I am tired of hearing about how extraordinary Sarah Palin is that she embraced her pregnant teen daughter and that she kept her child with down syndrome. Many thousands of Americans do that every day and don't get any extra credit. The beauty of CHOICE is that you should be able to make decisions that work for you and NOT have the government LEGISLATE how you make those intensely PERSONAL decisions. Neither Bristol or Sarah get extra credit for not having abortions because frankly that is what a VAST Majority of Americans do--they keep their babies. Of course the RABID ANTI-CHOICE people would want you to think that the rate of abortion is a crisis. That's just to help hype their propaganda and push their platform of government interference in private lives. It's funny how many of these same folks get riled up if the gov't wants to regulate their guns yet feel it's fine to tell a woman what to do with her body! GOD RELIGION AND SEX should be kept bedind closed doors.
Frankly what concerns me about SP's selection is the reality of WHO and WHY she was selected. I am sure McCain had little to do with it. I am sure the right wing, Christiano-fascist movement were the people who vetted her. The wall separating church and state is being dismantled. That is what should be agitating Americans, not some teenager who slept around with condoms. I wonder what the reaction would have been if instead of getting a bun in the oven Bristol picked up HIV?
Gnarled Beauty
©2007. all rights reserved
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Much Ado about Beijing Olympics
With the closing ceremonies over, Olympic blather is old news, especially with the DNC and RNC holding their political parties this week. But I just had a few things to say--and it's my blog so I can say it now.
1. It was clear from the outset when China was awarded these games that they were an authoritarian state with a bad human rights records with no regard for the rules of the west--except for the rule of money. Those games were awarded to China because of business interests and not as some incentive to clean up their act. And probably because they had the loot to throw pay for the party. (And what a party it was)!
Of course people should protest and advocate for a whatever it is they want to see in China, but if anyone expected these games to convert China, they were fooling themselves. Clearly their model of authoritarian capitalism works. THat "MADE IN CHINA" label is on pretty much EVERYTHING we all use/consume in the rest of the world. It doesn't seem likely that we are about to give up the stuff, so get over it.
2. It seemed to me that the US (especially its media) and much of the world were really hoping China would screw up something in the run up to the games and during they games. The opening and closing were boffo. The venues fabulous. And the deadly Smog? What smog? Hah! So much for the dire predictions of the delicate Westerners dropping down dead from too much particulate matter. Oh yes there is the matter of He Kexin the little gymnast who kicked butt. Sure she might be 14 but the Chinese government says she ain't and they control the agencies that can make her 14 or 54. So there! They ran away with the gold booty and their volunteers even learned English. That's a big nice raspberry to the west.
3. Back to He Kexin for a moment, and yes that little lip-synching girl (how could I have forgotten? The way that the Chinese government handles things is basically to say: "Whatcha gonna do? We do what we do cause we run things." And they do! That's how they roll! Gotta admit they have the balls. And again they got the money!
4. The US is a sore loser. They want to hog all the gold and glory and they don't like to share the spotlight. And that is why I had to suffer through every damn beach volleyball tournament but not get to see the three Jamaican sprinters take their places on the stand in a historic moment.
5. Olympics are a like a big expensive wedding! Lots of set up and clean up. Only the bride and groom really care! At the end of the day, people show up, eat the food, have a bit of fun and then they forget to send you an anniversary card (not that they should). The gold medal athletes are the bride and groom and everybody else is an usher a page or a waiter. You have a few nice pictures and then...Party Over!
1. It was clear from the outset when China was awarded these games that they were an authoritarian state with a bad human rights records with no regard for the rules of the west--except for the rule of money. Those games were awarded to China because of business interests and not as some incentive to clean up their act. And probably because they had the loot to throw pay for the party. (And what a party it was)!
Of course people should protest and advocate for a whatever it is they want to see in China, but if anyone expected these games to convert China, they were fooling themselves. Clearly their model of authoritarian capitalism works. THat "MADE IN CHINA" label is on pretty much EVERYTHING we all use/consume in the rest of the world. It doesn't seem likely that we are about to give up the stuff, so get over it.
2. It seemed to me that the US (especially its media) and much of the world were really hoping China would screw up something in the run up to the games and during they games. The opening and closing were boffo. The venues fabulous. And the deadly Smog? What smog? Hah! So much for the dire predictions of the delicate Westerners dropping down dead from too much particulate matter. Oh yes there is the matter of He Kexin the little gymnast who kicked butt. Sure she might be 14 but the Chinese government says she ain't and they control the agencies that can make her 14 or 54. So there! They ran away with the gold booty and their volunteers even learned English. That's a big nice raspberry to the west.
3. Back to He Kexin for a moment, and yes that little lip-synching girl (how could I have forgotten? The way that the Chinese government handles things is basically to say: "Whatcha gonna do? We do what we do cause we run things." And they do! That's how they roll! Gotta admit they have the balls. And again they got the money!
4. The US is a sore loser. They want to hog all the gold and glory and they don't like to share the spotlight. And that is why I had to suffer through every damn beach volleyball tournament but not get to see the three Jamaican sprinters take their places on the stand in a historic moment.
5. Olympics are a like a big expensive wedding! Lots of set up and clean up. Only the bride and groom really care! At the end of the day, people show up, eat the food, have a bit of fun and then they forget to send you an anniversary card (not that they should). The gold medal athletes are the bride and groom and everybody else is an usher a page or a waiter. You have a few nice pictures and then...Party Over!
Monday, June 30, 2008
"Trending Toward an Increase"
I recently read an article, the subject of which escapes me now, but what struck me was that silly phrase, "trending toward and increase." I know we like to turn nouns into verbs and make up words, but "trending towards an increase" is just plain stupid. Really. Trending is not a word. Sure, it's already wormed it's way into the vernacular and will probably join "ginormous" in the dictionary. It's not that I am against the growth of language, but the folly is definitely "trending toward an increase."
I think what it boils down to is people trying to sound more intelligent and scholarly than they obviously are! It would do them well to remember that the first rule of writing is to keep it clear, concise and accessible to your readers. Enough said!
I think what it boils down to is people trying to sound more intelligent and scholarly than they obviously are! It would do them well to remember that the first rule of writing is to keep it clear, concise and accessible to your readers. Enough said!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Tug of Faith
Twice this week I have been to a church service. First was the baptism of a friend's daughter at a Catholic Church. Today was a memorial service for a woman who died 17 years ago.
Especially at the baptism, I found myself being caught up in the comfort of ritual. Having been raised, essentially, as Catholic, the muscle memory was strong. I was drawn by the power of faith and belief of "things unseen." The awe, wonder and beauty of our lives as humans does sometime move me to believe in something more powerful than randomness of the collision of atoms and energy that is our existence, and who can deny the sheer beauty and awesome grace of that very randomness!
I sit in the church, and listen as the priest talks to my friend and her husband of raising their child in faith. I wonder if they have their fingers crossed behind their backs, as they are as secular as anyone I know. I wonder if they are moved as I by the idea of being held in God's hands? Certainly the existence of their child, whose conception and gestation relied upon science in great part, must also reveal a certain amoung of Grace! To whom do they direct their gratitude for the blessing that is this child?
Is it easier to believe or not? I am a secular skeptic, a lapsed believer, but in moments when that memory of ritual and faith surge forward, in the quiet of prayer, I ponder the loss. Why does my heart fill so when I just enter a church? Why do the Psalms soothe me? What is it about the illogic of religion that still holds sway in some part of my heart? What is this tug of faith I feel! And why is it that I resist so?
Especially at the baptism, I found myself being caught up in the comfort of ritual. Having been raised, essentially, as Catholic, the muscle memory was strong. I was drawn by the power of faith and belief of "things unseen." The awe, wonder and beauty of our lives as humans does sometime move me to believe in something more powerful than randomness of the collision of atoms and energy that is our existence, and who can deny the sheer beauty and awesome grace of that very randomness!
I sit in the church, and listen as the priest talks to my friend and her husband of raising their child in faith. I wonder if they have their fingers crossed behind their backs, as they are as secular as anyone I know. I wonder if they are moved as I by the idea of being held in God's hands? Certainly the existence of their child, whose conception and gestation relied upon science in great part, must also reveal a certain amoung of Grace! To whom do they direct their gratitude for the blessing that is this child?
Is it easier to believe or not? I am a secular skeptic, a lapsed believer, but in moments when that memory of ritual and faith surge forward, in the quiet of prayer, I ponder the loss. Why does my heart fill so when I just enter a church? Why do the Psalms soothe me? What is it about the illogic of religion that still holds sway in some part of my heart? What is this tug of faith I feel! And why is it that I resist so?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Resetting Woojnick's Brain
It's been a bittersweet trip down memory lane these past few days since Woojnick has left us. We had a funny episode some years ago when she developed some allergies that caused her to scratch at her neck ceaselessly. Nearly weekly cortisone shots did nothing, save thin my wallet. One day I ran into this nice but wacky lady in the vitamin aisle at the supermarket. (Wacky because she and her cat were on the same supplements). She recommended a holistic vet on the westside of town. What the heck, I thought. My poor Wooj had virtually dug a hole in her neck.
The doctor seemed nice, rational and normal. He examined the cat and he took the stool sample I was required to deliver(the cat's not mine). He told me that I should get her off the "fancy feast" and go with some organic cat food. Easy. Doable. Done. Not so fast. Then came part two of the exam. He said he had a special way to test for specific allergies. I thought, "Oh no, poor Wooj is going to get stuck with needles." I cringed in painful anticipation. Well, turns out that it wasn't a needle stick that had me cringeing. He brought in his assistant to, well, "assist." She was, he explained, the surrogate. First she grabbed the cat by the scruff with her left hand and then extended her right arm out perpendicular to her body. The good Doctor then brought out a case containing several neat and impressive looking rows of small glass vials, each filled with water. It's not ordinary water, he explained with all seriousness. Each vial had been infused with the frequencies of common allergens, beef, chicken, rice, cheap cat food, etc. And so the "test" began. One by one, he passed the vials under the nose of an unaturally docile and compliant Woojnick. With each pass, the doctor pressed down on the extended arm of the assistant. Sometimes her arm would remain stiff, resistant to the pressure and other times it was fall to her side, only to spring back up. Boinggggg! You see, the assistant was chanelling the energy of the cat's reaction to each allergen through her arm. Stiff arm good. Loose arm bad!
This went on for several minutes. I watched in circus side-show amazement and awe, wondering if I'd somehow "made a left turn at Albuquerque"* and ended up in at a Ringling Bros. show. And why I wondered, was Barnum's quote that "there's a sucker born every minute" spinning in my head? The answer was not long in coming.
The last thing the good, kind Doctor did was (insert pause for dramatic effect here) RESET my cat's brain to deter future allergies. How did he do this most amazing feat you ask? With his special brain resetting instrument of course! He simply reached into his pocket protector and grabbed a (insert yet another pause for dramatic effect here)very special ballpoint pen--the kind with the clickable button at the top. He put the clicky part at the base of Woojnick's head and pressed it several times. Click, click, click, click! There you go! All done. Brain reset. No more allergies.
I didn't know what to say or do. I'd just witnessed and paid for the most ridiculous bit of quackery imagineable. Should I tell him? Instead, I smiled that nice polite kind of smile you smile when you are slowly backing away from a crazy person. I took my compliant cat and figuratively backed out of the room into my car and sped away from there like I was being chased by hound dogs of hell! What the hell!?!? just happenend I thought. Did I just pay $200 for a side-show? I had and now I was mad. The next day I did my usual boomerang. I called the vet and asked for my money back. I told him that it was cool that he'd checked on my cat and tested the stool but the arm-flapping-nose-vial-water-energy-pen-clicking-brain reset thing was beyond my realm of acceptable possibilities--even in my desperation to cure my beloved Woojnick.
I was surprised when he gave me most of the money back, but he did it with that kind of "you have not evolved enough yet to understand this scientific approach" attitude. Perhaps not, and indeed the food recommendation worked wonders for the cat and her neck stopped giving her grief. But I will tell you one thing: that brain reset did not work. Woojnick might have been docile in that office because she was terrified of Dr. Vet man, but once she was home, I knew her little brain was just as it had been before that adventure--nothing like biting the hand that feeds you new and more expensive organic cat food. Maybe the vet hadn't used the right kind pen for the job!
*can you guess the ABQ reference?
The doctor seemed nice, rational and normal. He examined the cat and he took the stool sample I was required to deliver(the cat's not mine). He told me that I should get her off the "fancy feast" and go with some organic cat food. Easy. Doable. Done. Not so fast. Then came part two of the exam. He said he had a special way to test for specific allergies. I thought, "Oh no, poor Wooj is going to get stuck with needles." I cringed in painful anticipation. Well, turns out that it wasn't a needle stick that had me cringeing. He brought in his assistant to, well, "assist." She was, he explained, the surrogate. First she grabbed the cat by the scruff with her left hand and then extended her right arm out perpendicular to her body. The good Doctor then brought out a case containing several neat and impressive looking rows of small glass vials, each filled with water. It's not ordinary water, he explained with all seriousness. Each vial had been infused with the frequencies of common allergens, beef, chicken, rice, cheap cat food, etc. And so the "test" began. One by one, he passed the vials under the nose of an unaturally docile and compliant Woojnick. With each pass, the doctor pressed down on the extended arm of the assistant. Sometimes her arm would remain stiff, resistant to the pressure and other times it was fall to her side, only to spring back up. Boinggggg! You see, the assistant was chanelling the energy of the cat's reaction to each allergen through her arm. Stiff arm good. Loose arm bad!
This went on for several minutes. I watched in circus side-show amazement and awe, wondering if I'd somehow "made a left turn at Albuquerque"* and ended up in at a Ringling Bros. show. And why I wondered, was Barnum's quote that "there's a sucker born every minute" spinning in my head? The answer was not long in coming.
The last thing the good, kind Doctor did was (insert pause for dramatic effect here) RESET my cat's brain to deter future allergies. How did he do this most amazing feat you ask? With his special brain resetting instrument of course! He simply reached into his pocket protector and grabbed a (insert yet another pause for dramatic effect here)very special ballpoint pen--the kind with the clickable button at the top. He put the clicky part at the base of Woojnick's head and pressed it several times. Click, click, click, click! There you go! All done. Brain reset. No more allergies.
I didn't know what to say or do. I'd just witnessed and paid for the most ridiculous bit of quackery imagineable. Should I tell him? Instead, I smiled that nice polite kind of smile you smile when you are slowly backing away from a crazy person. I took my compliant cat and figuratively backed out of the room into my car and sped away from there like I was being chased by hound dogs of hell! What the hell!?!? just happenend I thought. Did I just pay $200 for a side-show? I had and now I was mad. The next day I did my usual boomerang. I called the vet and asked for my money back. I told him that it was cool that he'd checked on my cat and tested the stool but the arm-flapping-nose-vial-water-energy-pen-clicking-brain reset thing was beyond my realm of acceptable possibilities--even in my desperation to cure my beloved Woojnick.
I was surprised when he gave me most of the money back, but he did it with that kind of "you have not evolved enough yet to understand this scientific approach" attitude. Perhaps not, and indeed the food recommendation worked wonders for the cat and her neck stopped giving her grief. But I will tell you one thing: that brain reset did not work. Woojnick might have been docile in that office because she was terrified of Dr. Vet man, but once she was home, I knew her little brain was just as it had been before that adventure--nothing like biting the hand that feeds you new and more expensive organic cat food. Maybe the vet hadn't used the right kind pen for the job!
*can you guess the ABQ reference?
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Girl aka Squidgy Woojnick 1991-2008
My sisters and I had to say goodbye to a dear, dear being today! For nearly 17 years, our beloved curmudgeonly, furry, wiggly, bushytailed and bi-polar cat filled our lives with joy. She was born in Totowa NJ in the spring of 1991 and quickly became a member of our family. She ended up having three sister-kitty-mommies and even more names.
Girl lived with my two older sisters, D & G who shared spoiling duties in her early years. Nine years later, she was fostered out to me in California. We had four wonderful years together, during which time I re-christened her, Woojnick.
Prior to living with me, she'd cycled through a couple names. First Dusty, the name used when the vet snipped her bits. Given her grey-orangey color she was a mobile dustball. Winona was a short lived experiment. At one point we thought he was a rare male ginger cat worth millions but then found out that she was just Girl. That name seemed to stick, until she came to CA and did the typical Hollywood thing and took on a starlet name.
It was an accidental christening. For nearly 2 weeks after she first moved out, she virtually lived under my bed. She only came out to pee and poop--strange, now that I think about it. When she finally got used to living with me, she started crawling into my bed. One morning as I rubbed her furry neck and made silly nonsense sounds, suddenly out popped the sounds wooj-wooj-wooj. I heard my self say: "You are such a squidgy woojnick." And thus she was renamed.
Of course she didn't answer to Woojnick any more than she did to Girl, but it provided me with years of delight making up variations and songs and silly rhymes to go along with her name. Here's the not so short list: Woojy Squidnick, Mama-woojnick, Mamajna, Squidge, Naaack! Nickel bag of funk. I paricularly liked Squidgle D. Bots. She packed on a bit of junk in her trunk during her stay in LA and she'd run to me with her little botty jiggling from side to side. It just seemed like a natural name and so fun to say.
Life with Wooj was full of adventure and mishap. By the time I got her, she was already grumpy, rather cranky and set in her ways. She had this way of loving you one minute and then sinking her claws into you the next. She attacked people at random. I had to warn my guests and cat sitters to be very careful. Once when my brother-in- law visited, he had the misfortune of having to go the bathroom. Woojnick attacked like a demon in the night and poor bro ended up in the ER with a nasty infection. To this day he hasn't forgotten or forgiven. My friend B., on the other hand, was very generous and forgiving when Woojnick mistook her 5 year-old daughter's leg for a chicken bone. It was a sue-worthy attack but she reassured me today that the cat was only doing what cats do. "She's descended from Tigers."
That tiger wasn't afraid to bite the hand or foot that fed her. When she'd had enough of cuddling and head rubbing, she'd turn without warning and take a chunk out of my hand. Sometimes in the middle of the night as she slept curled up on my feet, she'd suddenly get a taste for human flesh. I have the scars to prove it.
Once when I took a vacation D., a college friend, house & cat sat for me. I hadn't even made it through security when I got a call from D. I heard a most miserable caterwauling in the background. I thought the cat was dying. Turned out it was only 6ft tall 200lb D. being cornered by my 12lb fur ball protecting her turf. He was in for a week from hell. Using the laundry basket lid for a shield, and armed with a squirt bottle, the poor man had to sleep on the couch for days. It was hard to get people to feed her when I had to travel, but I have many brave and stalwart friends who risked life and limb to feed her.
My older sister D. pampered Woojnick, unbelievably. She made sure she got the best grooming and care ever. Woojnick was so attuned attuned to her comings and goings. Girl waited by the door because she knew D. would scoop her up and toss her up in the air as soon as D. entered. It was D's shoulder on which she loved to perch, and whose neck she draped herself around, like a stole.
Eventually Woojnick moved back to Florida and once again became Girl. She spent the last five years of her life in tropical splendor. She had a wonderful life. She had her own bed and special toys. She liked to be hand fed water from the bathroom sink. She loved watching people take showers and do their bathroom business. She had her own water fountain which she liked to sit next to and stick her head in the flow. A chiken bone tied to a string drove her into mad paroxysms of joy. She loved tuna fish and dried bonito and especially dried salted cod. Oh yes, she also LOVED ice-cream.
Two days ago, my sister, G. took Girl/Woojnick to the beach to help ease the transition. Today before the last trip to the vet, Woojnick got her very own ice-cream cone--vanilla. G. said Woojnick-Girl licked it with enthusiasm she hadn't been able to muster for weeks.
I am sad to see Woojnick go but grateful for the joy and laughter and everything in between. Mostly I am grateful to her because many years ago when she was just a baby, she saved G.'s life. G had fallen asleep and forgotten that she'd left a pot on the stove. Neighbors had already alerted the fire-department but in the meantime, it was Dusty-Winona-Girl-Woojnick- who nudged G awake. When the firefighters came, they so scared Wooj that she tried to attack them. That's OUR Woojnick!
As I write this I am travelling for work so I don't have any pictures of her to put up today. I will update the post in a few days with some of my favourite Woojnick pix!
MOURNING FOR WOOJNICK
Nine nights may be the Jamaican version of sitting Shiva. When a person dies, we celebrate their lives for nine nights before we bury them. Woojnick wasn't a human person but she was full of life and spirit and personality. When I was little my mom told me that cats don't go to heaven because they don't have souls. I beg to differ. So tonight and for the next nine nights, I celebrate you Woojnick Girl cat.
Girl lived with my two older sisters, D & G who shared spoiling duties in her early years. Nine years later, she was fostered out to me in California. We had four wonderful years together, during which time I re-christened her, Woojnick.
Prior to living with me, she'd cycled through a couple names. First Dusty, the name used when the vet snipped her bits. Given her grey-orangey color she was a mobile dustball. Winona was a short lived experiment. At one point we thought he was a rare male ginger cat worth millions but then found out that she was just Girl. That name seemed to stick, until she came to CA and did the typical Hollywood thing and took on a starlet name.
It was an accidental christening. For nearly 2 weeks after she first moved out, she virtually lived under my bed. She only came out to pee and poop--strange, now that I think about it. When she finally got used to living with me, she started crawling into my bed. One morning as I rubbed her furry neck and made silly nonsense sounds, suddenly out popped the sounds wooj-wooj-wooj. I heard my self say: "You are such a squidgy woojnick." And thus she was renamed.
Of course she didn't answer to Woojnick any more than she did to Girl, but it provided me with years of delight making up variations and songs and silly rhymes to go along with her name. Here's the not so short list: Woojy Squidnick, Mama-woojnick, Mamajna, Squidge, Naaack! Nickel bag of funk. I paricularly liked Squidgle D. Bots. She packed on a bit of junk in her trunk during her stay in LA and she'd run to me with her little botty jiggling from side to side. It just seemed like a natural name and so fun to say.
Life with Wooj was full of adventure and mishap. By the time I got her, she was already grumpy, rather cranky and set in her ways. She had this way of loving you one minute and then sinking her claws into you the next. She attacked people at random. I had to warn my guests and cat sitters to be very careful. Once when my brother-in- law visited, he had the misfortune of having to go the bathroom. Woojnick attacked like a demon in the night and poor bro ended up in the ER with a nasty infection. To this day he hasn't forgotten or forgiven. My friend B., on the other hand, was very generous and forgiving when Woojnick mistook her 5 year-old daughter's leg for a chicken bone. It was a sue-worthy attack but she reassured me today that the cat was only doing what cats do. "She's descended from Tigers."
That tiger wasn't afraid to bite the hand or foot that fed her. When she'd had enough of cuddling and head rubbing, she'd turn without warning and take a chunk out of my hand. Sometimes in the middle of the night as she slept curled up on my feet, she'd suddenly get a taste for human flesh. I have the scars to prove it.
Once when I took a vacation D., a college friend, house & cat sat for me. I hadn't even made it through security when I got a call from D. I heard a most miserable caterwauling in the background. I thought the cat was dying. Turned out it was only 6ft tall 200lb D. being cornered by my 12lb fur ball protecting her turf. He was in for a week from hell. Using the laundry basket lid for a shield, and armed with a squirt bottle, the poor man had to sleep on the couch for days. It was hard to get people to feed her when I had to travel, but I have many brave and stalwart friends who risked life and limb to feed her.
My older sister D. pampered Woojnick, unbelievably. She made sure she got the best grooming and care ever. Woojnick was so attuned attuned to her comings and goings. Girl waited by the door because she knew D. would scoop her up and toss her up in the air as soon as D. entered. It was D's shoulder on which she loved to perch, and whose neck she draped herself around, like a stole.
Eventually Woojnick moved back to Florida and once again became Girl. She spent the last five years of her life in tropical splendor. She had a wonderful life. She had her own bed and special toys. She liked to be hand fed water from the bathroom sink. She loved watching people take showers and do their bathroom business. She had her own water fountain which she liked to sit next to and stick her head in the flow. A chiken bone tied to a string drove her into mad paroxysms of joy. She loved tuna fish and dried bonito and especially dried salted cod. Oh yes, she also LOVED ice-cream.
Two days ago, my sister, G. took Girl/Woojnick to the beach to help ease the transition. Today before the last trip to the vet, Woojnick got her very own ice-cream cone--vanilla. G. said Woojnick-Girl licked it with enthusiasm she hadn't been able to muster for weeks.
I am sad to see Woojnick go but grateful for the joy and laughter and everything in between. Mostly I am grateful to her because many years ago when she was just a baby, she saved G.'s life. G had fallen asleep and forgotten that she'd left a pot on the stove. Neighbors had already alerted the fire-department but in the meantime, it was Dusty-Winona-Girl-Woojnick- who nudged G awake. When the firefighters came, they so scared Wooj that she tried to attack them. That's OUR Woojnick!
As I write this I am travelling for work so I don't have any pictures of her to put up today. I will update the post in a few days with some of my favourite Woojnick pix!
MOURNING FOR WOOJNICK
Nine nights may be the Jamaican version of sitting Shiva. When a person dies, we celebrate their lives for nine nights before we bury them. Woojnick wasn't a human person but she was full of life and spirit and personality. When I was little my mom told me that cats don't go to heaven because they don't have souls. I beg to differ. So tonight and for the next nine nights, I celebrate you Woojnick Girl cat.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Peek-a-Boo Pissing
Do the people who design public restroom stalls ever use them? I am guessing that they don't because how could they allow such ridiculouly large gaps between the doors and the support posts of the stalls? There is nothing more disconcerting than being in a stall and being able to see out like it was some kind of "look-out" point. And if I can look out, folks can look in. This is troubling for women's bathrooms because usually there is a long line of women waiting. I know that when I am on the outside I can see in--even if it is a slivered view. I don't want anyone to see a sliver of my ass squatting!
One of the most egregious toilet stalls I have come across yet is one Terminal 1 of the Los Angeles International airport. It's the handicap stall immediately to the left as you enter. I like using the handicap stall because naturally when I am at the airport I have luggage and I hate squeezing myself and my bags into a tiny stall while trying to avoid rubbing up against the dirty toilet. But the trade-off is that I end up basically pissing in public because the distance between the edge of the door to the jamb is at least an inch. Is this a toilet or the Delaware Water Gap? Sometimes I have a bag that I can use to block the free peep show!
One of the most egregious toilet stalls I have come across yet is one Terminal 1 of the Los Angeles International airport. It's the handicap stall immediately to the left as you enter. I like using the handicap stall because naturally when I am at the airport I have luggage and I hate squeezing myself and my bags into a tiny stall while trying to avoid rubbing up against the dirty toilet. But the trade-off is that I end up basically pissing in public because the distance between the edge of the door to the jamb is at least an inch. Is this a toilet or the Delaware Water Gap? Sometimes I have a bag that I can use to block the free peep show!
(These pictures are not from the LAX toilet)
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