He's Never Seen Trees

This morning, I drove into the parking deck, went up a flight and parked. As I gathered my book bag and umbrella, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a parade of underdressed ROTC students exit the stairwell, drop to their hands on tar covered with motor oil, chewed gum and broken glass and do pushups. I slammed my car door and they got up and ran off. It happened so fast, I didn't have time to draw a breath to yell, but I had questions. First: why were those kids wearing shorts in a driving 40 degree rain? Second: where was that army going to wipe its hands?

Shortly thereafter, a blogger I respect but with whom I occasionally disagree contacted me about health insurance reform. She'd found PIC on some index of bloggers writing on the topic. As Dad used to say, often and with great relish, Well, shit. You've got me there. I'm waiting to hear what kind of plan might involve both a serious academic and a crazy refugee from the art world and the costume shop. If she reads through PIC for more than a few minutes, I expect her to change the subject, edge away from me and loudly declare that she hears her mother calling. My feelings won't be hurt; I'm thinking the funny thoughts. Here's one: I might like her plan.

Take the Short Road To the Answer

Things were different when we were kids. Everyone had to entertain him- or herself.

Pete: Remember that decorative brick wall in my house growing up?
Tata: Huh. Yes, I do.
Pete: My parents put it up one brick at a time. They made the bricks themselves. It took forever. Then some lunatic gave me a hammer.
Tata: Really?
Pete: Yeah, Ricky, the kid down the street gave me a toolbox with real tools for my third birthday. My parents took it away until I was a little older. I remember sawing the molding around the front door. Also, smashing the bricks with the hammer with my little brother.
Tata: Your Mom was the get-even type. Did Ricky's get a bouquet of tacks for Mother's Day?

My mother, raised by her grandmother, taught her children quaint old-fashioned traditions you simply can't explain to teenagers, I swear to Jebus.

Tata: I don't know if these were real eggs. They're hollow and decorated with real flowers.
Customer Mom: This has a hole in it. Oh, and another at the bottom.
Tata: That sort of argues for real. Did you ever blow eggs?
Customer Teen: What - I -
Tata: That's the correct term. You stick a straight pin through the shell at the top and make a slightly larger hole at the bottom and gently blow the contents of the egg out through the larger hole while making every effort to not pass out and crack the shell.
Customer Mom: What is the outcome of that?
Tata: Omelets and decorated eggs you can keep without a biohazard event. Oh, and your face feels all sparkly.

Miss Sasha plans to deliver her second child in June, which necessitates my least favorite of all life events: a baby shower. I tracked down my grandmother Edith's cousins.

Tata: Ellie, my daughter's having a baby. Can I send you and your sister invitations to the shower?
Ellie: No, thank you. We wouldn't have any interest in that. My sister is nearly ninety. We hate these things.

I burst out laughing.

Tata: I wish I could skip it. I hate them, too.
Ellie: Don't go! Why should you go?
Tata: I am the mommy. It blows, but there you have it.
Ellie: Arrive late, leave early and bring a good purse. But leave early.

The person throwing this party is the Fabulous Ex-Husband's current wife Karen, who also loathes baby showers.

Tata: Ellie'd rather be boiled in oil than show up to a baby shower. Me, too, but I'll be there.
Karen: I wish I could be anywhere else.
Tata: Once you answer the door, these things conduct themselves. Let's duck out for sushi instead.
Karen: What? I wish!
Tata: Life is short. Let's get spicy tuna.

I may yet get a bouquet of tacks.

You Spill Up My Back

Tonight, we went to see our lovely niece Lois's high school performance of Bye Bye Birdie, in which Lois played the ingenue Kim. Before you get nervous: Lois has the high, clear voice her whole family shares and it was a delight to listen to her sing. The plays gender politics utterly blow, but the kids did a great job with the big musical numbers. Two of dozens could dance. Did I mention they sounded great? They sounded great. We left happy.

In the car, Pete said, "Well, that was...wholesome."
I said, "Next time, we have dinner in a strip club first."

At the Water's Edge In My Dream

Yesterday, Pete and I took our camera and had a frigging adventure. The man can take a picture that tells a whole story.

Midday, Donaldson Park from the Third Avenue Entrance. The water beyond the trees is the river.

We started at the park, where the park rangers had taped off the roadway. The river regularly floods and overflows into the park, which is why it is a park. The county forgot this and put in some very expensive, years-long renovations. They are about to be junk. People in town talk about the renovations in statements that trail off and nobody knows what to make of it all. Officially, I mean. We know these mistakes make for awesome, dramatic photos and fat, obnoxious geese. A whole herd of folks in rugged raingear turned up to see what they knew they'd see and what they'll see again: the floodplain, flooded.

The tree stood next to the old farm house around which the tiny town was built. Just out of frame to the left is a destroyed car barely visible under the treetop. Yes, we were driving by.

We drove around town, dodging fallen trees and crunching over branches. This house is about five blocks from where we live under trees just as tall. The roaring wind the night before had made Pete and the cats antsy.

Early afternoon: Easton Avenue in Somerset, which Trout described as "the canoe-thru Wendy's." Through the trees, the canal and the river are running at the same height as the road, which I can only remember seeing a few times before.

We had to plot and scheme to get to the grocery store in our hometown, about 2.5 miles away. Fortunately, we rode bikes on the back roads as teenagers, but we had to outwit lost yuppies who moved into town ten years ago. When we got to the fence above Easton Avenue, about a dozen other people were snapping pictures before storming the grocery store, where cashiers loudly exclaimed they thought we were crazy to be out in driving rain, which we weren't. The surface of the water is smooth.

Late afternoon: Donaldson Park from the Second Avenue entrance. The county has been renovating this park since Hurricane Floyd wrecked it in a way that looked pretty much just like this, except with fewer brand new backstops and soccer goals.

Less than five miles upstream, two towns sit below sea level. They get creamed in serious, fatal ways during and after nor'easters. It's hard to watch the same drama play out every seven or eight years. We put on boots and take pictures and join in the cosmic joke.

Love Will Come But Like A Refugee

Seriously, I have a house guest hangover. Sabrina's on a train to Secaucus. I'm draped over my desk, blurting, "I'm awake!" each time a co-worker trots past my desk. Pete, Sabrina and I talked all Saturday evening, all day Sunday and I wish I could have stayed home but I was afraid someone would talk to me, so I came to work, where people are used to me growling and baring my teeth.

Omigod. I'm exhausted! My hair, while really nice, is pointing towards magnetic north. I put on makeup this morning but it's like my face soaked up color and demanded more. I'm wearing a pink shirt. Why do I own a pink shirt?

This is better than when I used to wake up with strange people and mysterious tattoos - but not by much!

When My Cup's Already Overfilled

Resulting braciole.

Indeed, Central New Jersey is experiencing the kind of snowfall I have only seen a few times in my adult life, forcing me to face the hilarious contradiction of my current life. On one hand, I shoveled mountains of snow several times today to protect Pete from straining his back because I am strong and capable; on the other hand, there's no way I'm leaving the house until sidewalk and road surfaces are clear because if I slip I could significantly damage my hip. As Valkyries go, I've corralled a cranky horse. Never mind! From the stationary bike tonight, I watched the fox hunt scene in Auntie Mame, bolstering my confidence that things end well for the woman with the magnificent seat. If I do say so myself.

It Stands For Knife

Today, I went back to the physical therapy building for an appointment with the massage therapist. Massage on my right hip is like lemon-scented Hell on Earth, so I lay on the table, laughing to keep from screaming for just over half an hour. He was working on one blindingly painful spot, moved to the other side and asked how that side felt. I allowed as how it was uncomfortable but not like the other side, where I wanted to slap his ancestors. He laughed nervously, probably because he was twice my size and I have another appointment next week.

Daisies And Violets At Your Door

Though I awoke an hour before the alarm this morning thinking about it, I neglected to take chicken out of the freezer. I'm all in bits and pieces. Last week, an email arrived, and I was delighted to see these words in this order:

I am told that the truck is now placed in such a manner that we can squeeze by.

Yes, that's true. We are all hoping to squeeze by.

This sounds simple enough:

The Department of Sexual Assault Services and Crime Victim Assistance, New Jersey Coalition Against Sexual Assault, and AmeriCorps are sponsoring a clothing drive for survivors of sexual violence. All donations will benefit female and male survivors of sexual assault whose clothing is collected as evidence. Items most needed include any size new or gently used pants, shirts, flip flops, and new underwear, socks, and general hygiene items, such as toothbrushes and paste, mouthwash, soap, deodorant, brushes, combs, and women's sanitary items.

The wording seems odd, doesn't it?

All donations will benefit female and male survivors of sexual assault whose clothing is collected as evidence.

Why doesn't that announcement skip mention of gender - we often function on the assumption there are two, both are described - and go straight to the survivors? Must be because we also assume only women suffer the pain and humiliation of assault, followed by confiscation of clothing by the police. We try not to think much about those women but we know they exist. We don't think of those men at all. The world is wide, though, and we are so small.

Last night, I made yogurt and polished my nails. These are small tasks, unremarkable in any picture large enough to squeeze shoulders through the frame. Just after Christmas, two people of my acquaintance went to the hospital for what are projected to be lengthy stays. Pete's lifelong friend neglected an abcessed tooth until infection coursed through his blood to his heart and brain. The ten year old daughter of my lifelong friend has a rare leukemia the family has seen before. Neither is local, or the casserole dishes would pile up in my kitchen, so my nails are red and my fridge is filled with fresh yogurt.

Now is the time to sit quietly and meditate on gardens we can plant come spring.

And Now You Do What They Told Ya

Call me crazy, but I've always thought Caravaggio's Judith didn't want to get her hands dirty.
Let's review:

Yehudit (Judith) was a widow living in the city of Bethulia. The Assyrian King, Nabuchodonosor, sent his general Holofernes to punish the city. Holofernes went and cut off the water supply and laid siege to the city.

The city's elders were about to give up when Yehudit told them she had a plan. She went in her nicest clothes and jewelry to the camp of Holofernes. The general was taken with her beauty and invited her to a feast. Holofernes drank a lot of wine and got drunk.

Yehudit went back to his tent and, when they were alone, and Holofernes was passed out from the alcohol, she took his sword and cut off his head.

With the death of Holofernes, his army was in disarray and the Jews were able to mount an offensive and defeat the Assyrian army. The account of this story is in the book of Yehudit, which is part of the apocrypha and, while it was originally written in Hebrew, only the Greek version survived to be translated.

All my life, men have given me knives. Perhaps I was the only one who didn't know why.

These are the words, just a few words. I'd count them like daisy petals: He loves me. He loves me not. It always comes out even, though. Somehow, I find it in my heart to be surprised every time. Once I said to a man packing his bags to go, "You love you the most." Without blinking, he said, "Of course."

And that took away my breath.

In another life, I could sing the lives of the saints. In another life, after the ashes scattered in the wind, only the stories mattered. We don't listen to stories anymore. Stories interfere with the words we tell each other. We say words like protection and safety, when what we mean is keep your distance and love is infection.

Artemesia Gentileschi understood Judith, because Artemesia was raped and painted with every enraged fiber of her being. This painting, Judith And the Maid Servant With the Head of Holofernes, captures the fear of being trapped so viscerally that one might not at first notice the maid servant stuffing the bloody head into a bag. Judith is afraid but not ashamed.

In a dining room cabinet with a glass door sits a pile of pen knives. One, given to me by a woman who loved me but could not stay, is a tiny mermaid keychain. It is the kind of treasure one might easily overlook.

I am not trapped on the wrong side of any line. It does not make me brave to say so.

Let us be perfectly clear: the people we hear talking about healthcare reform are the people who will neither benefit from it, nor will they suffer. The voices we hear and the writers we read will lose nothing. They are almost uniformly wealthy, and nothing will touch them. Then, there's everyone else; there's us. We can talk to one another, but no one will hear us. Our words interfere with the stories.

One by one, we must cross into the enemy's tents and test our courage. Each of us must draw the knife. Each of us must find her own reason not to live in fear anymore. I myself will listen past the words to the stories, and I will not back down.

I am not afraid and I will stand my ground.

What, then, is this ground?

What is it?

In another life, I could sing the lives of the saints. In another life, only the stories matter. In my story, reproductive freedom is a concern of the distant past, but that's not the end of me.

This law that limits the bodily autonomy of poor and middle class women - a fair-sized number of the people this law is supposed to help - will be enacted, if not word for word. It's going to kill women you and I don't know, but those women are real. Their stories matter, if not in the tangle of words.

I am sharpening my knives.

This evening, I looked around to see what an abortion costs. No one offered me anesthesia when I had mine, so I wasn't surprised to learn that it cost extra. Trust an old woman: pay it. From now on, I will never be without what it costs to prevent words from interfering with the stories of women around me. Make no mistake: this is not a conversation we should have to have, but we will. Because time has run out. Because words have come between us. Because I am sharpening all my knives.

Tidings Of Comfort And Joy

In 2009, I struggled with questions for which I'm still awaiting answers. Life is very complicated - unless it isn't. As for the new year: I am hopeful that while our national discourse has taken a turn for the disastrously stupid and craven, in our own lives, we can think the smart thoughts and make the smart moves. For us - for you - here is what I wish -

In 2010 - and not a decade too soon - I want a political talk show host to finally turn to William Kristol and slowly, deliberately ask this important question:

"Bill, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

But our host can't stop there.

"Bill, what the fuck is wrong with you? You've been saying the exact same things about different brown people around the globe since the first time we had the misfortune of hearing your name. You are always wrong. You hate yourself and every living being. You stink of death and misery and I can smell you from here. For the sake of your favorite sky god, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

Balm, like the laughter of little children, it is!

In 2010 - and not a decade too soon - I want a political talk show host to finally turn to Thomas Friedman and slowly, deliberately ask this important question:

"Tom, what is the matter with you?"

But our host can't stop there.

"Tom, what's the matter with you? To call you stupid is to insult stupid people everywhere and to call those things you think ideas is to dignify suggestions to lick frozen flagposts. You have absolutely no idea what's going on in the world, the damage you're doing or the political use to which you've been put. If you had any decency you'd put out a Times supplement in which you hand wrote apologies to every literate man, woman and child in the world, drew pictures for the rest and never wrote another word. There's no excuse for your continuing to inflict yourself on a world desperate for adult interaction. What is the matter with you?"

Brings a tear to the eye, I know!

In 2010 - and not a decade too soon - I want a political talk show host to finally turn to Jonah Goldberg and slowly, deliberately ask this important question:

"Jonah, what in vomitrocious tarnation is your frigging problem?"

But our host can't stop there. No. Our host is on a roll.

"Jonah, what in vomitrocious tarnation is your frigging problem? Your ancestors roll over in their graves every time you touch a keyboard. Actual fascists wink when you leave the room. You're overdressed in pajamas and underdressed in a tux. No matter what your mom told you you are not a smart person. You just aren't. You're stupid and dangerous, and what is your frigging problem?"

Much like this magical moment -
- when for just an instant the truth was spoken, America heard it and laughed, laughter has the power to free us from the spell of tiresome, murderous trolls. I hope in 2010, many more heroes will slay evil with simple truths, delivered fearlessly. I wish this for you - for us - not just because it would be a pleasure and a delight to watch the venal meet justice on at least an Auntie Mame scale, if not on the Brothers Grimms', but because we need it now. We stand at the crossroads of history. Let us hope the messenger comes armed with both a punchline and a broadsword.

Eyes That Sparkle And Shine

I just gift-wrapped 35 bookmarks.


Sometimes I wish I still drank tequila.

Everything I Have In My Hands

The lengthy episode with the car - while amusing - has become expensive, inconvenient and frustrating. This morning, AAA instructed me to wait for the tow truck with my AAA card and my car's documents in hand. The truck driver put my car up on the rig. I asked if he wanted to see my documents, but he demurred: everything he needed was on his computer. As he drove away, I looked at the documents in my hand and thought, 'Huh. That's going to come up in conversation,' and the mechanic called to ask did I, by any chance, have them? If I weren't vain to the very core of my being, I'd consider sticking my head in the oven. But I won't: imagine compounding a shittastic day with split ends.

Exactly. I could be driven to suicide, but not if it messes up my hair. That's too much commitment.

We Are Strangers In Your Silent World

Mom and I are back now from visiting Grandpa in his impossibly good nursing home. Mom baked him cookies this morning and we brought him coffee. Mom wandered off. I sat on the edge of his bed. He and I ate cookies, drank coffee and laughed.

Tata: This is a good cookie!
Grandpa: This is a good cookie!
Tata: Pretty good coffee, too!
Grandpa: You can't usually get coffee this good!
Tata: And how about this cookie? This is a good cookie!
Grandpa: Your mother bakes a good cookie!
Tata: I like this coffee!
Grandpa: It's good coffee!

As conversations go, it's one of my favorites.

Everything Under the Sun Is In Tune

I wasn't much different as a teenager than I am as showboating old bat. In August of 1979, I was at the pool in a friend's backyard and my friend's older brother had a supercute best friend in a very convincing blue Speedo bathing suit. I had taken diving lessons since the Mesozoic, so I stepped up to the diving board, took a few swift, sure steps, made my hurdle, did something zany with a few somersaults, pointed toes and sliced gracefully through the water. Aaaaand I swam into the side of the pool and broke my front tooth.

In retrospect, it was at this exact moment I should have realized comedy would be my life.

The cute boy helped me find the broken tooth. My friend's mother made one in what Mom remembers as a long series of "Mrs. LongItalianLastName, Domenica's okay, but - " calls. The dentist glued my tooth back together. A few months later, I was holding a ladder while a guy I'd just met hung decorations in the high school cafeteria when I recognized his butt. You would think a kid who spent all her waking hours in costume would have the sense to reach for a trenchcoat and false mustache, but no.

Tata: You're friends with Nipsy?
Imminent Unrequited Love Of My Young Life: Yep.
Tata: You swim a lot at his house?
IULOML: Sometimes. Why?
Tata: Remember a girl with a fancy dive and an exciting faceplant?
IULOML: Yes, I do.
Tata: That was me. Hey, I'd like to crawl in a hole, now.

Soon after, I spent two years picking leftovers out of my braces, so my high school years were like a catalog of dentalwork failures. Six years ago, I got braces again. That'll put a crimp in your adult sex life. Stop laughing! Three years ago, I had capped four teeth damaged by braces and moral sloth. Immediately, one came apart: the one I broke with my enormous ego and a concrete wall. I have my own dentist now. He's pretending all his patients go through gallons of epoxy. He glued it back together, and again three weeks ago.

Tata: Okay okay okay, I am in such a MOOD. A few days ago, I thought I was imagining my tooth was loose, but no. The cap came off in my hand. I was so mad I actually cursed my own ancestors, which means yours are cursed, too.
Daria: That explains the noises in my attic and my children speaking in tongues.
Tata: But the cap went right back on like a puzzle piece and everything was fine while I waited for the dentist. But then the dentist needed to take the cap for a couple of days to clean off the glue.
Daria: So you stayed home and whistled?
Tata: No, I went to work and scowled like George Harrison.
Daria: OH MY GOD! You snaggletoothed it for TWO DAYS?
Tata: Yes, and my job involves talking to lots of people, so I mastered the fine art of talking to people like they're actually standing five feet to their right, not to mention facing away from them in meetings. It's a good thing people already thought I was insane or it might bother them when I walk up to them backwards.
Daria: I can't breathe!
Tata: So he glued it back together and then I bit down on some frozen dark chocolate with 85% cocoa content. It's full of antioxidents, you know, and my tooth broke into three pieces.
Daria: I know how mad you were then. You don't have a Louisville Slugger anymore, do ya?
Tata: Nope.
Daria: Then your dentist's probably safe. Is it fixed yet?
Tata: It is not, and here's the best part: we're going to Cape Cod to fix Mom's front door and you know who cares more about my teeth than I do? Mom does. And our Mom's mean. She's going to stare at me. I'll have the heebee jeebies!
Daria: Your best chance is to bring extra wine and hope Mom gets crosseyed.
Tata: I thought my best chance was to dress up as someone Mom would ignore, like police officers and car salesmen. But your way is better.

For the first time in my life I look forward to getting dentures.

Be There, I'll Be Around

Tata: Knock knock!
Pete: What?



Pete: You awake? Still napping?
Tata: Is it dinnertime and you're making me a sandwich?
Pete: I am!
Tata: And it will contain bacon?
Pete: It will!
Tata: I'm about to have a great evening.

Da Da Da Deee Da

We're doing what?

NASA plans to crash a rocket into the moon early Friday, blasting a huge hole in the lunar surface to search for hidden water.

The explosion, scheduled for 4:30am Arizona time, is expected to visible with from Earth using amateur telescopes, according to NASA.

It's also expected to be aired live by NASA-TV and on www.nasa.gov/ntv.

According to NASA's website, the Centaur rocket will make impact at the Moon's south pole.

Scientists tell Scientific American Magazine that they expect the blast to be so powerful that a huge plume of debris will be ejected.

A spacecraft will fly through the debris plume, sending data back to Earth before crashing into the lunar surface and creating a second debris plume, according to NASA's website.

Why blast a hole in the moon? NASA wants to see if any water, ice or vapor is revealed in the cloud of debris. If there is, that might provide supplies for a future manned moonbase.

Countdown to the rumor that the moon had nukes trained on Israel in 3... 2... 1...

Have No Fear Of Escalation

Previously on Poor Impulse Control:

On Saturday, Pete had a delightful encounter at the toy store.

Pete: I looked up and there was this little girl, about nine or ten. She looked like your niece.
Tata: Which one? Lois?
Pete: Lois! Light blond hair, blue eyes, skinny. She was wearing a little girl t-shirt, a little girl sweater, jeans and sneakers. And a big fake mustache like that movie critic -
Tata: Gene Shalit?
Pete: Yeah! She was completely serious, so I said, "Can I help you, sir?" She cleared her throat and said in a deep voice, "Yes."
Tata: GET OUT!
Pete: I didn't smile or anything, I just kept going. "Would you like me to gift wrap this for you, sir?" and she said, "[deep voice] That would be nice." She was alone in the store but her mom kept peeking her head in from outside.
Tata: I'm so happy! Did you recognize the little girl?
Pete: How could I recognize her? She was in disguise!
Tata: Omigod, you should have taken a picture!
Pete: I wanted to but I would've had to let on I knew she wasn't a grown man.
Tata: Then what happened?
Pete: She got into a van with her parents and her sister and they took off.
Tata: I'm so jealous! I wish I'd seen her. Oooh, you know who are going to be mad they missed that? Anya and Corinne! My sisters are going to be steamed!
Pete: She's my favorite customer ever.

Last night, my sisters hosted a book signing party at the toy store for local heroes who've written a new book. Pete made tortellini with spicy arugula, spinach and basil pesto, truly beautiful fruit and cheese platters, humus and vegetable trays that'd make you sigh, bruschetta and toast rounds. I worked the cash register and gift-wrapped for the gift store and kept an eye on my niece Lois, who was tending the informal banquet but has never waited tables. One of my brothers-in-law tended bar. My mother hovered nearby, anxious to help. Everyone was very busy, so it was at an odd, slack moment when Pete looked across the counter and asked the question of the evening.

Pete: Have you ever worn a mustache about town?
Little Girl: Yes, I have.
Pete: This is the one! I knew it! She came into the toy store wearing a mustache and speaking in a low voice.
Tata: You're my hero.
Pete: I love that story! I tell it to everyone!

Pete ran off, while I chatted with the little girl, her friend and a familiar looking woman. At the other end of the store, I saw Pete push through the crowd with my my sister Corinne, telling her, "That's the girl with the mustache!" and Corinne nodding happily. Presently, Pete reappeared at my side and asked the next best question of the evening.

Pete: What are you going to be for Halloween?
Little Girl: Frida Kahlo.
Tata: Frida Kahlo!
Pete: Who is that?
Tata: A famous, dead Mexican artist.
Little Girl: She had the unibrow. Like mine.

And then I realized what I should have known all along: she's me.

Tata: My aunt used to take me to museums so I could read her the Latin signs.
Little Girl: You can just sound them out.
Tata: I know! Do you do theater?
Little Girl: I am an excellent actor.

And then, as little girls do, the little girls ran off. We remain delighted, and now we know her name.

Where Do You Dare Me To Draw

I.

Pete stands in the doorway in new boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

Pete: ...I was thinking we could go the grocery store and AutoZone and stop at the farm stand on the way back. You're looking at me funny.
Tata: Am I? I guess I'm a little distracted.
Pete: I'm wearing your underwear, aren't I?

II.

Tata: I'd like to buy a case of this wine so my neighbors shopping at the drug store stop clutching their children when I buy three bottles at a time.
Young Liquor Store Clerk: Here you go. That's $54.75.
Tata: Thanks. My Handsome Prince just ran off to look for gluten-free beer, so I'll just stand here ...and ...look purty.

Then we laughed for different reasons.

III.

Auntie InExcelsisDeo: ...and you, in your sweat pants -
Tata: These aren't sweat pants. They are stunt pants. I'm wearing them over jeans to keep my hip warm, but look - zip, zip, zip and they come right off!
Auntie I.: Don't they all!

The Piper Blows And the Audience

HOLY SHIT.



In 1979, I stood near the uneven bars with my arms outstretched! Thank Christ a yearbook photographer was standing nearby!


In a fit of poor judgment, I joined Facebook. One of my sisters promptly published horrifying, nostalgic photos. I loathe nostalgia. Well, good to know that on one day in my life I had nice knees.

You Live the Faster You Will

As the machine released, the tech wrapped her arms around me and urged, "Don't faint! Don't faint!" I said, "I'm not a fainting kind of girl. I'm a whining and complaining kind of girl." She laughed but guided me to a chair. I stopped there. She urged me forward and sat me down. "Don't faint!" she repeated. I did not faint. I hate mammograms.

My insurance company used to send postcards reminding me to schedule a mammogram. I would've been happier to receive Blue Cross's gloating pictures of a drunken Cancun adventure, but no. Shitty test. Next, I had to get a prescription for the test from the gynecologist, which by the by involved also holding still for a pap smear, and then making an appointment with the radiology people. Last time I went, the receptionist was angry I didn't have an authorization number from the insurance company. I said, "Why would I need authorization when I'm getting pushy bulk mail insisting I show up and parade around topless in a clinical setting?" Then I spent half an hour on the office phone, getting that number before taking an eight-picture test that turned into ten, then twelve. I should've fainted that time. Instead, I started leaning on the gynecologist to write prescriptions for MRIs instead. Rumor has had it for a long time that MRIs are the future of breast cancer detection, and when the cost comes down, women will have painless tests. The gynecologist wouldn't do it. He said my insurance company wouldn't allow it. So I showed him: I didn't make another appointment for three years. I bet he's red-faced!

Some of the women in my office line up their medical tests over the summer because then parking is easier in a college town. This year, I gritted my teeth, followed their example and got a prescription for the mammogram. I called the insurance company for the authorization number.

Tata: I need an authorization number.
Rep: No ya don't.
Tata: I do! Last time, I had to call you from the office, where they were very perturbed.
Rep: That was a couple of years ago, right?
Tata: Uh. Yeah.
Rep: You changed insurance companies!
Tata: I didn't. You changed your name and pretended to be someone else. You didn't even change your phone number or try talking with a funny voice.
Rep: And you don't need an authorization number.
Tata: I'll give it a try, but I think perturbed receptionists are in both our futures.

Nevertheless, I made an appointment and went yesterday. Have you been to the doctor lately? They have a new demand: photo ID. I'd forgotten my prescription because weeks had passed, so I felt a twinge of guilt when this happened:

Receptionist: I need to scan your driver's license.
Tata: You what? What would you need that for?
R: We need to verify your address.
Tata: To repeat, why would you need to do that?
R: Well, we don't have to do that.
Tata: And you're not going to, because I am who I say I am, and live where your records say I do. Which you just asked me and I confirmed.

I didn't say anything else, because last year the State of New Jersey was prepared to take away my license if Motor Vehicle Services, the IRS and Homeland Security couldn't agree on what my name was, so I had no doubt that my medical records now have to match my passport. Then the receptionist called my doctor's office across the street, where the doctor mysteriously wanted to look at my old report before faxing a replacement scrip. I waited half an hour and the scrip still hadn't come, probably because my doctor is one of the few I've seen who actually listens to his patients. Then the tech took me anyway, because the scrip was bound to come sometime. I'm sure it did, but I was probably already at home, snacking nervously. I can't wait until next year.


Images courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger?