Virtue Slipped Into My Shoe

It's a dilemma in an envelope: tomatillo seeds.

Two summers ago, one tomatillo plant took over a corner of the yard. True, I didn't know how to cage and support the ginormous beast, but still. Ginormous. Seriously, every day, the thing seemed closer to demanding its own zip code. Now I have an envelope of tomatillo seeds. More than one plant would almost certainly germinate.

The garden is really small. I could plant two or three in pots and place them so they don't blot out the sun. Maybe. I could give seedlings away, too. They're like fruit-producing pets you don't have to walk.

...and hey: Monkeyfister got chickens.

With A Deck Of Fifty-One

I've butted into your business before and I will do it again, but this has to be said: make your own damn yogurt!

Recently, 8 ounce wide mouth Ball Jars changed my ultra-glamorous life. The glass jars that came with my ancestral yogurt makers have become delicate with age and I'd prefer not to take them to work. One day, I was foraging in my vast stores of Stuff Dad Gave Me and discovered the 8 ounce wide mouth Ball Jars. They fit perfectly into one of the ancestral yogurt makers and they don't break when Topaz pushes one off the kitchen counter. You don't have Topaz reorganizing your glassware, but the Ball Jars might help you carry that yogurt you're making to work with you.

Lovely Drusy cannot sniff you without playing kissy face.

Miss Sasha calls and asks questions. Is Jell-O gluten-free? This morning, one of my co-workers stepped into my cubicle and said, "You are a genius, I think. Has anyone ever said that to you before?" A couple of months ago, I was walking to the bank when a woman across the street waved and shouted to me in a peppery mix of Russian and English. From a distance she looked like Auntie InExcelsisDeo, who does not speak Russian and though she speaks no other language avoids speaking English if she doesn't have to, so I approached with a smile and realized we did not know one another. By the time I put my hand on her forearm, she had called me a genius and by someone else's name. I said, "Hello, but I am not her." She said, "I thought you were my niece!" I said, "I thought you were my aunt!" Then I laughed all the way to the bank and checked the name in my underwear - and I was only sure I was me when I wasn't wearing any. Memory can be overrated but being able to work out a problem is good stuff, so I told Miss Sasha to call the phone number on the box and ask a direct question.

In fact, my co-workers ask me questions all day long.

Beth: Can I ask you a question? I was just cleaning off my desk and I moved something and do you know what size mouse droppings are? Have you ever seen them? Are they small or big? We were having a mouse problem awhile ago, I remember, and I was just wondering -

Hmm. That doesn't do this justice. Imagine Beth, who is a gentle, lovely person, talking without taking a breath.

Beth: CanIaskyouaquestion? IwasjustcleaningoffmydeskandImovedsomethinganddoyouknowwhatsizemousedroppingsare? Haveyoueverseenthem? Aretheysmallorbig? Wewerehavingamouseproblemawhileago,Iremember,andIwasjustwondering -

Tata: You saw mouse poop and thought of me?

Beth: [Can't breathe for laughing.]

Tata: Go talk to Hal. He's lived on farms all his life.

Maybe it's the decades of working in a library, but I'm convinced that whatever the question, someone - somewhere - has the right answer. It's probably not me, but someone. For instance, someone knows why this bullshit health insurance debacle has gone so horribly wrong and I am afraid it might be Dr. Marcia Angell.

This Monkey Wants A Word

The library at the unnamed university has always offered slightly odd folk a little leeway with social conventions. It seems likely that if I worked somewhere conformity was key I'd be tied up in a closet by now. Look, I'm just not like the other humans, I have a problem mitigated by heat and my workplace is chilly. It would be spiffy if I could heal up without sticking out like a sore thumb. Today, I bought a Sunbeam electric blanket to add to a pillow, several sporty fleeces and a soft throw. My cubicle is starting to resemble a nest.

Fortunately, most of my co-workers will consider this another antic. I turn up for meetings wrapped up from the nose down. We'll see how an electrified crimson toga goes over.

A few weeks ago, it dawned on me that the Spanish language channels must carry cooking shows and what could be more natural than for me to watch people cook and understand everything? I found one finally this morning, but I was immediately confused. The host was describing a trip along the Amalfi Coast and I still have enough Italian that I grasped his story and what he was cooking. He kept calling it polpettone, though I could see clearly it was a braciola. In Italian, a polpettone is a giant stuffed meatball. This guy was working with a flank steak. I looked at the program description again, which was in Spanish. The commercials were in Spanish. Then I realized I had everything I wanted: a chef, a storyteller, Italian ingredients, Spanish I could understand. His cooking technique was sloppy. Pete sat down to watch and listen and said, "Oh. Guess I'll make braciole."

Tonight, Auntie Mame made time on the stationary bike simply disappear. I'd forgotten how much I loved even the opening credits and how closely my grandmother Gladys resembled Rosalind Russell, which means I will. Watch, as the future arrives, shimmering softly and gliding down stairs.

A Candidate For Vietnam Or Watergate

Pete's brand new antique English racer. We are willing spring to arrive.

My sisters Anya and Corinne pushed the whole town uphill through failed fire inspections, endless phone calls and dozens of rushed meetings to throw a benefit tonight for Haiti. They assembled a bake sale, a silent auction, an art show, musicians, speakers and the mayor of less than a week into an orderly if passionate response to the destruction and ongoing needs. The process was brilliant to watch. This afternoon, Anya and Corinne burst into the back hallway of the family store and blurted, "What's for lunch?" I said, "Triscuits, caponata, fresh yogurt and popcorn." They stared because they were kidding. "It's just like you to throw a benefit to feed people and forget to eat all day." Then I nearly had to beat up Corinne when grabbed the yogurt, caponata and a spoon and ran for the door.

On the Wall Where Darkness Fell

Bruschetta on the banquet at Lois's surprise party while we were hiding.

Let us say you are experiencing a context shift, by which I mean you suddenly are not where you usually are, under circumstances that are out of your control. Perhaps you're stuck in this new place for your own good; perhaps you find yourself lost and awaiting rescue. Be patient, if you can, with those who seek to comfort you. An hour will come when lightness arrives. Do not forget that someone is longing for you.

Let the Two Nineteen Pacify My Mind

Digby:

The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the standoff with Iran and all the other obsessions with the mideast are at least informed, if not entirely motivated, by larger geopolitical efforts to maintain stability at a time of impending competition over resources and access to them - oil. Sure that's simplistic, but it's at the "heart" of what's going on in the leadership's "minds."

We don't talk about any of that because it might lead us to get serious about changing our way of life and evidently nobody important thinks that's the right way to deal with the problem. And frankly, among many of our elites, maintaining a military presence everywhere is necessary to preserve American global dominance. Period.

If it weren't for really good chocolate, I'd be in tears tonight.

And I'm the One With No Soul

Violet's on the money:

I think we need to say to hell with Roe v. Wade. By which I mean, we need to take the abortion fight to a different front instead of being blackmailed into voting Democrat so that the next SC justice will be pro-choice etc., etc., etc. As long as we’re locked into that paradigm, our hands are tied politically. I think we need to put abortion on a legislative footing; perhaps the ERA could accomplish that. Simultaneously, women need to build an Underground Railroad of abortion providers and patient transportation (working with Planned Parenthood, for example) so we’re not just at the mercy of the goddamn Democrats. Enough with the blackmail!

We need to be prepared to accept the risk of Democrats losing an election. This is just basic politics, folks. The only way to swing the game is if you mean business. All we’re doing now is enabling the country and the Democratic Party to move further and further right. Think about it: the Democratic administration we have now would have been the nightmare Republican bogeyman scenario a couple of decades ago.

I turned 18 months after Reagan's election. For my entire voting life, the Overton Window has been shifting to the right and shafting women, People of Color, GLBTQs and the poor as the Democrats cowered and surrendered every bit of street cred earned during the Great Society struggles. I'm 46, and still we hear the same threadbare threat: if you vote your conscience, the Republicans win. I voted for Democrats and Republicans won and win even when they're out of power because Democrats have become spineless appeasers. Fuck them. Fuck that.

I'm done. Last week, I registered Green.

Around Me Waist A Belt

I love these people, though their website looks like my five year old niece picked the colors.

But We'll Go Home Be Bearna

I have books and time to spend
I have soul and I have friends
I have a home and I have food and
Still I have a bad fucking attitude.

Difference Bedlam Rovers

The healthcare debate is such transparently stupid bullshit I'm practically speaking in tongues. Fortunately, while I %@%#)%&@_% and %&@)%!^% $%&!!, other people are saying doing smart things.

A Better World Cafe, housed in an historic brick church, is the fifth restaurant of its kind in the nation, which some are nicknaming "Robin Hood restaurants."

The original socially conscious eatery was opened in Salt Lake City in 2003 by a former acupuncturist and advocates of the concept hope it will revolutionize eating out.

"It’s about how we’re going to need to change our systems if we’re going to survive as a planet," said Tina Weishaus, a board member of Who is My Neighbor? The community group based in the Reformed Church of Highland Park co-owns the not-for-profit restaurant with Elijah’s Promise, a New Brunswick soup kitchen and culinary school.

Besides the lack of official prices — only suggested fares — the eatery uses mostly food from local farms and no plastic or Styrofoam. It also composts all food scraps and acts as a community forum by hosting talks and live performances by local artists.

Three blocks from my house: yay!

The Highland Park restaurant opened its doors Oct. 21. The simple dining room, with communal tables and metal chairs, has attracted roughly 50 to 125 customers a day, head chef Rachel Weston said. Three paid staff and volunteers serve food from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. weekdays. Advertising has been minimal: there’s no sign for the cafe in the front of the church.

Listed each day on a dry erase board is a menu of roughly a dozen items that change every week or so, with suggested prices. One item, the "complimentary community entree," is free to everyone. On Thursday the free dish was curried pumpkin chick peas over rice.

A person who can’t pay anything is allowed to eat only the "community entree," but can volunteer at the cafe for an hour to get a bigger meal with more choices. Weston said all patrons are encouraged to volunteer, to think, for example, "What if I came back and baked bread, or played the piano?"

Supper: you can sing for it!

ustomer Kathleen Logue, 49, said she has been unemployed for two years. But she still paid $6, more than the suggested combined price of $1.50 for a cup of Moroccan tomato consomme and $3 for a medium slice of roasted tomato and Swiss cheese quiche.

"There are people worse off than me," she said.

Highland Park is an ideal town to host the novel restaurant, said Weishaus, with a mixed-income population that includes residents of housing projects as well as Rutgers University professors. The borough also boasts of progressive policies such as promoting fair-trade products at local stores.

The seed of the idea for A Better World Cafe was planted in January, said Lisanne Finston, executive director of Elijah’s Promise. She was giving a talk at the Highland Park church - commenting that the richest nation in the world should not have to have soup kitchens - when someone in the audience mentioned the new dining venture in Salt Lake City.

That's the kind of concrete, direct action I need to see and support. It can happen near you, too.

Why We Can't Just Hold On

¡El Gato Negro! asks you to please pass around this video.




I'm a single-payer supporter, but you public option people gotta get and keep that groove on.

No Matter Who You Are Shining Bright

This fresh hell is the oldest trick in the book.

North Carolina is poised to become only the second state to impose a fat fee on its state employees by placing them in a more expensive health insurance plan if they're obese. Smokers will feel the drag of higher costs, too, as North Carolina state employees who use tobacco are slated to pay more for health insurance next year.

North Carolina officials, coping with a steady uptick in health care costs for state employees each year, are aiming to improve state workers' health, which saves money in future medical expenses.

"Tobacco use and poor nutrition and inactivity are the leading causes of preventable deaths in our state," said Anne Rogers, director of integrated health management with the N.C. State Employees Health Plan. "We need a healthy work force in this state. We're trying to encourage individuals to adopt healthy lifestyles."

No, you're punishing fatty fat fatties and bad kids. In point of fact, 100% of state employees will suffer death. If Ms. Rogers were a little smarter, she'd realize these demographic groups are - nyuk! nyuk! nyuk! - cash cows as far as the pension system is concerned. No retirees? Ka-ching!

State workers who don't cut out the Marlboros and Big Macs will end up paying more for health insurance. Tobacco users get placed in a more expensive insurance plan starting next July and, for those who qualify as obese, in July 2011.

Nope, nope. Still going to die. The insurance company is probably a wholly owned subsidiary of Phillip Morris and McDonald's. Sure, there'll be a few surgeries to underwrite, some chemo and prolonged hospital stays, but since insurance companies have an almost magical ability to profit if customers live or die, why not hand out cartons of unfiltered cigs and coupons for Quarter Pounders and stack the deck? Come on, Big Insurance! Let's get it the fuck ON.

Some state employees, though, are criticizing the planned changes. The State Employees Association of North Carolina opposes the tobacco and obesity differentials as invasive steps that could have been avoided if the legislature had fixed the plan.

"It's my understanding they're talking about testing (for tobacco use) in the workplace which, to me, would create a hostile environment," said Kim Martin, a sergeant at Piedmont Correctional Institution in Salisbury. "And it's an invasion of privacy. This is America, the land of the free. I don't think (body mass index is) a very good measure. I know some folks who would have a high body mass index because they're muscular."

Body Mass Index is actually a very crappy measure because it assumes everyone has the same bone structure, same muscle density, same genetics, same diet, same habits. None of that is true. It's even a lie that drugs treat everyone. Hey, I liked Seldane but it apparently killed people who weren't me. Woohoo! Lucky me! Well, except that I can't have the only allergy medicine that ever worked for me because a few lightweights clutched their chests and keeled the hell over. Weaklings. Anyway, about the BMI: here's your calculator. Hold onto that thought, we're going to come back to it.

The idea of penalizing unhealthy lifestyles and rewarding healthy conduct is hardly new among insurance plans. Public health insurance plans in other states already penalize smokers or reward nonsmokers in insurance costs. South Carolina's state employees health plan is scheduled to add a $25-per-month surcharge on smokers in January. Elsewhere in the southeast, Kentucky and Georgia impose surcharges, and Alabama gives non-smokers a discount.

Alabama was out front on weight testing. Starting in January, state workers will have their blood pressure, cholesterol, glucose and body mass index checked by a nurse. If they're in a risk category, such as a body mass index of 35 or greater or a blood pressure of 160/100 or greater, they are charged an extra $25 per month on their insurance premium. If they go to a health screening, either offered by the state or by their personal physician, then the $25 is subtracted, according to Gary Matthews, chief operating officer for the Alabama State Employees Insurance Board.

North Carolina will allow state workers with a BMI of up to 40 to keep the discount, although a BMI of 30 is considered obese by some experts.

Fat people know they're fat. There's absolutely no need to consult an expert. Further: that health screening thing. What is that? You go sit in a trailer parked outside your facility. Someone takes your blood pressure, tells you you're fat and takes $25 off your insurance premium? What does that even mean?

Only a fraction of employers, though, offer financial incentives for healthy behavior or wellness programs, such as gym memberships or smoking cessation, according to a Kaiser Family Foundation study last year. Differences in employees' education, health literacy and access to basic health care could affect the usefulness of financial incentives in reducing health care costs over time, the study said.

The results are not yet in. The higher costs for smokers and the obese don't appear to have been in place long enough for any state to boast of a healthier work force yet, according to officials in several states.

"I don't know that any states have a lot of hard data on this," Rogers said.

And none will because punishing fat people and smokers is not intended to improve anyone's health. It is intended to divide clients into groups that will resent one another and to divert attention from the deeper truth: if we had a national health system, none of this would be necessary. If health care were the point, we would not be seeing divide and conquer. The point is that profit is most easily made when our common interests are obscured.

So let's go back to the BMI, which is as bogus a metric as it gets. We'll use me as a handy example of how this thing fails. Okay? Okay. My weight fluctuates within a ten pound range, but at the moment, my BMI is 28.9. By this standard, I am overweight. Sure, I'd like to lose a few pounds but they won't stay off because I'm a 46 year old woman. I exercise every day. In the last year, I've skipped a total of eight days. I eat two meals a day, drink lots of water, bicycle to work in good weather, eat a diet that would make nutritionists turn cartwheels, and take very good care of myself. I drink wine. So sue me. Anyway, none of that is important because 28.9, bitchez!

At the time this picture of me was taken, I was probably 16. I did 250 pushups a day and just about the same number of situps. I had and used my own chinning bar. In fact, I had and used one until I was just about 40. In this picture, you can clearly see that I was well-toned and in good shape, but not thin. Insurance charts said that someone of my diminutive stature should weigh 105-108 pounds. Even anorexic, I could never get below 119, and it was a struggle to stay close to 125. As Siobhan says when I mention my weight, "What, are you made of mercury?"

So here I am: a prime example of the BMI's shortcomings. So how do we measure health? How about we stop doing that to punish each other? How about we offer everyone health care, offer people dental care? Stop whining that someone undeserving might get something they don't desertivity deserve and concentrate on how it would change our own lives if we didn't have to worry anymore, and if the people around us didn't have to worry anymore, and if everyone had the resources to take care of him/herself? EVERYONE would be sick less often. EVERYONE could care for children and aging parents properly. EVERYONE would not have to face bankruptcy over medical bills. EVERYONE would have a better life. Even you. Especially you.

Crossposted at Brilliant@Breakfast.

At Home They Could Be Anyone

I've let twenty years of Limbaugh's bullshit go by without comment because ignoring that noise is better for one's sanity than engaging, but after yesterday, he should be hounded to the edge of society and shunned by outcasts. Media Matters For America:

...Rush took a caller who said the local police investigating the bus assault said today the attack was not racially motivated. Rush responded to these developments put out by the local law enforcement:

LIMBAUGH: I think the guy's wrong. I think not only it was racism, it was justifiable racism. I mean, that's the lesson we're being taught here today. Kid shouldn't have been on the bus anyway. We need segregated buses - it was invading space and stuff. This is Obama's America.

I don't even know what to say. That's so offensive it's hard to form a sentence in response. And yet, it is impossible to let that go by, because - finally, I see this now - ignoring Limbaugh is the same as silence, and silence equals consent.

Last night, Pete and I were talking this over when one of the tenants came home. I was blathering on a bit and the tenant interrupted.

Tenant: I just wonder why Rush would say that.
Tata: It doesn't matter why. It's so offensive there can be no reason for saying it.
Tenant: But I just wonder why he would say that.
Tata: No, there is no why that justifies saying this about those kids on that bus.
Tenant: This is like that thing in - what was it? - Paterson? where the town tried to impose a curfew and the ACLU filed suit but kind of shot themselves in the foot by admitting it was the black people selling all the drugs -
Tata: No, that's not what happened. That's backwards.
Tenant: Yeah, the ACLU got it backwards.
Tata: No, I'm not agreeing with you. I'm disagreeing with you. That is not what happened.

The American Civil Liberties Union has already successfully defeated several juvenile curfews in New Jersey courts, said Ed Barocas, legal director of the state ACLU. Adult curfews are usually associated with the imposition of martial law, which typically is restricted to emergencies, wartime or military occupation, according to the ACLU.

"An adult curfew is unprecedented in our state," Barocas said.

"It's just completely unheard of," said Jon Shane, a professor of policing administration at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. "Not to mention being generally unconstitutional."

I'm speechless, but not silent. I can't ignore this anymore. Let's start with the truth.

[Mayor Mark]Eckert said the city, police department and school officials will soon hold assemblies and communicate with parents and students in many ways about "character, good behavior and not tolerating bullies."

Plans for these events grew out of the attack itself and Belleville Police Capt. Don Sax's initial comment that the attack was racially motivated. By Tuesday, the department reversed itse;f and said the attack was a case of bullying.

Eckert said students aboard the bus told police that two students were involved in the attack.

"I can tell you preliminarily that the kids interviewed are not calling this a racial incident," Eckert said. "They are calling it an attack by two boys who have been picking on kids, regardless of color, for a long time. They've been bullies."

Eckert said Sax had "made a mistake. He let the media squeeze out an opinion (about the incident) instead of saying we don't have all the facts. He made a mistake, but he's normally a really good guy."

And Sax should be fired. Kids on buses get into fights. Since we put cameras on buses we've taken all the suspense out of figuring out who threw the first punch. Yet, we still haven't learned how to see for ourselves what happened or school authorities would have seen bullies pounding on a smaller kid and Sax would've known what to do. If they had, this would have been all over but the suspensions. But some fool shot off his mouth and released video. It's all bullshit.

But then there's Limbaugh. What can done about him now?

Faces At the Edge of the Banquet

The other night, we were cleaning up the kitchen after dinner and Pete groaned, "Oh noooo." Two bananas had turned to gooey compost and taken the Cuisinart Bread Machine recipe book with them. There was no salvaging the book. We faced the terrible truth: we were on our own.

Tata: Bread machine recipes?
Siobhan: King Arthur Flour is my go-to. I'm rocking the Ancient Grains Bread.
Tata: Why do you know this stuff?
Siobhan: Magic 8 Ball.

On Fridays, Pete and I take our time wandering around the farmers market - after we make a beeline for the bread guy, where every week we buy a loaf of garlic, spinach and mozzarella bread. It is so good the co-workers I've been dragging to the market also buy loaves they conceal from their mushrooming teenage children. A few weeks ago, I finally developed enough confidence in myself and the bread machine to suggest we make this bread at home, then I had a better idea.

Pete: I'd say we should find a recipe but you're incapable of following one.

That's not a swipe. It's the truth. Tuesday, I took this poor, defenseless recipe and made a sponge by combining the water, bread machine yeast and one cup of whole wheat flour. I covered it and left it huddled and alone in a big bowl under a clean cloth dinner napkin. After twenty-four hours, the yeast had bloomed a little differently than when I'd made sponges before, and the mixture was watery. I substituted molasses for honey, added 1/4 cup wheat bran and most of the other ingredients in roughly the correct order, with the sponge going into the bread machine last. Pete watched the dough come together and wanted to add some water, which we took from the draining spinach. In the meantime, Pete put olive oil and a mess of garlic cloves into a small saucepan to simmer gently. Then he said something terrifying.

Pete: I'm going upstairs to exercise.
Tata: What do I do when the machine beeps?
Pete: It's not going to beep for an hour and a half.
Tata: That's what's supposed to happen. What do I do when the machine beeps?
Pete: I see. The first time it beeps is for add-ins. Are you going to add anything to the dough?
Tata: Garlic.
Pete: I thought we'd put that in with the filling.
Tata: Yes, and in the dough. Cold & flu season is upon us, baby!
Pete: The second time it beeps is when you take the paddle out, but in this case, we're going to turn off the machine and bake in the oven. Got it?
Tata: I almost certainly don't, so go exercise and hurry back.

Pete retreated to the attic, which was very, very far from the kitchen, and almost immediately, the bread machine beeped. I tossed my laptop on the couch and sprinted to the kitchen as cats scattered, then gave chase. I fished garlic cloves out of the oil, mashed them into bits and tossed them into the bread machine. Pete came back down slightly fitter; we giggled like teenagers. When the machine beeped again, I tossed the laptop, cats scattered and gave chase, Pete grabbed the dough and I grated mozzarella. Pete rolled out the dough, laid out spinach, cheese and garlic, then folded the dough so beautifully I sighed. He brushed the top with the garlicky olive oil and sprinkled on kosher salt. Then we tried not to stare at the oven and growl, "COME ON...BAKE!"

We stayed up until 12:30 watching bread cool. We've become bread nerds. This summer, we started out jarring because we spent the last two summers learning how to jar. Then I dug out Dad's dehydrator and gave it a few whirls. This has not been an unmitigated success. An example: every dehydrating instruction ends with store in a cool, dry place. This summer, no place in New Jersey is a cool, dry place, so a whole pint jar of dried apples grew blue beards on their way to the compost heap. After that, we stored baggies of dried fruits and vegetables in the fridge, which was frustrating. One reason we chose to dehydrate was to build a pantry outside of the refrigerator. But, we're learning. The other day, I learned that drying parsley and oregano is a cinch, and some of those skills I learned in the seventies came in handy. Don't ask. Drying chives was much harder, and I'm considering repotting the remaining plants in kitchen-friendly, cat-discouraging pots. That will probably involve some exciting science I haven't worked out yet.

The bread is important. Spinach and cheese in wheat bread with garlic and molasses is actual food, by which I mean it's completely good for me. The other thing to consider is Pete's got thirty years in professional kitchens under his belt but not in breadbaking, whereas I am a complete idiot with or without a recipe book. This is a big step for us. It means that we are ready to take on more real-food breads. Even so, the joke's on me: next week, Pete's going gluten-free.

We will start over.

No One, No How Or We Bust

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Reform Madness - White Minority
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Spinal Tap Performance

The other day, I had to explain to an adult why we wash the bottoms of plates. I am so happy when smart people are talking.

No Other Troy For Me To Burn

I've been thinking all day about why I stopped doing clinic defense almost twenty years ago. The clinic I'd devoted two years to defending was firebombed and I gave a speech standing next to the charred ruins. For me, something had changed. Domestic terrorists, well-known to the government, were allowed to carry out their threats. It didn't have to happen, but it did. This wasn't in Kansas or Texas, where you might expect women's medical care to be imperiled. No. This was New Jersey. Everyone knew Operation Rescue had it in for us, and in George H. W. Bush's America, everyone left us twisting in the wind.

Shortly thereafter, my grandmother died, I left the Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) and launched my illustrious and all-consuming art career. The lessons I had learned were that my vigilance accomplished nothing; that we were each on our own and that law enforcement didn't give a shit about women. On that last point, I have never been disappointed. Instead of clinic defense, I drove women for abortions because I am not afraid to punch rabid PTA moms in the face while cooing gently to a distressed patient. That is not actually good escort behavior, by the way. Eventually, I couldn't stand even talking to pro-choice relatives who insisted Roe would never be overturned while they voted Republican. I went home. I admit this: I do not have the strength to argue anymore, and for myself, I don't have to because after the hysterectomy, I do not have to worry about getting pregnant. Believe it or not, this is not all about me.

I'm long done with candlelight vigils and patience. My standing ankle-deep in slushy mud holding a sign so I can be counted for women's organizations that care more about donations than resisting Samuel Alito's Supreme Court nomination is not gonna happen because fuck that noise. I'm done listening to men talk about icky abortion because do I fucking talk about my feelings about prostate treatments? I do not because there's no reason for me to have feelings about fucking prostates. I DON'T FUCKING HAVE ONE. My opinion is not needed. Perhaps 95% of men have no standing to discuss abortion, and this -

Tiller's Killer
Is it wrong to murder an abortionist?

- is so far beyond the pale that saying Fuck this fucking guy isn't fucking enough. But singling out Saletan for a verbal beating accomplishes nothing. I'm done with that, I'm done with all that. I'm done with one more thing: shame, because we can no longer afford it. I have had an abortion. The circumstances are not important. Your sympathy doesn't interest me. What is important is that I chose to have that kind of medical care, and I do not regret it. In theory, it shouldn't be any more important than if I'd had wisdom teeth removed. Further, people who think they don't know anyone who's had an abortion are fucking kidding themselves.

It's time for old ladies to stand up. No one is going to come to my house and put a bullet in me for exercising my right to chose, thus it is my obligation to defend that right I no longer need for young women who do. What I'm done with, that's behind me. I do not know what I will do, but I'm starting here.

She Was Dark At the Top Of the Stairs

Library of Halexandria:

The earliest representations of Lilith seem to be as a great winged Bird Goddess, a wind spirit, or one associated with the Sumerian, Ninlil, Goddess of the Grain, and wife to Enlil. As the “hand of Inanna”, Lilith was notorious for bringing men from the street and fields of war to Inanna’s temple for holy sexual rites, in which the intention was to civilize the people. The sacred sexual customs were, in fact, considered the greatest gift of Inanna.

As Adam’s first wife, however, Lilith really got into trouble with the patriarchy. She had the audacity to want to be treated as Adam’s equal. According to Hebrew mythology, the Babylonian Talmud, the Zohar, and the Alphabet of Ben Sira, Lilith refused to lie below Adam, and thus set the archetypal example for later feminists. God allegedly threatened her by decreeing if she did not submit to Adam, that “one hundred of her children would die every day.” Lilith chose exile.

Which really got Adam’s goat! Despite being ostensibly happy about having Lilith out of his life (and later blessed with a subservient, if not occasionally misguided Eve), Adam apparently never gave up resenting Lilith for having chosen exile to being with him. Not a lot has changed in thousands upon thousands of years: A woman deciding her life is better alone than with a particular man is still the height of insult to that male.

The male patriarchal traditions, therefore portrayed the situation as one in which the first woman on Earth, who was created equal to man and a free spirit to boot, would be condemned to survive for eternity as a she-devil, mating with demons and devils and bearing monsters instead of human children. “This image was to serve as a threat and warning to any woman who might consider leaving her husband or defying male authority.” [1]

But it was all to no avail.

Lilith by John Collier.

Women put up with a lot of shit every day, a goodly amount of which is so normalized few bother to mention it. Two days ago, men in my department, whom I would describe as reasonably harmless, were talking and I made a suggestion. Another woman drew near and made a suggestion. The men talked over us. I walked away. She followed me and asked if I felt brushed off. I said I would refuse to discuss the project further. Later, one of the men came to my desk and asked a rhetorical question. I said that because he didn't actually listen to me I wouldn't discuss this project anymore - and he kept talking. I said no, I wouldn't discuss this further and again he kept talking. The third time he finally got the message that we shouldn't converse. Perhaps it was the gesture I used. The reason I mention this is because it's so ordinary for men or a man to talk over women that it's barely worth a mention, like this conversation.

Tata: I want to be the little old lady on a shiny Vespa.
Guy: No, what you want to be is...

Apparently I'm so impressionable that men who are not me know what I want better than I do. Don't be surprised. It is a common conversational event, barely worth a mention. It will happen wherever men and women gather, and only women will notice.

Daily Contributor:

WFSB-TV in Hartford reported [Johanna] Justin-Jinich’s boyfriend entered about 1 p.m. local time carrying a gun and wearing a wig that also was left behind, the station said.

Yesterday, a man walked into a bookstore and shot a woman point-blank. His intention was to kill her and he succeeded. The Daily Contributor, as tepid a name as any, reported online and still reports as of this writing, that the murderer was her boyfriend. We expect that. It's so common we barely notice. These two people were not engaged in a relationship, however. He stalked her. According to NBC News while I was bicycling this morning, she'd filed at least one complaint. Yesterday, he killed her. The Hartford Courant article chooses neutral words very carefully.

"She's a really loyal friend; a really loving, passionate person about life and about her friends and family," [Leah] Lucid said of her friend, whom she affectionately called Yo-Yo.

Her passions included writing and her work in public health and women's issues, Lucid said. Justin-Jinich volunteered at various Planned Parenthood offices in her home state and in the area.

"She was the most giving and loving person I have ever known," Lucid said. "I'll remember her loyalty and her warm smile whenever I saw her and her very funny voices she would make with me."

From miles away, you can see it coming, can't you?

Ryan La Rochelle, 23, of Boston, said he was shocked. He knew Justin-Jinich from Westtown School, a small boarding institution in southeastern Pennsylvania they attended as high schoolers. La Rochelle learned about her death from the media.

"She was a very beautiful and kind girl," La Rochelle said. "I have no idea how something like this could have happened."

After [Jen] Bromley, the owner of Silk Waxing Spa, learned that Justin-Jinich had been shot, she closed the shop and drove to Middlesex Hospital with her cousin, another friend of Justin-Jinich's who attends Wesleyan. They thought she was still alive. But as they pulled into the hospital parking lot, the cousin's boyfriend called with the news.

"I've been crying and distraught all day," Bromley said Wednesday evening. "She's a really happy, really smart girl. Really intellectual...I can't imagine why any one person would dislike her and want her dead."

Beneath the simple laments, you can feel issues of class, feminism, the meaning of beauty and the same old male entitlement crap simmering until it boiled over. Nobody understands. Nobody thought anything of it. Of course, no one understands. Until our hearts break, this stuff is barely worth a mention.

[1]Demetra George, Mysteries of the Dark Moon, The Healing Power of the Dark Goddess, Harper San Francisco, 1992.

My Eyes Could Clearly See

My brother Todd, who was smart enough to tell Mom after he went skydiving, sends this along. After a bit of searching, I see it's from Seven Sunny Days.


wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.

I'm speechless. That's absolutely amazing.

Back Here To Repeat Until You Learn, Learn, Learn

Dick Cheney is truly the Source of All Evil. By now, everyone's read about this:

If you don't get punished, you didn't go anything wrong, right?

That's the message Vice President Dick Cheney gave in an interview with CBS' Bob Schieffer on Sunday, suggesting that a president's actions are legal if those actions didn't result in his impeachment.

Asked by Schieffer if he believed that anything the president does in time of war is legal, Cheney said there is "historic precedent of taking action that you wouldn't take in peacetime."

Cheney referenced Abraham Lincoln as an example of another president who "suspended the writ of habeus corpus" during a war, prompting this exchange:

SCHIEFFER: But nobody thinks that was legal.

CHENEY: Well, no. It certainly was in the sense he wasn't impeached. And it was a wartime measure that he took that I think history says today, yeah, that was probably a good thing to do.

Right now everyone who's ever spent time with a four-year-old is seeing stars, because this sounds like nothing so much as -

Mommy: Who broke this lamp?
Finster: Not me.
Mommy: There's no one else here and the dog has gone to Heaven.
Finster: Why?
Mommy: What?
Finster: Why?
Mommy: The dog has gone to Heaven because his little heart gave out. And you need a spanking.
Finster: Why?
Mommy: Because otherwise you won't learn to tell the truth.
Finster: Why?
Mommy: So I can spank you sooner, obviously.
Finster: Can I have a cookie?
Mommy: After my nervous breakdown, sure.

Mr. Lincoln may or may not have done the right thing when he did what he did but he didn't "[suspend] the writ of habeas corpus" he suspended the writ of habeas corpus. There's no equivocating about it. We can't spin it. It happened. And to play semantic games about the violence Cheney and his ilk have done to the Constitution, this country and the world is to make ourselves complicit. Mr. Schieffer's relatively passive acceptance of these vile assertions makes him part of the problem, whether he believes it or not.

Day after day, week after week, for the last eight years, I have heard story after story of monstrous, unimaginable atrocity from this administration. Every single day I heard a story I would not have believed even the day before. While the incoming administration gives me every reason to think the outrageous bullshit will be curtailed, House and Senate Republicans show no sign of stopping theirs. In addition, we have every reason to believe that as time passes, we are going to hear the backstories of the crimes these soulless fucks perpetrated and for which they will probably never be prosecuted. I try not to wish ill on anyone, but in Cheney's case, nothing would give me greater joy than to see him in chains at the International Court in the Hague.

The Rude Pundit makes an important point.

Let's face it: back in 2000, most of us were pussies. We knew, fucking knew, that the presidential election was being stolen as we watched. And we didn't riot - we didn't explode into the streets in a flare of anger and righteousness and shut shit down, demanding that the Supreme Court and the Republican Party back the fuck off. We didn't head to Miami to block the right wing thugs who were stopping the recount at the canvassing board. We didn't go on a general strike to say, "Count the votes."

And Al Gore fucked it up, too. He didn't tell us to do it. He didn't lead a movement. He could have said that, at the end of the day, democracy fails when you say that voting is just an exercise, not a right that people were killed for. Instead, we behaved like end of the millenium Americans, going about our business, thinking, in the long run, it wouldn't matter, anyways. (And to any conservative wad of fuck that thinks we need to get over 2000, look at your granny's retirement account.)

Jump to 2004, and second verse, mostly the same with slight variations: the Johns, Kerry and Edwards, promise to count all the votes, yet, when Ohio is a clusterfuck of irregularities that'd make Boss Tweed go, "What the fuck?" and walk away, they throw in the towel for the good of the nation or some such shit, when, all they did was consign us to our own degradation for the next four plus years ('cause Obama's inauguration ain't gonna make it all shiny and good for a long time).

Yep, I hate thinking about how powerless I have felt every day for the last eight years. It's all bad. I remember sitting in someone's kitchen after the invasions, feeling like shit about bombs falling on the heads of human beings, and having someone at the table ask, "Are we safe to talk here?" Because it was dangerous in the fucking United States of America to say, "Bombs shouldn't fall on the heads of human beings, no matter who they are - or in this case, were." While we can attribute the bullshit hysteria to bedwetters who felt violated by 9/11, the public discourse was poisoned, and it wasn't until Olbermann started shooting off his mouth on television that people felt they could fight back and not get a visit from the FBI. He may be an atrocious sexist ass, but he behaved creditably.

But what about me? Did I do enough? Did I say enough? Did I write enough letters and blog posts? Did I call my Congresspersons often enough? I doubt it. I doubt many of us will think so in the days to come. Bombs are falling on the heads of human beings again. Still.

How about a cookie?

A Pickup Truck And the Devil's Eyes

I've been thinking a lot about compost. Though the Solstice is behind us the dead of winter lies ahead. Our composter feels very full and I wonder how much decomposition takes place inside the barrel on these cold days. Even so: it's easy to find other places to put coffee grounds and asparagus stems, so I don't really worry. Thus, I am thinking now about paper, especially paper that comes through the mail, now that seed catalogs have begun to arrive. I heard a rumor weeks ago that recycling was unprofitable in the current economy but today we see proof.

People are still putting their bins of recyclables out on curbs. But the recyclable materials market, which was booming only a few months ago, has dropped sharply, along with the worldwide economy, creating a backlog of materials at processing plants.

Reduced demand for used paper, plastic bottles, glass, and metal cans has caused prices to plummet, surprising even those who have followed the ups and downs of the recycling market.

"We have seen drastic changes in market values, faster than I've seen since I've been in industry back to the 1980s," said Foster, who said the value of recyclables was about 70 percent less on average than two months ago. "A lot of it, you can't move right now."

Foster said the recycling plant is still sorting and bundling about 400 tons of paper per day, but it's more difficult to sell.

Now is the time then to insist on products from recycled materials. I have a game I play now: How Can I Reuse This? Sometimes I win, like when I buy eggs in recycled cardboard containers, then pulverize eggshells and cardboard for compost. Sometimes I lose, like when I buy something in that plastic packaging that might actually prevent me from using what I purchased. You know what I'm talking about. On late night commercials, hucksters hawk gadgets to get you into that plastic packaging, creating an odd circle-of-life that ends with you doubling the stuff in your whatsit drawer. Anyway, if I wash and reuse Ziploc bags once each, I cut my use of bags in half. I'm still adding stuff to the landfill at an impressive rate. So what about all this paper that comes to the house, if recycling is going nowhere? Can I compost it? Some of it, yes.

Shredding and composting documents is a great way to ensure they don't fall into the wrong hands and it can help soak up excess water if the compost heap is too wet.

Shredding paper that has been used for bedding for small pets such as hamsters is ok to compost too.

Avoid shiny paper or shiny coloured prints though.

It had never occurred to me until today to buy a shredder, mostly because I don't own much of anything and thought municipal recycling would take care of paper. Now I see that envelopes and notices could be useful in our attempts to fertilize the soil in which we're growing our vegetables and herbs. Hmm.

Sway Through the Crowd To An Empty Space

Set your recording devices: our friend Minstrel Boy plays Jeopardy Wednesday night, which is tomorrow. I personally do not own a recording device, though I hear they're the bee's knees. Twenty three skidoo, you know! Anyhoo, MB - the fellow on the right - enjoys military history, making chocolates and lapsing into French. The fellow on the left, well, I don't know. I think he was on The XFiles or something.

A few days ago, the woman who buys paper towels for our department bought a bale of 'em in a brand that wasn't recycled. I growled. Then I growled some more.

Tata: Have we given up on buying recycled paper towels?
Joanne: They weren't on sale.

Every so often I receive a gentle reminder that I am a space alien. Look! Here is one! Watch, as I do not switch to my native tongue:

Tata: W - what?
Joanne: We run out of paper towels at sometimes inconvenient moments and the brands we like are not on sale, so we go with a different brand. It's just timing.
Tata: I'll get coupons.

Yesterday, I left coupons for Marcal products on her desk. She's a nice person but we share a cubicle wall and the sound of her voice makes me mildly homicidal. Every afternoon, she eats 10 baby carrots, which I know because everyone knows.

BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE -

By the fourth carrot, Lupe and I are emailing each other from ten feet apart.

Tata: Kill me.
Lupe: Got a carrot costume?

SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW.

Tata: Why haven't you killed me yet?
Lupe: Oh no. We survive this together.

BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW. BITE. SNAP. CHEW.

In the silence that follows, we mourn the little carrots that fell victim to the day's carnage. We know that if not for their sacrifice, untold suffering would visit our basement office. Or maybe she'd bring celery. In any case, yesterday, Joanne approached me, coupons in hand and a new plan in mind.

Joanne: Thanks for the coupons. Is this the only recycled brand?
Tata: No, there are quite a few now.
Joanne: Does Shop Rite carry them?
Tata: They should. If they don't, you could make a fuss. I do.
Joanne: Does Wegman's?
Tata: Wegman's certainly does.
Joanne: What about the prices? Are they so expensive nobody buys them so the stores don't carry them?
Tata: No, stores carry them. And if you buy them, the stores will carry more. It's too late for us to say this doesn't matter.
Joanne: Have you seen them in Shop Rite?
Tata: I don't have a Shop Rite, but they must carry them.
Joanne: Thanks for the coupons. I'll watch for the sales.
Tata: This for me is putting my money where my mouth is. If it's a couple of dollars more, then fine. I'll live with that. I'll try to keep you supplied with coupons, okay?
Joanne: Okay.

This conversation boggled my tiny little mind until I realized: she's a New Yorker, and not just any New Yorker. She's from Queens. She knows where her grown children are at every moment. She knows which doctors practice which specialties. And nobody is going to beat her for a dollar. So not only will I keep her in coupons, I will find out which stores she shops in and scope their merchandise. She will appreciate my ability to eviscerate a grocery bill for the Common Good.

Before we bought the composter, I was uncomfortably aware of how much compostable material was going out in garbage. Yesterday, I tossed 12.5 oz. onto the pile. Yes, I weighed that. I'm easily amused. Though it's winter, the temperature changes have been frequent and crazy; material inside the composter continues to degrade nicely. In addition to this, Pete set up a large square pen like this image except that it is small, round and I pinched it from answers.com. Our leaves are turning into mulch and they need lots of air to do so, giving us the opportunity to spend an hour playing with pitchforks. Our neighbors must enjoy this. I know that if I weren't me but saw me flinging piles of decaying crap with a pitchfork two-thirds my size, I'd microwave some Orville Redenbacher and summon the kids. "Children," I'd say, "some lessons must be learned through experience, but some - yes, a special few - can be learned by watching others make exciting mistakes. Please pass the popcorn."