do Broken Hearts Go – Whitney Houston
Harden My Heart – Quarterflash
Another Crack in My Heart – Take That
Crash! Boom! Bang! – Roxette
Foolish Games – Jewel
The Beast – Concrete Blonde
Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad – Def Leppard
I Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt
Love Is – Vanessa Williams & Brian McKnight
The Power of Good-Bye – Madonna
Unbreak My Heart – Toni Braxton
Where the Wild Roses Grow – Nick Cave & Kylie Minogue
You Oughta Know – Alanis Morissette
Every Breath You Take – The Police
Obsession – Animotion
Uninvited – Alanis Morissette
The Wrong Man – Amanda Ghost
And So It Goes – Billy Joel
I’m Gonna Be Strong – Cyndi Lauper
Rootless Tree – Damien Rice
Accidental Babies – Damien Rice
Cheers Darlin’ – Damien Rice
Silent Night – Lisa Hannigan
Hunter – Dido
Don’t Think of Me – Dido
My Lover’s Gone – Dido
Black Horse & the Cherry Tree – KT Tunstall
Gone – Jessica Riddle
Gone – Madonna
Solitaire – Neil Sedaka
I Still Believe – Miss Saigon
Honey – Tori Amos
Ruby through the Looking Glass – Tori Amos
I Just Don’t Know What to Do with Myself – Nicky Holland
I’ll Be Okay – Amanda Marshall
I Saw Red – Warrant
Love Bites – Def Leppard
Speaking of Happiness – Gloria Lynne
I Can’t Cry Hard Enough – Williams Brothers
Bye Bye Love – Simon & Garfunkel
Blinded – Tara MacLean
Shiver and Shake – The Cure
Apart – The Cure
Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me – The Smiths
Blood Roses – Tori Amos
Iieee – Tori Amos
Baker Baker – Tori Amos
Strange – Tori Amos
Your Cloud – Tori Amos
One – U2
So Cruel – U2

Shawn’s songs about lost love, unrequited love, jealousy, and pain:

Never gonna get it – En Vogue
Until the end of the world – U2
He doesn’t see me – Sarah Brightman (because I love this song)
Golddust woman – Fleetwood Mac
Never going back again – Matchbox 20
Why – Annie Lennox
Mouth (stingray mix)- Bush
Precious things – Tori Amos
Stupid Girl – Garbage
Turned blue – Caroline’s Spine
Crucify – Tori Amos
Special – Garbage
the Beast – Concrete Blonde
Watching you without me – Kate Bush
The lady of shallot – Loreena Mckennit
Who’s that girl? – Eurythmics
With you / Crawling / Runaway/ In the end / Pushing me away – Linkin
Park (so many of their songs fit this category.)
I Will Love Again – Laura Fabian
Harden My Heart – Quarter Flash
Send Me an Angel – Real Life
Something going on – Frida
(Kiss You) When it’s Dangerous – 8 Seconds
Poison – Groove Coverage
Wings of a Butterfly – H.I.M.
Stand my Ground – Within Temptation
Chewing Gum – Annie
Love is a Blind Ambition – Concrete Blonde
Jesus Forgive Me (for the things I’m about to say) – Concrete Blonde
You Oughta Know – Alanis Morrissette
Memory – Cats :)
Little Black Heart – A-Ha
Frozen – Madonna
Tainted Love – Soft Cell
Tell Me Lies – Fleetwood Mac
Hold Her Down – Toad the Wet Sprocket
My Last Breath – Evanescance
Haunted – Poe
Don’t Speak – No Doubt
Mother ’93 – Danzig
Toxic – Britney spears
Ave Adore – Smashing Pumpkins



song heard most recently before posting:
Concertino for Flute, Viola, and Bass, ii: Furiant—Ervin Schulhoff

snow

Happy Birthday, Kristen Boyer Errera!!!

We had a small snowstorm yesterday and 5.5 inches landed in my backyard. It was lovely snow—straight out of a movie—and until mid-morning today, when it began melting, everything was unspeakably beautiful.

We were expecting some ice last night, so as soon as it stopped snowing I set aside my freelancing and went outside to shovel, shovel, shovel. I wanted to do the shoveling while the snow was light and fluffy, instead of concrete-heavy. We ended up not getting as much ice as predicted, but even the small amount we got would’ve made shoveling this morning more difficult.

Meanwhile, I’m impressed that I managed to do all that shoveling without pulling any major muscles. How the hell did I manage that?


song heard most recently before posting:
Cross-Eyed Bear—Damien Rice

just a small whine

Last night I went to the Bethesda Barnes & Noble to look for some gifts and a card. They really ought to oil their escalators, because they currently sound like dogs yelping and crying in pain. Seriously, they sound like puppies are repeatedly being crushed beneath someone’s heel. It’s unnerving.

Once again, I was unable to snag a copy of heat magazine (grrr), but I did have some minor success in the gift-buying department, including snagging two British lad mags that were wrapped in plastic, and thus made me feel like I was purchasing porn. At a store with a Starbucks in it.

On a cool note, I was flipping through the newest PostSecret book, which I have yet to buy, and I found someone’s secret wedged inside. I’d heard that some people were leaving secrets in bookstore copies of the various PostSecret books, but that’s the first time I encountered one in the flesh. It gave me the biggest grin. I loved it. And no, I won’t reveal the person’s secret to you.

Then I realized that my meter was probably running low, so I ran back to my car. And I found…a parking ticket. Oh, damn. That’s only the second parking ticket I’ve gotten in my life—the first one came when I attended a Chernobyl 20th anniversary memorial observation on Capitol Hill last April and inadvertently parked in a 2-hour-parking-only zone. I worked in Bethesda for four years, so I know how notoriously bloodthirsty those parking cops can be, but although the ticket is only $35, I’m still irked by it, mainly because it’s like, “Does Bethesda—a town that has money oozing out of every pore—really need my freaking $35?? I think not!”

Anyway...


song heard most recently before posting:
Indian Summer—Tori Amos

Happy Fastnacht Day!

Screw Mardi Gras and Carnaval, man. Today is all about the fastnachts! These doughnuts are a traditional treat from Germany and the Pennsylvania Dutch Country and are served on Fat Tuesday. They traditionally served a practical function: emptying the pantry of fat and butter before Lent, when those things were forbidden. Pennsylvania Dutch fastnachts are made from fried potato dough and are often coated with sugar. Where I’m from in the PA Dutch Country, many Catholic Churches have fastnacht sales as a fundraiser.

Because they’re often made with lard, they can sit like a chunk of concrete in your stomach. That’s why I only ever tried a fastnacht once and never went back for more—my wussy stomach just couldn’t handle it. Nowadays I couldn’t eat most types of fastnachts anyway, because I’m a vegetarian and can’t eat lard. So why do I like Fastnacht Day? Because it’s part of my heritage, mostly, but also because I can’t help but love a day devoted to doughnuts. And gluttony.

My friend Debbie, another PA Dutch native, made fastnachts for her coworkers in DC, and graciously shared the yummy-looking photos with me.

An article from today’s edition of my hometown newspaper, where fastnachts get front-page coverage:

They’re firing up the fryers for annual rite at St. Cecilia
By DAVID MEKEEL
Staff Writer
Lebanon Daily News

Nearly seven tons of flour, almost three tons of sugar, 720 pounds of margarine, 1,000 gallons of milk and more than 1,000 eggs.

Sounds like someone’s going to be busy in the kitchen.

It’s that time of year again when the workers at St. Cecilia Church, 202 E. Lehman St., strap on their aprons for what can only be described as all-out fasnacht frenzy.

For as long as almost anyone can remember, members of St. Cecilia have been holding an annual fried-doughnut fund-raiser for Fasnacht Day, the traditional day of feasting — some might say gluttony — before the start of Lenten-season fasting. The big day is tomorrow, and they’re at it once again at St. Cecilia, frying up more than 80,000 of the traditional German treats.

“Our shifts start Saturday night and run around the clock until we run out of ingredients Tuesday afternoon,” explained Anna Ilgenfritz, one of the organizers of the fund-raiser, as the ingredients arrived at the church’s social hall last week. “It’s quite an operation.”

About 100 volunteers will work shifts preparing the fasnachts, using two commercial mixers, five deep fryers and about 7,000 boxes to pack them for sale by the dozen.

They can sell as many as they can make.

“We had over 3,000 dozen pre-ordered,” Ilgenfritz said. “And if you didn’t pre-order, you have to come wait in line. It gets pretty busy in here, too. Sometimes they stand there for a couple of hours.”

So what’s the big deal about the St. Cecilia fasnacht?

“This is not your typical supermarket doughnut,” Ilgenfritz explained. “I would say it’s very unique. People just love them.”

They must. Those who pre-ordered had to order at least six dozen, Ilgenfritz said. St. Cecilia’s biggest single order was for 140 dozen.

“Some businesses get them for their employees, or people freeze them or send them to family members,” she said.

Along with the wonderful taste — Ilgenfritz likes hers still warm from the fryer with a cup of coffee — there is another aspect of the fasnacht sale that those involved say they cherish.

“This all started with German immigrant women probably more than 75 years ago,” she said of the fund-raiser. “I’m proud to be a part of it. To think, it was started on such a small scale with a handful of immigrant women, and it has grown to this scale. It’s a beautiful tradition.”

Ilgenfritz also said she loves getting a chance to meet and work with her fellow parishioners.

Joe Carrara, who was in charge of placing the orders for all of the ingredients this year, seemed to share Ilgenfritz’s sentiments.

“The first time I came here I was impressed,” he said of his first experience with the fund-raiser in the mid 1970s. “I came from working in a factory, and that’s the type thing they were doing here. They were so well-organized.”

Both Ilgenfritz and Carrara have been involved in organizing the event for the past four or five years, but they look at its future a bit differently.

“I tell Anna if we can make it 10 more years we’ll be OK,” Carrara said.

“Oh no! I’m already looking for a replacement,” Ilgenfritz said, rolling her eyes.

While she loves being involved in the sale, Ilgenfritz said, it takes its toll.

“I get excited. The night before I usually can’t sleep too well,” she said. “And afterwards, the cleanup, that’s another ordeal. There’s sugar on the floor. There’s flour all over the kitchen. It’s a mess.”

But, in the end, it’s all worth it, she said. Last year, the fund-raiser garnered about $24,000 for the church.

For those who did not pre-order their fastnachts, they will be on sale at the church’s social hall from 7 a.m. until they run out tomorrow. Each dozen costs $5.50.

song heard most recently before posting:
Now’s the Time—Charlie Parker

not dying to dye

Happy Birthday, Leo Boyer!!!

(yesterday)

Happy Birthday, Susan Boyer!!!

(today)

This is another freelancing weekend for me, with yesterday taking the brunt of the load (I worked from 11:30am - 9:30pm). Today I was finished by 3pm, which felt absolutely delicious. Tomorrow is a holiday, and I’m sure I’ll be spending it vegging until I damn near explode. Last weekend I didn’t have to work at all, so I took time out from relaxing and Netflixing to hit two small exhibits in DC: Northern Lights/Nordic Visions at the Hillyer Art Space and Silver Mysteries: Black & White Photographs of 1930s Washington by Volkmar Wentzel at the Decatur House.

This weekend I also need to [*cringe*] dye my hair. Note that I didn’t say I want to dye my hair. No, unfortunately, I need to dye my hair. I don’t want to do this. Contrary to what my teenaged self, with her black hair dye, would tell you, I actually like my hair color. It’s a nice shade of dark brown and has equally nice red highlights that surface in the sun. I’m not in a hurry to shed that color, and I think dyeing it seems like both a pain and a potential disaster. But my hair is turning white at warp speed, and because I don’t want to look old before my time, I feel like I have no choice but to dye it.

As much as I’d love to go red, I think it would be too much work to maintain it (plus I’d have to dye my eyebrows, which...no thanks). I couldn’t decide if I should just dye my hair the same color it already is or if I should try something different (but not so different that it requires tons of upkeep). After hemming and hawing in the hair dye aisle at Target long enough to sprout vegetation, I decided to compromise with a dye color called chocolate cherry. It should be hard to screw up, but if I succeed and my hair turns, like, carrot-orange, then I’ll just chop off everything. I’m currently growing out my hair to 10+ inches so I can cut it and donate it to charity for the third time, and chopping off everything now would set me back a year, but oh well, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just start growing it again from scratch.

We’ll see…


song heard most recently before posting:
Symphony No. 30 in D—W.A. Mozart

VD

Like a bout of herpes, Valentine’s Day has flared up yet again. This year Mother Nature gave me the greatest Valentine’s Day gift: a day off work. In a way. A smallish ice-sleet-snow storm gave my office a two-hour delay (and thus two extra gorgeous hours of sleep for me), and then I, along with many of my coworkers, opted to work from home today rather than deal with the gridlock and everything else that comes with slushy, slick roads. So, while I’m still working today, at least I’m working from home, which means working in comfy sweats with cats by my side. That counts for something.

You may have guessed that I’m not a big fan of Valentine’s Day. You know, I almost hate to admit this, because it just makes me look like a bitter, frosty-hearted shrew (which I can be, but that’s beside the point). People automatically think that I don’t like V Day because I’m resentful that I’m single, and blah blah blah sour grapes. But no matter what anybody thinks, that’s not the truth. It was, once. I was bitter each Valentine’s Day because I was alone and didn’t want to see other people being all lovey-dovey-gooey and showering each other with cutesy hearts and flowers.

Not anymore. These days I like being single, and that doesn’t go away just because it’s Valentine’s Day. What I dislike is the excessive commercialization of the holiday; the rote, cookie-cutter sentiments it inspires; and the exclusionary competitiveness involved. It places so much pressure on people; if the day proves to be anything less than a fairy tale, the disappointment is tangible. At college people flaunted the flowers and gifts they received, and those of us who received nothing felt like the gum wedged between the treads of a shoe. In adulthood it’s not much different—some folks coyly make a big show of receiving flowers and I Wuv You balloons at the office.

It makes me cringe seeing so many people buy bland, mundane, overpriced merchandise just because they feel like they have to. Obligation is not romantic! I would like to see more people think beyond the Hallmark cards, roses, heart-shaped supermarket boxes of waxy chocolates, cutesy-wutesy teddy bears, and diamond jewelry. There’s just such a lack of originality there. I mean, some people love that stuff, and so that’s fine for them. But most people want something that means something on a personal level. So do something that is truly romantic and thoughtful and personalized. And don’t let a day on the calendar—or Hallmark—define the perimeters of when you show someone you love and appreciate him or her. True romance and thoughtfulness should be scattered throughout the year—not held hostage to February 14th.

Anyway, to show that I’m not completely curdled, I’m providing a list of some of my favorite love songs from over the years (favorite love poems are here; favorite love quotes are here). This list isn’t 100% thorough; it’s composed of beloved songs that are currently popping to mind. I’m sure plenty are missing!

There is a Light That Never Goes Out – The Smiths
Honey and the Moon – Joseph Arthur
Love You ’Till the End – Pogues
At Last – Etta James
Until – Sting
Fields of Gold – Sting (but I actually prefer the Eva Cassidy version)

The Way You Look Tonight – various artists (I like the Tony Bennett version best)

Cheek to Cheek – Irving Berlin (I like the Eva Cassidy version best)
All I Want is You – U2

Ch’ella mi creda – Giacomo Puccini
The Promise – Tracy Chapman
Grow Old with You – Adam Sandler
Sanctuary – Madonna
Case of You – Joni Mitchell

Such Great Heights – Iron & Wine
Walk the Line – Johnny Cash
Thank You – Led Zeppelin (but I prefer the Tori Amos version)
Here with Me – Dido
Possession – Sarah McLachlan

Dance Me to the End of Love – Leonard Cohen

Amie – Damien Rice

Crossroads – Don McLean

Songbird – Stevie Nicks (I prefer the Eva Cassidy version)

The Kiss – Trevor Jones (from the Last of the Mohicans soundtrack)

Beyond the Sea – various artists (I quite like the Robbie Williams version)
Endless Love – Lionel Richie & Diana Ross
Everlong (acoustic version) - Foo Fighters

Make Me Happy – Kermit and Miss Piggy
I Need You – Leann Rimes
Wonderwall – Oasis (I love the Ryan Adams version, too)
Home to Me – Josh Kelley
I’m On Fire – Bruce Springsteen
Can’t Smile Without You– Barry Manilow

Looks Like We Made It – Barry Manilow
Everything I Own – Bread
Through the Years – Kenny Rogers
You Decorated My Life – Kenny Rogers
Your Song – Elton John

Come to my Window – Melissa Etheridge
I Drove All Night – Cyndi Lauper
Blood of Me – Heather Nova
Winterblue – Heather Nova

Like Lovers Do – Heather Nova
The Animals Were Gone – Damien Rice
Eve the Apple of My Eye – BellX1
Maps – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Mad About You – Hooverphonic
Out of the Woods – Nickle Creek
Close to You – The Carpenters
Just You and I – Eddie Rabbitt & Crystal Gayle
I Say a Little Prayer – various artists

C’est lui que mon coeur à choisi – Edith Piaf
Delirious Love – Neil Diamond
Create Me – Neil Diamond
Secret World – Peter Gabriel
All I Ask of You – Andrew Lloyd Webber
You are the Everything – R.E.M.
Song for the Asking – Simon & Garfunkel
For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her – Simon & Garfunkel
I Am Stretched on Your Grave – Sinéad O’Connor
When We Dance – Sting
Why Should I Cry for You – Sting
The Same Deep Water as You – The Cure
Just Like Heaven – The Cure
Original of the Species – U2
Unchained Melody – Righteous Brothers
Brown Eyed Girl – Van Morrison
Have I Told You Lately – Van Morrison
#1 Crush – Garbage (definitely more of an obsession song, but who cares!)
Constant Craving – kd lang
Kiss Me – Sixpence None the Richer
Don’t Know Much – Linda Ronstadt & Aaron Neville
Groovy Kind of Love – The Mindbenders
E lucevan le stelle… – Giacomo Puccini
At This Moment – Billy Vera & The Beaters
Always – Atlantic Starr
Faithfully – Journey
The Gift – Annie Lennox
Lovesong – The Cure

song heard most recently before posting:
Vidrar vel til loftarasa—Sigur Ros

“it’s so hot” xoxo

I noticed that the Washington City Paper stopped editing its personal ads. This is annoying but also beneficial, because it helps to weed out the idiots. Like this ad:

i’m a nice,loving,warming person i’m new at this i need a teacher to teach me i’m looking for someone who wants to start out as friends and then well see it depend how u treat me i want a women to comfort me in anyway i’m looking for that hot passion love that can make me want you more and more everyday. oh i love to have sex so if u want to be with me have to please me when ever i want lol i love it when someone talks to me dirty during sex “it’s so hot” xoxo.

Dude. Seriously?

I think I would rather eat my own puke than respond to an ad like that. Does that make me a snob? Maybe. I’m not expecting anyone to be a walking Chicago Manual of Style, but coherence would be nice. Throwing in a period and/or capital letter every once in a while would be nice. Although, to be fair, this person did use a correct apostrophe in “it’s,” which is more than I can say for many other folks out there.

The root of my quibble? A personal ad is a first impression. If you can’t even be bothered to sound coherent when making a first impression, what will you be like weeks or months into the relationship when things get comfortable? I just think it looks lazy and slipshod. It’d be like if I had a blind date on a Saturday night and I showed up at that date looking exactly like I did on Saturday afternoon. Which means paint-splattered pajama pants or sweats, quite possibly with a ripped crotch; an old paint- or food-splattered t-shirt from high school; my hair in a messy, greasy knot on top of my head; and zit cream and/or Vaseline (hey, it’s winter; my skin is dry) smeared on my face. It would show a lack of respect (and profound lack of social skills) if I showed up on a blind date looking like that. It’s fine when I’m alone in my apartment and vegging or spending the day working on freelancing (a girl’s gotta be comfortable to do both), but it would be appalling to look that way when I’m meeting someone for the first time. A personal ad is the same way, as far as I’m concerned. So kudos to the City Paper staff for separating the wheat from the chaff right from the get-go.

On Saturday I was awoken at 4:40am by the sound of my upstairs neighbor gabbing on the phone. His praying has awoken me in the past at that hour, but this is the first time his phone-gabbiness (that man talks on the phone more than a 14-year-old girl) has awoken me. Who the hell chats on the phone at 4:40am??

I had to spend much of that day working, but Sunday was clear for doing some secondhand shopping and watching a few DVDs. Plus I wrapped birthday presents, got started on Olivia’s valentine (I make one for her every year), and meticulously cut out several large, blank hearts from heavy-stock paper so I can help her make crayon- and sticker-heavy valentines for her parents and grandparents the next time I see her. And I sewed buttons on a shirt, too. Go figure.

Some random and wonderful links:

• An excellent blog posting on depression.
  

• Fabulous jewelry made out of steel and concrete.
  

song heard most recently before posting:
Fantastic Voyage—Coolio