I've been served

The knock came at the door one summer afternoon, not long after I had moved into the new house. I wasn't expecting anyone. Normally I don't answer my door when people ring or knock because I don't have a peephole in my door, and unless I am expecting a delivery or a guest, I don't expect unexpected visitors. In my last rented home, the landlord complied with my request for a peephole.  She thought I was a bit paranoid but she acquiesced. My newest  landlords balked because they feared that the peephole would damage their custom doors--the same customs doors that were dry rotting and splitting from exposure to the hot AZ elements, but since I don't own the house to which that crappy door is attached, and I was exhausted from moving in the midst of being pregnant, on bed rest and raising a 2 year old, I didn't push the matter.

As an aside, the lack of a peephole leads me to surmise that people like the illusion of safety because of their location. The lovely home is in a reasonably well to do neighborhood that has frequent security patrols.  It's the kind of neighborhood where you don't really see a lot of foot traffic. People are mildly friendly but not terribly neighborly.  It's the kind of place where you could reasonably be dead in your house for weeks or months until somebody complains about "an unusual odor", but God forbid, you  leave your trash at the curb for one day too long, you might get warrant a visit from an officer of the Home Owners Association (HOA).


It's not that I am expecting Jack the Ripper but I am naturally a bit skittish to open the door--chalk it up to my years living in the big city, in not yet gentrified areas. On a recent visit, my very cautions mother had commented on two major security flaws that she felt made us less than safe in our new home.  First was the lack of windows allowing views on the front entrance. Second and most egregious were the two large block columns flanking the front door. Instead of architectural interests, in her eyes they created dangerous hiding places for some dastardly ne'er do well with nefarious intentions. She saw it vividly. An unexpected knock. Her daughter opens the door to no one.  Just before she can retreat to the safety of the house--Bam! A ne'er do well gets a drop on her.  It gave me pause. Suburban neighborhoods, to the person with the right kind of thinking would be prime grounds for ambushing the unsuspecting, lulled and complacent resident. Well, I had no intention of going down like that!

 Again the knock. I debated for a split second. The only other time I answered the door without seeing who was there, it was a young woman selling magazine subscriptions with an unusual, for this neck of the woods, "song and dance" about the life changing opportunities that my purchase would mean. More unusual and very disturbing was her tale of how one of my neighbors up the street had called the police and chased her off with a racial epithet. Like me, she is Black.  I believed her because on my way home, not long before she came knocking, I recalled having seen a Sheriff's car up the road. I knew that the HOA also doesn't permit soliciting in the neighborhood. (Years later I would be struck by the fact that of all the other solicitors who ignored the sign at the entry to our ungated HOA community, none but the Black girl would get the cops called on her. Funny that!)

Since I had visiting relatives in the house, I decided there was no harm in answering. But oh how wrong I was!  The man showed me a badge and said he's with the Superior Court. And he was looking for me! It's at this point I have to admit gullibility because I didn't inspect the badge--nor could I have without the necessary peephole accessory--the mail slot!
Worse than a fake officer of the Superior Court was this very real officer with a summons for ME! In that instant, my predicament couldn't have been greater than if a nefarious ne'er do well had gotten the drop on me--I was face to face with a process server.  Damn!  The stupid ticket!  The one that had come in the  mail a few months before. The one I had ignored.  The one that showed me, in a series of photographs and an online video, allegedly of course, running a red light!

It had all happened on the way to a 4 week check up with my newborn. Naturally I was under-slept, tired and late.  Admittedly I was driving with a bit of a speedy edge--nothing outlandish, but I wasn't driving Miss Daisy either.  I approached the last intersection and saw that the light was amber and decided to take the turn instead of stopping. It was a decision I had taken on many other occasions where I gauged speed and braking time and safety. On this day, I decided to proceed because the timing of my appointment was a factor.  I would never knowingly take a reckless driving risk with my child in the car!  Alas that intersection was one of the few in town with a red light camera as I would be reminded of when I received the ticket.

I must note here that I am an ardent fan of red light cameras because I hate red light runners. They kill people!  So imagine my horror, disgust, outrage and denial that I could have been one of "those" people. Upon receipt of the ticket, with great umbrage, I had called the city to question the validity of the ticket--the absurdity of the allegations.

I didn't.
I wouldn't have.
I couldn't have.
I was convinced of my rightness.
What for me had been a judgment call of timing, was for the camera, a split-second transgression across the point of prolongation!
What the hell?
Get ready to be "schooled!"
The edge of the curb just before you enter the intersection is the "point of prolongation!" 
You have already run the red light the minute you cross it. It's what the camera sees--not what you perceive!
Naturally it's not at all the point where the average human would think "Hey I am running a red light!"--that point in the actual middle of the intersection.
No!
It's that seemingly benign point at which you normally see people have placed their Yard SALE signs attached to a cardboard box, the point with the pole bearing that badly hand lettered signs offering to buy your home for cash! It's that hair's breadth point at which the camera, uncaring of your perception of an amber light, your logic and timing and split-second calculations of risk is triggered, capturing that image of you, comical (only in retrospect)--intent and oblivious with your mouth hanging open, trying to get that child to the pediatrician!

So with great disdain and righteousness I ignored the ticket--for months. Friends and the Internet had confidently advised that, absent an in-person summons, the camera-issued ticket was as good as dead! The city wouldn't spend good resources on serving summons for camera issued tickets, would they? Well, you know what they say? "That and a dollar...!"

So there I was in the doorway holding on the slowly disintegrating custom door without a blasted peephole, face to face with a process server.  Damn! Someone had gotten the drop on me. Face to face with a split-second judgment call. Was I the woman he was seeking?  Suddenly, no! She, the alleged fugitive, cavalier runner of red lights, was not at home. Come back later. I was galled by his presence. Surely I would be able to delay and avoid and outsmart if I refused to acknowledge or accept on  that "not me" woman's behalf? Victory seemed certain until I saw him reach down toward his feet to slip the summons under the door mat! A warm body and an opened door would do! And like the heretofore unknown line of prolongation, I had been schooled, caught slack jawed and oblivious.  And just like that, I was served, by proxy, by a dirty doormat! 

Originally written in 2011

Racial Muzzle

It tells you everything about RACE in America that the Black President can't even talk about race, racism, racial injustice in the way it NEEDS to be talked about at every level by EVERYBODY in these United States. (And by RACE I mean the deeply entrenched and historical and contemporary divide between BLACK and WHITE! Yes folks, we got to go way back to that place people want to forget--slavery and the lingering stench of its aftermath. And I don't care if your people came over on later boats through Ellis Island!)

 Like Trayvon Martin before him, Mike Brown too could have looked like Obama's son! If President Obama had a son would he/could he speak differently? At times when he needs to speak, it's not unusual to hear pundits reiterate that President Obama is not a President for Black America only, as if by commenting on elephant in the room of American existence, he is violating his oath of office. When has he ever shown that he is not a President for all who live here? I dare say, by not talking about race consistently and meaningfully throughout his presidency, he has not fully been the president of all Americans. Black folks are still catching hell as they have under all prior 43 administrations. President Kennedy and Johnson after him took courageous steps in the area of civil rights, so I have to wonder where, style notwithstanding, is the substance of President Obama on this matter? In these turbulent times, if not him, then who? If not now, then when? Who will be the next most powerful person in the whole wide world who is going to have the power to call this for what it is? Who else but a Black man can talk about what life is like for Black men, profiled, pursued, penned in, and pent up? Who but he can say, "This crap must stop?"

GAZA: No Peace. No Justice

Justice First:  On the “Situation” in Gaza

What do we mean when we say there can be no peace without justice? It means that peace cannot grow in injustice. Peace cannot grow under occupation.  Occupation is injustice.  So let us just do away with the fig leaf of the "peace process." What kind of peace process requires that people come to the negotiating table, as supplicants, like dogs with their tails between their legs?  How can the USA be an honest and just broker for peace when their every utterance begins with “We firmly believe in the right of Israel to defend itself!”?  How can peace or justice prevail in a process where the scales are weighted in favour of one side? 

 It is impossible. We can’t even talk about the “situation” in Gaza, the West Bank and the Occupied Territories, in honest language.  The parameters of the conversations are circumscribed by narrow social conventions and fear of being seen as anti-Semitic.  We have actively closed off many valid critiques of Israel because of the threat of that dreaded accusation.  We silence ourselves in the face of the injustice and dehumanization we can plainly see that the Palestinians suffer daily and have for many years.  Even Jewish people around the world and citizens of Israel whose conscience rage against these injustices are silenced. Notwithstanding the corruption of their political representatives, and perhaps incompetence of leadership, the plight of Palestinian people, vis-a- vis Israel is unjust!  

So I will not preface my long held feeling that the Palestinian people have long borne the freight of an injustice not committed by them. And in the current geo-political climate the odds will never be in their favour. We have limited the space where we can talk honestly and constructively about what is happening, and why. I will not preface my feelings that the Palestinian people have a right to struggle against this injustice and oppression and subjugation and dehumanization.  They have a right to resist the capriciousness of occupying forces. They have a right to struggle against despair and annihilation. To deny the validity of their struggle is to rub salt in their wounds.

Understandably, Palestinians have used violence in their resistance struggle and in the process they have killed innocents on both sides. But the collective punishment meted out by the Goliath that is the Israeli military against what can be argued are at times feeble, wrong-headed and self-defeating tactics of a long-oppressed and out gunned people, is overkill. Particularly in a space the size of Gaza, I imagine it is like shooting fish in a bowl.  How can bombing schools and hospitals and razing blocks and decimating the foundations of Gaza be a reasonable response?

I recently heard a journalist commenting on a radio program that at the heart of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict was that two people wanted to live on the same dot on the map!  I nearly drove off the road over at this wrong-headed simplistic drivel.  The continued displacement of the Palestinians due to occupation and continuing encroachment upon and resettlement of their lands is not the same as two people wanting to be on the same dot of land.  It is this and other similar glib “assessments” that obfuscate the roots of this intractable conflict.

 In the West we know well of the Holocaust in Europe that killed millions of people, including 6 million Jews.  It is right that we “never forget!” However in the aftermath of WW2 came the “Nakba” for the Palestinian people when the modern state of Israel was conceived.  We can’t ask them to forget and accept what happened to them when European powers reshaped their lives and futures at meeting and conventions at which they were not present.  Imagine the bitter pills Palestinians swallow whenever they see Jewish people from around the world finding refuge in lands from which they have been exiled, with no right of return. Imagine the “insult to injury” of not being able to speak or be heard on that righteous grievance. As we should make those who deny the Holocaust be forced to face the truth of that horror and its root causes, we ought to at least grant the Palestinians the decency of a real and unvarnished examination of their suffering, its origins and the hard choices that will have to be made to bring about a resolution. However in the “give and take” of negotiations, one side can’t be expected to do all the giving! Absent that, the seeds of peace will continue to fall on and wither in the rocky grounds of injustice.  There can be no hope for reconciliation in the face of the world’s amnesia or ignorance to how and why the Palestinian people are as dust. 7/28/14

Better Late Than Early

I finally made birth announcements for my 4 year old and my 2 year old. Why so late? Because they were both born early and I was busy doing other stuff like trying to keep them alive and healthy. And not to mention keeping myself sane.

There's a lot of stuff people do when they have babies, cute, twee stuff that I can never get the hang of, like professional pictures, or those monthly "watch me grow" photos.

And frankly, if I had done it back then, I'd have gotten a batch of cards and probably wouldn't have sent them out till now.  So I think this works out just fine.  And when people do get them, imagine their surprise. I guess I could blame the USPS but why kick a guy when he's down!

I am proud of the cards I made on Shutterfly.com.  And the thing about making the cards so long after the boys have been running amok on this planet, is that it looks as if I made such effort between the first and the second child to make sure the cards were coordinated.  Haha! And I can I take credit for something I didn't do!  And even if they end up in folks' recycling, I will cherish these cards. And I hope the boys will add them to their scrap book!

Stationery Card

View the entire collection of cards.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/15/fashion/with-kumon-fast-tracking-to-kindergarten.html

Odd things I've been tempted to collect.

Dryer lint.
cardboard tubes (leftover from foil or tissue paper or wax paper rolls),
plastic bread bag tabs.
empty baby food jars.
odd bits of plastic packaging materials of interesting shapes.
string.
plastic pouches that stuff come in.
Not until you end up with hundreds of things does it seem strange to have been collecting the at all.

The Shackle Shuffle

You've seen them! The young men walking around with their pants down to their knees and their drawers showing.  It's a style that comes to us courtesy of the prison-yard culture where belts are not allowed (well at least that's what I've heard) and so the pants hang low, low, low. 

It's disgusting on so many levels. It's a physical manifestation of the lowering of standards in this youth culture of ours. Imagine, young people aspiring to look like people in prison.  As Chris Rock once said: "You're not supposed to go to jail."  It's not a badge of honor!  But you can't tell young folks that these days.  So now they shuffle around holding up their pants with one hand because it's just so "stylish."  You're supposed to wear a belt.  Every time I see some kid with his pants down so low that he can hardly ambulate it calls to mind those old-time convict chain gangs. I've called the new style of walking "the shackle shuffle."  It's good practice for when they end up in prison.  Prison giveth and prison taketh!

Well, Excuuuuuse Me!

Hold on while I turn on the eyes in the back of my head*. I know you are standing there behind me, in the supermarket aisle or the airplane aisle. I can sense you next to me at the counter, or in the store trying to get to something, but I am blocking you.
You stand there and stand there! I can sense your ire rising, or your frustration. You say nothing. You run a bunch of scenarios in your head starring me as an inconsiderate bozo!

Well guess what? You need to use your words, you know, those three simple words that make the world go around! PLEASE EXCUSE ME, or alternately, EXCUSE ME PLEASE. When you do, I will gladly give you pass! It will not upset me that you need to get by and have politely asked me to move. It is what I expect you to do.

Instead what I have been noticing more and more is that people stand behind me, huffing and puffing and hoping that I will turn and say "I'm sorry" to them for blocking the path. No! It doesn't work like that. I don't know if you are busy back there behind me doing whatever it is you are doing. I am not going to assume you need to get by unless you make it known that you need to get by. Simple as that. Use your bloody words.

(*thanks Gillian)

'Twixt the Lip and the Cup

I love a nice tall glass of iced tea brimming with ice. Unfortunately my most recent glass full was not so delightful because of the ice--crescent shaped ice from my friend's fancy SubZero fridge. This particular shape of ice is ideally shaped to form a dam between the lip and the liquid. The ice is the perfect shape to get stuck up against the lip, making it a chore to have to suck the liquid from around the ice. There's no problem when the ice is vertically oriented in the glass, but again the shape of it seems to lend itself to a horizontal orientation.
I wonder if the people at SubZero know about this problem?
What was wrong with the original shape of ice cubes? Which design consultant came up with the idea that ice crescents were more pleasing? My guess is that it was someone who doesn't enjoy ice.

The OBAMA EFFECT- TV BLACK OUT

Have you EVER seen this many black people on TV? Chalk it up to the Obama Effect--all of sudden TV producers who, heretofore, have never been able to find an articulate colored person to comment on TV, are somehow able to dig up a bunch of new black faces to comment on anything and everything these past few days. Imagine that. Wonder what happens post inaugruation? This might be the salad days for blacks on TV. They may bring back the Jeffersons or the Cosby show. Maybe now black shows won't be cancelled precipitously and will get the two hour finale specials reserved for other network shows.

Regret, Thy Name is Blizzard

You were so cold and inviting and cheap. An ephemeral treat to slake a nagging longing. But like an uninvited guest, you keep hanging around. Belch belch belch

Robo Toilets

Not so long ago, going to the public toilet was a relatively easy exercise, long lines (women's rooms), filth and dread notwithstanding. Sure it took a bit of maneuvering to get into the narrow stalls without making too much contact with any surface that might transfer some icky germs to our person. For most women, we'd gotten it down to a bit of science, especially if we were toting along luggage or shopping bags, or, god forbid, kids.

If anyone had consulted with women, I am sure their biggest three suggestions for improvements to public restrooms would have been: a) bigger stalls; b) copius bag shelf/coat hooks; c) foot controls.

Not so recent improvements in public toilets, save for in a few upscale places don't seem to include any of these common-sense, practical upgrades. Instead what women have gotten, likely from men designers/engineers is, automation. Yes ladies, someone out there didn't think you could do it manually!

Self flushing toilets. Taps that turn on with a wave of a hand. Self-squirting soap pumps. Towel dispensers that feed out the right sized sheet at flash of a palm. All wonderful future-now mod-cons! Yippee! Well, not so fast. Certainly all that automation would be fine if they worked as promised 100% of the time. But I am sure you've been in the bathroom at the airport watching some hapless woman waving like a lunatic at the tap, or worse yet, pressing and pushing to no avail. Perhaps that lunatic trying to brush her teeth after a gnarly flight was you?!

Call me a Luddite, but I really do not think that toilets needed this kind of futuristic mod-con upgrade. First of all, what if the power goes out? Do all these places have backup generators that are connected to the toilets.

Sure I hate to enter a stall where the previous user has left an unsightly unflushed deposit (of any number). I am guessing that the drive to automate the toilets especially, comes from a drive to make bathrooms more sanitary. Whatever the reasoning--whether it's sanitation concerns or just moving along with the technology of the times, I say, "Bah, humbug."

My experience with these automated toilets has been an exercise in frustration. Why? I don't like being flushed upon in midstream. The problem with all these toilets is that the sensors are either too sensitive or they are not sensitive enough.
I have a rather time-consuming routine when I use a public WC. These are the steps.
1. Wad up tp and wipe the seat.
2. Spread 2 strips of TP on each side of the seat. (doubled up if no #3)
3. Spread a toilet seat cover (when available) over the TP on the seat
4. Sit. Deposit.
My routine was breezy with the old fashioned manual toilets.

Now with the robo-toilet, my life is a terrifying tangled tp tango.
The trouble when the toilet flush sensors are overly sensitive, halfway through my routine, the blasted toilet flushes, splashing up droplets to the seat, sucking down my protective tp or my seat cover. That's a pain in the ass, then there's the water in the ass when, just as you sit on your little safety next about to do the business, the sensor says, "Sorry I think you've been in here a while so I better just flush." I really don't like springing up like a march hare in the middle of my deposit.

Now let's say the sensor isn't as sensitive as it should be. You've made a deposit of a more solid type and you want the toilet to flush...or even say you've only made a liquid deposit and you've stood and zipped and ready to depart. You turn and stare or even move about a bit, but still no flush. There's a line out there, backed up into the mall or the terminal or the movie theater--wherever and still no flush. You wave your hand frantically over the little dark patch with the mysterious red light. You look around for the manual override button--not always well placed--and now your face is right over the fountain of germs, ready to push when finally the thing decides to do what it ought to do! There you go again having to spring up like springbok!

It's all very disconcerting. I don't like it one bit.

Now you are out trying to wash your hand and you can't get a flow going, the water temperature is right out of Goldilocks and the three bears--too hot, too cold and not just right. There's soap dispenser but you can't tell where the spigot is so it squirts on the counter. You are now Zero for Three. At least you can get a bit of paper now! Right? Wrong! Well maybe not all wrong. I do hate the manual paper dispensers that are so tightly packed that when you pull on a sheet all you get is that damp broken off corner. So in some ways, I think the paper dispenser is the best addition, though I would argue that the dispensers that had the elbow bar, allowing women to use their elbows to crank the feed was genius. Low tech and effective--just like the toilet with the simple handle--one placed on the floor so you can use your foot to flush. That and a bigger stall is all we ever asked for!

P.s. The only thing I really like is the new DYSON air blade. Now that's a great hand drying device. No more endless brisk rubbing!

Bristol's Baby Mama Drama

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?

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!

"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!

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?

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?

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.

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!

(These pictures are not from the LAX toilet)

A not so obvious leap

Does this mean that I am actually a day older than I would have been in a non-leap year?