Official government business at the Pentagon. No--really.

it's all fun and games

When I got home from work today I was so hungry for burritos that I immediately set out for our neighborhood grocery store to buy the necessary ingredients. On my way home I spotted several boys playing on the sidewalk near my apartment building. They were all running around, waving toy guns and making loud shooting noises. As I approached them the biggest boy pointed one of his guns at another boy and shot off an entire round of caps ten inches from his face. In his other hand he clutched a small revolver without an orange barrel-cap or any other telltale markings of a gun replica. After I passed by I could hear them whispering excitedly as they clamored for the best line of sight—I could practically feel their sights on my back. And it made me a little nervous.

You may think that my anxiety was due to an overactive imagination or paranoia or even racism, but the fact is all I could think was that a lot of people are accidentally killed by handguns each year and that most of these accidents are caused by kids screwing around with their parents’ guns. In my mind I worked out which car I would duck behind if I heard a real gunshot, where I would run for help if someone was hit, and how much it would sting if I got shot in the kidney. I thought about how I would never get to eat my much-anticipated burrito and what unanswered questions I would leave behind for my friends and family to ponder—like, what dinner could she possibly have concocted from 1% milk and refried beans? Thinking about how I might die hungry made me mad, and as I strode down the sidewalk I formulated my last request: if I were shot, that I might have the superhuman strength to beat those boys’ asses faster than a speeding bullet.

George really should have worn a tie for this date. How embarrassing.

today's quote: pick your poison

"It's not in the American character. If you are going to kill someone and you are a true American, you shoot them."

--Marcella Fierro, the Commonwealth of Virginia's chief medical examiner, explaining why poison-murders aren't as popular in the United States.

full moon of shame

I followed the restroom signs through the jungle of tables and hungry patrons. The two one-stall bathrooms were crammed in on either side of a short, narrow hallway in the butt of the restaurant. As I opened the door to the hallway, a young woman waiting in front of the women’s room moved over so that I could stand next to her. She explained that she’d already been waiting a while. Her wry smile and raised eyebrows suggested that we might be waiting a while longer. So I said that I would watch the door while she used the one-stall men’s room. She went in and I stood guard in front of the doorknob, even when the women’s room was vacated a mere ten seconds later. I had made a promise and I would wait my turn.

The door to the hallway opened and a mustachioed man poked his head in. I must have looked a little odd standing right in front of the closed men’s door, facing an open women’s room. I moved over several inches so that he could move into the hallway and I turned towards him to explain about the guarding and the waiting. But in that SPLIT SECOND he leaned forward, grabbed the men’s doorknob and pushed the door open. We both caught a glimpse of pale ass and toilet seat as the woman inside squealed “Oh wait” and I almost swallowed my tongue. He slammed the door shut and we were left standing extremely close to each other between the two restrooms.

I stood there for a few more seconds but then I started to panic. I really didn’t want to face the woman when she came out. I had totally let her down. I had seen her ass. HE had seen her ass. And now I was just standing here, humiliated and upset, waiting for her to come out. Would she glare at me? Curse at me? Punch me? What was I still guarding anyway? The entire world had already seen her ass. The jig was up. So I ducked into the women’s restroom, locked the door, and silently jumped up and down, squinting my eyes against the shame and slapping myself on the forehead. Coward, coward, coward. I heard her exit the men’s room and apologize to the man waiting outside, “Sorry, there was someone guarding the door for me.” I gritted my teeth and covered my eyes. ARGH. I counted to twenty. Then I crept back to my table to finish dessert, all the while fearing that she would pop around the corner and confront me about my shirked lookout duty. She never did.

How much damage has my karma suffered? When will this come back to bite me? What just payback is in store for me? Just to play it safe, I’m adopting a crippled orphan first thing tomorrow morning.

to the balding man in the Lexus convertible

The youthful air that you were striving for was somewhat diminished by the fact that you drove three miles in the left-most lane with your left blinker on.

occupied

Today I walked in on my boss while she was using her breast pump. The door was ajar and when I pushed it open she let out a little squeak of terror. A few minutes later she came by my desk, bravely laughing it off. She said that it was bound to happen sooner or later and she was just glad that it was me and not one of the guys. Although I can see her point I can’t really say that I agree.

dear Grandpa,

Last night on the phone mom mentioned that you were upset because you recently found a half-gallon jug of vodka chilling behind the wicker couch on your back porch. She didn’t mention why you immediately assumed that it was hers, but suffice it to say you were correct. I know that your religious background and moral practices don’t condone the consumption of alcohol—not even for communion—so I can understand why you were so upset at finding such a large quantity of hard liquor in your home. However, although I believe that a certain amount your anger is justified, please let me put this in perspective.

It was Christmas, and like so many other families we were all traveling from different locations around the country in order to see each other for the first time in months. The week before we arrived at your house, you were put into the hospital with heart trouble and we spent the next week sitting by your bedside trying not to cry in front of each other. Christmas came and we all tried to be grateful, but Grandma was worried because she hadn’t had time to do any holiday shopping and you were stuck in a hospital bed waiting for your doctor to get back from his vacation. After visiting hours, all of the stress and grief and worrying left us too worried to go anywhere and too exhausted to sleep. So, we made mudslides. And screwdrivers. And took a few shots straight from the bottle when we ran out of the orange juice that you bought for the big Christmas brunch. As a result, mom was able to decompress, the boys and I settled down enough to play some cards, and Grandma was able to sleep. (Don’t worry, she’s no drunk—we told her it was hot chocolate.)

It’s not that I’m condoning the practice of drowning one’s sorrows in alcohol, or self-medicating with booze, or drugging elderly relatives, it’s just what happened. Moreover, although I doubt you remember, during the holidays you didn’t exactly qualify as sober either—the only difference was, we had the nurse hook your cocktail directly into your IV.

All of this to say, it’s not worth getting too upset over, especially with your heart condition. But if you insist, please put the vodka back where you found it, because chances are it’ll probably come in handy again.

Your loving granddaughter, - M

who's fired?

For the past week TBS, the self-proclaimed expert on what’s funny, has been showing clips for its upcoming Jennifer Lopez mini-marathon.(Note: the term ‘marathon’ may seem somewhat misleading as it refers to only two movies, but it makes perfectly good sense when you think about it—the same two movies, played tediously for three weeks in a loop of seemingly endless monotony. Marathon.)

Full of cute clips showing Lopez endearingly tripping over herself while being pursued by hunky male leads, the advertisement touts the two movies as feel-good romantic comedies. Now, I have seen neither film, but from the reviews and trailers associated with them I feel that it is safe to assume that “The Wedding Planner” is a light-hearted romantic comedy and “Enough” is most definitely not. And yet, the cutesy TBS ad for the broadcast of these two films is full of funny romantic one-liners and ends with a clip from the film “Enough,” in which a meringue-like Lopez gazes deeply into the eyes of her new husband on a wedding reception dance floor. You know, the whole two minutes before he starts beating and stalking her out of any semblance of peace and happiness.

TBS—why this deception? Why this combination of movies? Wouldn’t “Gigli” have been a better-suited partner for another romantic JLo tanker? Obviously, none of the TBS executives who signed off on this choice of movies and its deceptive advertisement had seen either film. So who’s fired? Unfortunately I have a feeling that it won’t be these neglectful executives with no taste in comedy that get the boot. Instead, desperate upper management staff will point to the marketing department and the intern who assembled the ad montage will be summoned to the manager’s office. And then, amid relieved sighs of eluded responsibility, the only ‘funny’ person at TBS will be fired.

dammit

You know that your day isn't going to improve when it isn't until after lunch that you realize you're wearing your underwear inside-out.

reptilian invaders

Two small lizards live in the tree outside my office. They scramble around the sidewalk and bolt into our reception area every chance they get. I'm not sure what they're after. Maybe they find my office mate's unreasonable fear of them amusing. I find them cute and interesting and would like to touch them but I am dissuaded by the humbling if not slightly embarrassing prospect of having to explain a lizard bite to a medical technician or my boss.

Instead I watch them from afar and leave them Chex Mix offerings on our front stoop.

five years

One day I came home from class to find you asleep on my bed (not that this was anything special—you were such a nap slut back then). After that you kept coming back, either to chat or drool sleepily on my pillow while I typed up a late-night assignment. At some point our relationship took a weird turn and never recovered. You would spot me down the dorm hallway and I would take off like a frantic hunted animal, dodging around every corner, desperately trying to escape back to my room where I could lock my door against your attack. More often than not you caught me, you speedy monkey, and I would spend the next fifteen minutes trying to stop laughing long enough in order to pitch you from your gleeful position atop me. This went on for some time and then we began dating. That first night we went to a free screening of U-571 and I had to sit next to a bona fide WWII veteran while Matthew McConaughey battled the Nazis with a run-down submarine, an implausible understanding of physics, and his dashing good looks. We reenacted the movie on our way home, falling into bushes and other pedestrians each time a depth charge struck our submarine. One year later you gave me socks as an anniversary present.

I wonder what this year has in store for us? All I know is—if it’s a U-571 DVD, we’re through.

it's a merge

I have driven all over the country and never have I encountered more people incapable of merging than in southern California. Here, the orderly process of integrating vehicles from an entrance ramp into moving traffic by creating alternating openings in the right lane is a foreign concept. Instead, people drive slowly up the entrance ramp holding their cell phones against the left side of their faces, ignoring the dozens of cars whipping by them at 70mph, and cheeky SUVs speed up on the ramp to brazenly cut off traffic in the right lane. They seem to think that if they go slowly or quickly enough they will just naturally be absorbed by the high velocity mass of the highway. (Which is true, by the way—but this technique is not so much ‘merging’ as it is, say, ‘crashing’ or ‘manslaughter.’)

Really, it’s not that they’re bad drivers—it’s more that they don’t have a common understanding of how the merge is supposed to be handled. For example, in Tehran (the world capital of maniacal driving) drivers may routinely cut each other off as well as create 8 one-way fastlanes out of two-way residential roads, but at least everyone knows to expect it. But here, it’s every driver for himself and I just don’t understand it. This is a region of the country where everyone drives because public transportation is extremely limited and the cities are sprawled out over miles and miles of territory, so you’d think that all of this driving practice would have instilled some common sense in the local population. In addition, it’s a well-known fact that there are very few native southern Californians who live in southern California. This means that the majority of the people who live here came from somewhere else—born and bred of people who know how to merge properly. So what has happened? Why can’t we merge down here? People of southern California—remember who you are! And for God’s sake, check your blind spot!!

Sistine slumber party

Soon 117 cardinals will convene in the Sistine chapel to elect Pope John Paul II’s successor, the new head of the Catholic Church. According to tradition, they will all swear an oath of secrecy and be kept under lock and key, completely isolated from the outside world--no communication in or out will be allowed--until they elect the new Pope. The upcoming papal election has become the news channels’ latest obsession, and the whole world is watching, either out of sincere interest or from lack of anything else on television. Every network is competing to educate the public on the inner workings of the upcoming papal election—where the cardinals will sleep, how they will vote, and who might emerge as the new Pontiff. The news anchors paint images of sober, elderly men, gravely sitting in the quiet beauty of the Sistine chapel, communing with God and struggling with their all-important decision. But the news channels don’t really know what goes on in Conclave, and I can’t help thinking that they might be way off.

Imagine how excited these cardinals must be. Sure, the Pope just died and the whole Church is in a state of mourning, but John Paul II has been the Pope for 26 years—there hasn’t been a papal election since 1979, and only three of the 117 cardinals participated in it. These guys might look completely somber, but inside each of them feels like an impatient kid itching to slide up and down the pew.

They’ve got the jitters—no better than a bunch of nine year olds heading off to their first slumber party. How often do they get a chance to clear their schedules of sermons and potlucks to fly to Vatican City for an indeterminate amount of time? Don’t be fooled by the simplicity of their outfits—it’s guaranteed that each one of them fretted over which black robes and red beanie he should pack for Italy. (How cold is it in Rome these days? Should I bring a cardigan in case it’s chilly in the Chapel?)

And yes, they have a job to do, but four elections per day leaves a lot of time for prayer, personal mediation, as well as a little backgammon before lights out. And this time they won’t be sleeping in cramped corners or on metal cots in the hallway. Instead, they’ll make use of the pristine Domus Santae Marthae, a hotel-style building within the Vatican, complete with personal bathrooms. How solemn and self-important can one feel when there’s a brand new bed to jump on? If any broken hips come out of this Conclave I’ll have my doubts about the ‘I slipped in the shower’ explanation.

And what about the personal relations between these cardinals? Some will know each other, and some won’t but will become buddies. The three seasoned veterans who helped elect John Paul II in ’79 will gravitate towards one another and strut brashly about the hallways, joking privately about ‘these young punks who think they know everything.’ The youngest of the punks—a handful of cardinals in their mid-fifties—will feel juvenile and spry amongst all of the elder men and inevitably band together out of feelings of mutual youthfulness. During the first election on Day One they will sit in the back of the Chapel and quickly deteriorate into fits of giggles when Cardinal Ratzinger starts his speech about the importance of cardinal responsibility. Later that evening, Cardinal Ratzinger will regret reprimanding them so harshly in front of everyone when he is too late at discovering the plastic wrap on his personal toilet bowl.

But not to worry—unlike nine year olds these men are taught to forgive and love their fellow man. By the end of Conclave Ratzie and the boys will have made up over a bag of low-fat microwave popcorn, shared cheerfully at the pajama party screening of Bruce Almighty.

abstinence ed for horndogs

Today I explored a new website that the US government has created in order to help parents talk to their teens about sex -- 4parents.gov. In addition to a horrifically spliced image featuring an odd assortment of mostly minority persons and a lecherous-looking man in a pastel yellow shirt, the site includes information on STDs as well as "Talk Topics" and "Conversation Starters" to facilitate discussion between embarrassed parents and mortified teenagers. After a few minutes of scrolling through the sex-related topics, statistics and helpful tips, I began to feel a little funny inside--and not in a good way. Here are a couple reasons why:

1) The website is blatantly in favor of teen abstinence and this agenda is visible in its every aspect. At no point are parents encouraged to talk to their teens about the responsibilities associated with being sexually active. Essentially, parents are only encouraged to speak to their teens about birth control in the context of its failure rates, not its effectiveness or necessity for a sexually active person. Instead, abstinence is pushed as the only 'good' choice for teens. Therefore, teens are left with no practical information about how to use birth control or deal with being sexually active. At what point in their lives will they receive this information, if ever? From whom?

2) The website touts marriage as the end-all-be-all to all issues relating to sexual health--"Tell them if they wait [until marriage], they won't have to worry about getting pregnant or getting someone pregnant. They won't have to worry about sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV/AIDS. Nor will they have to worry that the person they're dating is only interested in them because of sex." First, how does marriage eliminate the need to control pregnancy? And second, besides the subtle jab at the validity of non-marriage relationships between sexually active persons, how realistic is it to believe that people won't get married just so that they can have sex?

3) This is the US government's solution to the teen pregnancy and STD problem. Abstinence. For teens. The horniest, most susceptible age group ever. Did I mention horny?

Despite the enraging effect that this website had on me, in the end it was not completely irredeemable. Its salvation lies in the "Conversation Starters" section. I strongly recommend you check it out. Especially if you need a laugh.

"Your jeans are looking a little short! How much taller do you think you've grown since last year? More changes are going to happen. Do you know what some of those changes are?"

and, "Some guys go out for a good time over the weekend, and end up with thousands of dollars taken out of their paychecks for the next 18 years. Do you know how that could happen?"

Those conservatives--they really crack me up.