A documentary about fish and other sea creatures that live in the deepest parts of the ocean, where no rays from the sun penetrate and the temperature is -40 degrees Fahrenheit, was on The Discovery Channel today. I eagerly watched the part about some sort of angler fish, so called because the female has a little lure of sorts that flashes on its head to attract prey in the darkness, while I ran for 14 minutes this afternoon. The male version of this fish is utterly useless except as a sex machine.
Seriously. It has no little light to attract prey and is ten times smaller than the female. The only way it survives is to detect the chemical scent a female emits (it has a little organ in front of its eyes that can pick up the smell) and then use its tiny teeth to attach itself to her belly. Once attached, it survives by sucking out the blood of the female for nourishment. In return, it provides a constant source of semen so that the female can reproduce.
You can look at this semi-parasitic situation in two ways: the male is either a lazy, worthless sack of shit that lives off its hard working female partner; or the male is basically a boy toy whose mere purpose in life is to pleasure his woman. Do you think how you interpret the fish situation may say a lot about how you view the relationship between human males and females, or am I on a fishing expedition here? (Ba-dum-dum, cymbal clash.)
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Saturday, September 9, 2006
What's in a Name? (Part I)
My big plan was to never get married. “Marriage is a tool of the patriarchy, a way for men to claim women as their property and subjugate them,” I’d argue. Proof was easy to find, starting with the fact that women lose their own identities when they get married by taking on a new name.
Granted, it’s not like the old name was not a tool of the patriarchy, either, as a child’s last name indicates which man’s property she is. By taking on a new name, she is property transferred from one man to another, so it really shouldn’t matter, should it? However, when women got married, they seem to take on their husband’s first name as well. If, for example, Suzanne Reisman married James Smith, she’d now be Mrs. James Smith. She doesn’t have any identity at all except as some sort of walking extension of her husband. I found this prospect terrifying.
Well, long story short, I obviously changed my mind at some point thanks to Husband and got married. But I kept my name. This caused consternation amongst some of our socially retarded peers. When we were engaged, a friend of ours (I’ll call him Stupid McFuck for this story), who knew Husband since grade school, but became friendly with me when we all were at NYU, rang one day and when I answered, greeted me as “Mrs. Husband.” I was relieved that we was on the other end of a phone rather than in the same room as me because I would have kicked his sac with my steel-toed Doc Martins, and that is not good for anyone. Instead, I inhaled sharply and explained that I had no plans to change my name. I pictured his frown as he asked in a concerned manner, "Aren't Husband's parents mad?" (Answer: Uh, no. Why would they be?) and “Well, what will your children’s last name be?” At that, I barked, “McFuck, you asshole,” and hung up on him. (Needless to say, he voted for Bush in the last two elections and thus continues to deserve the name Stupid McFuck.)
As demonstrated by the above story, my name is very important to me, and when people refer to me as Mrs. Husband, or far worse, Mrs. Husband Husband, I must fight an urge to reach into the throats and rip their larynxes out. I try very hard to make this clear to people so that I will not have the urge to hurt them. Other than douche bags my age who vcote for Bush, this vexes elderly people more than most, and they insist on referring to me as Mrs. Husband. (I once had an actual argument with one of my elderly relatives, who insisted that my name could not possibly be Suzanne Reisman, as I am married. My sister had to physically drag me away before I scratched my otherwise kind and lovable relative’s eyes out.)
I have definitely received invitations to events from my peers in which the disrespectful asses addressed the invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Husband Husband. In the early days of our marriage, this caused an acid-reflux like reaction of bitterness to boil up my throat, and I would go around muttering what a mistake it was to get married, since people refused to acknowledge that not every marriage was like theirs. I would also insist that I was obviously not invited to whatever event the invitation was for, as there is no “Mrs. Husband Husband.” Then I’d fill out the response card as, “Mr. Husband Husband and (in bold) Ms. Suzanne Reisman.” Usually people got the message and the place card was addressed properly. When that doesn’t work, I refer to the husband as “Mr. Wife Wife” and continue to address the wife by her unmarried moniker to see how they like it when people respect their marital wishes.
Harumph. Stay tuned for Part II: If I hate that people can't accept my unchanged name, how do I act when women change theirs? (aka: overcoming hypocrisy...)
Granted, it’s not like the old name was not a tool of the patriarchy, either, as a child’s last name indicates which man’s property she is. By taking on a new name, she is property transferred from one man to another, so it really shouldn’t matter, should it? However, when women got married, they seem to take on their husband’s first name as well. If, for example, Suzanne Reisman married James Smith, she’d now be Mrs. James Smith. She doesn’t have any identity at all except as some sort of walking extension of her husband. I found this prospect terrifying.
Well, long story short, I obviously changed my mind at some point thanks to Husband and got married. But I kept my name. This caused consternation amongst some of our socially retarded peers. When we were engaged, a friend of ours (I’ll call him Stupid McFuck for this story), who knew Husband since grade school, but became friendly with me when we all were at NYU, rang one day and when I answered, greeted me as “Mrs. Husband.” I was relieved that we was on the other end of a phone rather than in the same room as me because I would have kicked his sac with my steel-toed Doc Martins, and that is not good for anyone. Instead, I inhaled sharply and explained that I had no plans to change my name. I pictured his frown as he asked in a concerned manner, "Aren't Husband's parents mad?" (Answer: Uh, no. Why would they be?) and “Well, what will your children’s last name be?” At that, I barked, “McFuck, you asshole,” and hung up on him. (Needless to say, he voted for Bush in the last two elections and thus continues to deserve the name Stupid McFuck.)
As demonstrated by the above story, my name is very important to me, and when people refer to me as Mrs. Husband, or far worse, Mrs. Husband Husband, I must fight an urge to reach into the throats and rip their larynxes out. I try very hard to make this clear to people so that I will not have the urge to hurt them. Other than douche bags my age who vcote for Bush, this vexes elderly people more than most, and they insist on referring to me as Mrs. Husband. (I once had an actual argument with one of my elderly relatives, who insisted that my name could not possibly be Suzanne Reisman, as I am married. My sister had to physically drag me away before I scratched my otherwise kind and lovable relative’s eyes out.)
I have definitely received invitations to events from my peers in which the disrespectful asses addressed the invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Husband Husband. In the early days of our marriage, this caused an acid-reflux like reaction of bitterness to boil up my throat, and I would go around muttering what a mistake it was to get married, since people refused to acknowledge that not every marriage was like theirs. I would also insist that I was obviously not invited to whatever event the invitation was for, as there is no “Mrs. Husband Husband.” Then I’d fill out the response card as, “Mr. Husband Husband and (in bold) Ms. Suzanne Reisman.” Usually people got the message and the place card was addressed properly. When that doesn’t work, I refer to the husband as “Mr. Wife Wife” and continue to address the wife by her unmarried moniker to see how they like it when people respect their marital wishes.
Harumph. Stay tuned for Part II: If I hate that people can't accept my unchanged name, how do I act when women change theirs? (aka: overcoming hypocrisy...)
More Fun Background Facts
After reading a bit at My Private Casbah, I thought about the charming little community in which I was raised. Some research seemed necessary, so I hit up the Census website. (A skill I honed though various child care needs assessments case studies I prepared in the last few years for work. It’s nice when my work talents come in handy for blogging, isn’t it?)
I spent the first 18 years of life in census tract 8009, where my parents still reside. Census tract 8009 is regarding semi-facetiously in the overall community as “the trashy side of town.” It’s where the Jews and Asians were redlined to be allowed to live. It is on the west side of the highway, a “wrong side of the tracks” so to speak. Yet according to the 2000 Census, the median income for married households in census tract 8009 was $98,465. The mean income for married households was $125,895. (A quick stats class reminder: the mean is the number most influenced by outliers, as it is obtained by adding all the incomes together and dividing that by the number of households. Hence a random millionaire can jack the “average” income up considerably. The median is a bit less influenced by outliers, as all incomes are listed and the income that falls smack dab in the middle of the list is then deemed the “average income.”)
Regardless of which number you want to pick as the “average” income for census tract 8009, it is pretty fucking high. Your “average” kid generally does not know from want. Sure, they want a car when they turn 16, but that’s not the same as say, wanting a safe place to live. And yet, this is the dodgy part of the community? How fucked up is that? Needless to say, my loving Jewish white trash family did not have such a nice cash flow. Thus my sister and I were living in even more “squalor” than the average kid. Clearly, this is a strange environment in which to be a young person, developing a personality and character and set of ethics.
No wonder I am a foul-mouthed feminist misanthrope do-gooder. Growing up in that community can seriously warp people. Either you suck up the racist, capitalist greed-is-good ethos, or you rebel big and time and try and start a socialist club in your high school. (Of course, I was told that would not be permitted, and when I demanded justification, none was proffered.)
I spent the first 18 years of life in census tract 8009, where my parents still reside. Census tract 8009 is regarding semi-facetiously in the overall community as “the trashy side of town.” It’s where the Jews and Asians were redlined to be allowed to live. It is on the west side of the highway, a “wrong side of the tracks” so to speak. Yet according to the 2000 Census, the median income for married households in census tract 8009 was $98,465. The mean income for married households was $125,895. (A quick stats class reminder: the mean is the number most influenced by outliers, as it is obtained by adding all the incomes together and dividing that by the number of households. Hence a random millionaire can jack the “average” income up considerably. The median is a bit less influenced by outliers, as all incomes are listed and the income that falls smack dab in the middle of the list is then deemed the “average income.”)
Regardless of which number you want to pick as the “average” income for census tract 8009, it is pretty fucking high. Your “average” kid generally does not know from want. Sure, they want a car when they turn 16, but that’s not the same as say, wanting a safe place to live. And yet, this is the dodgy part of the community? How fucked up is that? Needless to say, my loving Jewish white trash family did not have such a nice cash flow. Thus my sister and I were living in even more “squalor” than the average kid. Clearly, this is a strange environment in which to be a young person, developing a personality and character and set of ethics.
No wonder I am a foul-mouthed feminist misanthrope do-gooder. Growing up in that community can seriously warp people. Either you suck up the racist, capitalist greed-is-good ethos, or you rebel big and time and try and start a socialist club in your high school. (Of course, I was told that would not be permitted, and when I demanded justification, none was proffered.)
Friday, September 8, 2006
Full of Shit (Again)
In 2000, I was basically constipated for the entire year and emitted flatulence that made me think that I lived in a sewer, rather than a 428 square foot apartment. (Note: That was the year I got married. One would think that would cause diarrhea, though, and it was officially eliminated as a cause.) I went to see a gastrointestinal specialist in spring 2001, and after undergoing a colonoscopy, which I swear was not that bad despite having a camera shoved up my ass. I honestly enjoyed seeing my innards – how cool is seeing inside yourself? (I know, I am a major freak.) The doctor pronounced all normal and prescribed a diet of more fiber and fiber supplements.
Being a good little patient, I did as requested. It seems that I did more than loosen some shit up. From July 2002 to December 2002, I could not stop shitting. I was constantly stuffed up, and it used every opportunity it could to evacuate my bowels. I used to tell people not to hug me too hard, lest they squeeze some shit out of my ass. (This is a definite disincentive for people who are annoying bear huggers.) The doctor did lots of non-invasive tests. The shit bucket test (which you must read about at"How I learned to stop worrying and love tthe doody bomb parts I and II" if you missed it back in February) indicated that I stopped digesting fat for some reason. But why? Other non-invasive tests came back clean. I did not have any parasites nor did blood tests indicate markers for Celiac sprue or other bowel diseases. I even had a genetic test to search for cystic fibrosis, which in a mild form can cause the digestive tract to get gunked up and thus literally fuck shit up, but that also was negative.
For a while, the doc suspected something with my pancreas since it seemed that the bowels were A-OK. I went through a pancreatic MRI, which actually has a very long and fancy special name that I forgot right now. It showed my pancreas was also normal. Regardless, I took some pancreatic enzyme supplements when I ate, and things were normal for a while. There have been some minor flare-ups and medicine changes over the last few years, but it was never as bad as it had been in 2000 and 2001, until recently.
Yep, the weird complex geared up again after I ate a delicious BBQ seitan sandwich for lunch a few weeks ago. Seitan is a super tasty fake meat made from wheat gluten. (I am not a vegetarian, but I really love the taste and texture of seitan that is prepared well.) Also, I broke out with either itchy assne (ew) or a rash on my legs and ass. These are symptoms of celiac disease. Celiac sprue is a disease in which one’s immune system begins attacking the villi in the gut as an overreaction to an allergy to wheat gluten.
There are two ways to go from here: I can see if I feel better by not eating anything with wheat or gluten in it, or I can have an endoscopy. The GI reminded me that, as with any invasive procedure, things can go awry. I’ll be under anesthesia from which I might not wake up, or the endoscope can poke a hole in an organ, or whatever. While this would be no good, I decided that it was worth the risk. I hope that I can get some sort of definitive answer from the small bowel biopsy that would be done with the samples obtained in the endoscopy procedure. Of course, it is possible that they will find nothing or the results could be inconclusive, which is exactly what they were when I went to another GI in 2002 for a second opinion and he did an endoscopy. That time, though, I was already watching what I ate very carefully, and thus that influenced the condition of my gut. My plan this time is to be sure to eat lots of wheat and gluten products in the two weeks leading up to the procedure, and hopefully there will be plenty of evidence for a diagnosis. (Yes, it will be a smelly two weeks, so if you are visiting me before Sept. 21, bring nose plugs.)
The safer way to figure out what is wrong would probably be to avoid eating any wheat or gluten and see what happens. Two things are stopping me from going down this path, though. One is that I still might not know what exactly is the cause (a risk also with the invasive procedure) and then it would involve long-term experimenting with diet to figure out what I can and can’t eat. The second, but more important reason in my mind, is that I would not be able to eat anything that I like, and for possibly no good reason. Gluten is an ingredient in everything. Look at the ingredients on the label of almost any packaged food. Not only would I not be able to eat bread, pasta, and baked goods, but tons of things that seem innocuous. That is too fucking hard. I’d rather go for the endoscopy.
Am I insane? What would you do?
Being a good little patient, I did as requested. It seems that I did more than loosen some shit up. From July 2002 to December 2002, I could not stop shitting. I was constantly stuffed up, and it used every opportunity it could to evacuate my bowels. I used to tell people not to hug me too hard, lest they squeeze some shit out of my ass. (This is a definite disincentive for people who are annoying bear huggers.) The doctor did lots of non-invasive tests. The shit bucket test (which you must read about at"How I learned to stop worrying and love tthe doody bomb parts I and II" if you missed it back in February) indicated that I stopped digesting fat for some reason. But why? Other non-invasive tests came back clean. I did not have any parasites nor did blood tests indicate markers for Celiac sprue or other bowel diseases. I even had a genetic test to search for cystic fibrosis, which in a mild form can cause the digestive tract to get gunked up and thus literally fuck shit up, but that also was negative.
For a while, the doc suspected something with my pancreas since it seemed that the bowels were A-OK. I went through a pancreatic MRI, which actually has a very long and fancy special name that I forgot right now. It showed my pancreas was also normal. Regardless, I took some pancreatic enzyme supplements when I ate, and things were normal for a while. There have been some minor flare-ups and medicine changes over the last few years, but it was never as bad as it had been in 2000 and 2001, until recently.
Yep, the weird complex geared up again after I ate a delicious BBQ seitan sandwich for lunch a few weeks ago. Seitan is a super tasty fake meat made from wheat gluten. (I am not a vegetarian, but I really love the taste and texture of seitan that is prepared well.) Also, I broke out with either itchy assne (ew) or a rash on my legs and ass. These are symptoms of celiac disease. Celiac sprue is a disease in which one’s immune system begins attacking the villi in the gut as an overreaction to an allergy to wheat gluten.
There are two ways to go from here: I can see if I feel better by not eating anything with wheat or gluten in it, or I can have an endoscopy. The GI reminded me that, as with any invasive procedure, things can go awry. I’ll be under anesthesia from which I might not wake up, or the endoscope can poke a hole in an organ, or whatever. While this would be no good, I decided that it was worth the risk. I hope that I can get some sort of definitive answer from the small bowel biopsy that would be done with the samples obtained in the endoscopy procedure. Of course, it is possible that they will find nothing or the results could be inconclusive, which is exactly what they were when I went to another GI in 2002 for a second opinion and he did an endoscopy. That time, though, I was already watching what I ate very carefully, and thus that influenced the condition of my gut. My plan this time is to be sure to eat lots of wheat and gluten products in the two weeks leading up to the procedure, and hopefully there will be plenty of evidence for a diagnosis. (Yes, it will be a smelly two weeks, so if you are visiting me before Sept. 21, bring nose plugs.)
The safer way to figure out what is wrong would probably be to avoid eating any wheat or gluten and see what happens. Two things are stopping me from going down this path, though. One is that I still might not know what exactly is the cause (a risk also with the invasive procedure) and then it would involve long-term experimenting with diet to figure out what I can and can’t eat. The second, but more important reason in my mind, is that I would not be able to eat anything that I like, and for possibly no good reason. Gluten is an ingredient in everything. Look at the ingredients on the label of almost any packaged food. Not only would I not be able to eat bread, pasta, and baked goods, but tons of things that seem innocuous. That is too fucking hard. I’d rather go for the endoscopy.
Am I insane? What would you do?
The Bad Influence
My cousin slept over on Wednesday night and lured me into watching four episodes of Degrassi High: The Next Generation with her. (OK, the luring part was not hard. She happened to notice that Degrassi was on TV, and I said, “Wow, I should go to bed, because I know if I watch one episode, I will watch more.” Then I did not get off the couch for two more hours.) This all would have been fine except that the first episode was on at midnight. It hurt to get up in the morning. Oh yes it did. (OK, it also hurt to get up this morning, but that is another story.)
Anyway, when I was in junior high, I was a huge fan of Degrassi Junior High (I did love me some Joey Jeremiah!), and I heard that the new series was even more intense. I was very intrigued to see how it played out. Fortunately, Rebecca was able to guide me through all the characters’ back stories as each appeared onscreen. Grey’s Anatomy is a soapy, bed-hopping drama, but it is so blown out of the water by Degrassi. All the kids are dating interchangeably (realistic), so there’s lots of hormone-soaked tension. Each kid also seems to have some sort of baggage. There’s the cutter with the alcoholic mom, the gay kid with a conservative Italian immigrant dad, the girl who was raped, the chick with gonorrhea, the student who lives on his own, the girl who was knocked up and had an abortion, the girl who was knocked up and gave the baby up for adoption, the anorexic, the battered teens (batterers: boyfriend, parent), etc. It was quite the show case for drama.
Rebecca and I are excited that my apartment now has digital cable, as I will be able to DVR all the new episodes and we can gorge ourselves. But not on a weeknight…
Anyway, when I was in junior high, I was a huge fan of Degrassi Junior High (I did love me some Joey Jeremiah!), and I heard that the new series was even more intense. I was very intrigued to see how it played out. Fortunately, Rebecca was able to guide me through all the characters’ back stories as each appeared onscreen. Grey’s Anatomy is a soapy, bed-hopping drama, but it is so blown out of the water by Degrassi. All the kids are dating interchangeably (realistic), so there’s lots of hormone-soaked tension. Each kid also seems to have some sort of baggage. There’s the cutter with the alcoholic mom, the gay kid with a conservative Italian immigrant dad, the girl who was raped, the chick with gonorrhea, the student who lives on his own, the girl who was knocked up and had an abortion, the girl who was knocked up and gave the baby up for adoption, the anorexic, the battered teens (batterers: boyfriend, parent), etc. It was quite the show case for drama.
Rebecca and I are excited that my apartment now has digital cable, as I will be able to DVR all the new episodes and we can gorge ourselves. But not on a weeknight…
Thursday, September 7, 2006
The stupid idiots are getting stupider and stupider
I read a headline today on msn.com that Clinton administration officials are ballistic over a mini series that ABC made about September 11. It seems that the movie blames them for the terrorist attack.
Wait. Let me think for a minute (or more - the gears are rusty). I seem to recall that after stealing an election, a certain George W. Bush was coronated as president in January 2001. In August 2001, "W" was on his umpteenth vacation when an urgent memo was presented to him noting that Osama bin Laden was determined to strike against the US. This "fearless leader" (I do picture a bumbling Boris Badanov here) went back to pitching hay or chasing tumbleweeds or whatever the fuck he does on his ranch in Texas that is more important than following up on an immediate threat to the nation. Within a month, oddly enough, there was a terrorist attack.
OK, now how the fuck is this the fault of the Clinton administration? What really scares me is the number of automaton followers of O'Reilly, Limbaugh, and their brainwashing ilk and will believe this bullshit. What the fuck is ABC thinking? Thank god I don't watch anything on that channel anyway, because I am boycotting it.
Wait. Let me think for a minute (or more - the gears are rusty). I seem to recall that after stealing an election, a certain George W. Bush was coronated as president in January 2001. In August 2001, "W" was on his umpteenth vacation when an urgent memo was presented to him noting that Osama bin Laden was determined to strike against the US. This "fearless leader" (I do picture a bumbling Boris Badanov here) went back to pitching hay or chasing tumbleweeds or whatever the fuck he does on his ranch in Texas that is more important than following up on an immediate threat to the nation. Within a month, oddly enough, there was a terrorist attack.
OK, now how the fuck is this the fault of the Clinton administration? What really scares me is the number of automaton followers of O'Reilly, Limbaugh, and their brainwashing ilk and will believe this bullshit. What the fuck is ABC thinking? Thank god I don't watch anything on that channel anyway, because I am boycotting it.
A lettuce sacrifice to appease the gods
What have I done to so offend the gods of fashion that they continually inflict their vengeance upon me? I mean, other than eat on a regular basis? Meals that consist of significantly more than leafy greens? (And usually in fact are comprised of no leafy greens or any vegetables of any sort.) The sins of a few cookies hardly merit the punishment meted out in the form of the skinny pants.
Anyone who has recently walked by a Gap store knows that skinny pants (a.k.a. “Skinny jeans” when constructed from denim) are insanely tight legged pants. The Gap calls their version of this monstrosity the “Audrey Pant,” probably because only people with Hepburn’s stick physique can pull off this crime against women. (We all know who many millions of women fit that description. Yes, about seven. Not seven million. Seven.)
I survived a summer of “dress shorts” (cuffed suit pants that end at the knee, thus enabling women to think that it is acceptable to wear shorts to work since they are facsimiles of actual pants and therefore people might not notice) and gauchos for this? Bah! I am going to stuff my craw with falafel, as the gods of fashion hate me anyway.
Anyone who has recently walked by a Gap store knows that skinny pants (a.k.a. “Skinny jeans” when constructed from denim) are insanely tight legged pants. The Gap calls their version of this monstrosity the “Audrey Pant,” probably because only people with Hepburn’s stick physique can pull off this crime against women. (We all know who many millions of women fit that description. Yes, about seven. Not seven million. Seven.)
I survived a summer of “dress shorts” (cuffed suit pants that end at the knee, thus enabling women to think that it is acceptable to wear shorts to work since they are facsimiles of actual pants and therefore people might not notice) and gauchos for this? Bah! I am going to stuff my craw with falafel, as the gods of fashion hate me anyway.
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