Community Service Project

I'm breaking my own rules. I'm doing a promo.

Can you believe it?

But I'm trying to make a community service project out of it. The more clicks I get from you guys the better chance I have at winning some baby swag that I'll donate randomly to a family (or families) here in Philadelphia.  Families that are enrolled in the Parenting Program that I work for.

I've appealed to the marketing agency that appealed to me to appeal to the brands that are sponsoring the promotion to donate some major amounts of stuff- car seats, strollers, diapers, breast pumps, etc. that I, in turn, would distribute to social service agencies here in town. It would be nice to give them some unused, brand name stuff. Don't you think?

I'm trying to do a help me help you help them help us help those guys kind of thing here. Let's see if the participating brands can come through for the little guy.

So what am I promoting?

The documentary BABIES. (please click the picture below as many times as possible. And tell your friends to do the same, it's important that they do it from my blog. They don't have to be regular readers, they just have to click from here for me to get credit.)


I'm a little bit disadvantaged because I don't have Facebook or Twitter or any of that nonsense, so I'm really counting on you guys click on that picture or any of the other BABIES pictures I post here (expect them often) so I get "points" because the more points I get the better chance I have at winning stuff. Stuff I have no personal use for, but stuff that I know plenty of moms in the community who need it way more than you can imagine*. I usually do all my hippie dippie Earth Day stuff throughout April, but this time around I think I might do more hippie dippie child rearing work-related squishy ishy warm fuzzy feeling stuff. It's all the same, really. Save the Earth, save the babies.  Save the Earth for the babies.

Go.

*All you people who hate the Mommy blogger types who are constantly entering and holding contests just so they can get free stuff? This is your chance to make sure that they don't get this stuff and it goes to people who truly do need it.

One thousand thank yous.

four

Jake turned four.
Ten days ago.
A St. Patrick's Day baby.  Born sometime first thing in the morning.  One am, maybe two-ish.  You think his mother would know, but she doesn't remember.  It's written down somewhere.  It was a Friday, that much is certain.  He was twenty inches long, now he is double that, plus a quarter inch.  He weighed five pounds and twelve ounces, now he's thirty more.

For the first time in his entire life I don't want him to get any older.  I want him to stay exactly the way he is.  The baby stuff I can do without.  I wanted that to pass.  I wished those days away.  I prayed they'd seem to fly by so we could get to four. 

To exactly this.

I used to write lists, month after month, with the things Jacob was doing.  I'd start at the top of his head and work my way down.  Listing the words he could say and foods he was eating and the motor skills he'd adopted and the milestones he'd hit and the teeth he'd cut and toys he loved.  I can't do that anymore.  He's too much of a boy to make a list of who he is.  Too much of his own person.

He's so beautiful that I want to keep him away from the world.  Have you seen him?  If you have, if you know him, maybe you understand what I mean. 
All mothers think their child is beautiful, of course.  But I'm almost quite certain that Jacob is extraordinarily beautiful.  We can't go anywhere without prying hands.  Awkward long glances.  Jealous stares.  It scares me sometimes.  Makes me proud others. 
He's so beautiful that I want to show him to the world.  To let other people know that it is still possible to make something so gorgeous out of nothing but a little bit of love and a few minutes spent in privacy.

He's funny.  The sort of funny that makes big kids and grown ups laugh with him.  At his jokes and not just at him because he's little.  Sure he tells those ridiculous knock knock jokes that make no sense, and he still has his own language, but he's really funny sometimes.
One of my new favorite things to do is play the games I learn at Improv class with him.  He's infinitely better at them than anyone I know, of course.  Any kid would be. 
I'd like to say that some of the funny is passed down from Dave and I.  We like to think that we are a riotous pair of people, but who knows.  Maybe funny is just something you are born with and has nothing to do with the house you live in.

Jacob likes to sing and play guitar, and he brings it all together with the jokes too.  Jake rocks out.  Think Helter Skelter.  Times three.  Plus unadulterated giggles. 
Jake loves the Beatles.  You know the end of Helter Skelter where John Lennon screams "I've got blisters on my fingers"?
Jake was making up songs on his guitar the other morning and then screaming things like "I've got monkeys in the toaster" and then he's do another and yell "I got nosehairs in my lunchbox".  I was in the shower and we were here all by ourselves.  I came down and he had his animals lined up, he was putting on a "rock and roll show with jokes for them because they were bored".  His lyrics to the song were even better.  I've got to start getting this stuff on non-camera phone video.

Just recently, I mean, like last weekend recently, Jacob started to smell like a kid.  Like laundry left on the line.  It took me by surprise.  When we lie down together he's just big enough that I can curl into him the way that he can curl into me, so sometimes I do.  I push my face into his chest and he puts his chin on my head so he can watch television over me while I take a nap and he wraps his arms around my neck and puts his knees into my guts and I pull my legs under his butt and it's just as good as the days he was small enough to curl in my bellyspace and I would close my eyes and pretend he was still in there.
I breathed in his new smell- trees and skyscrapers and playground equipment and bicycle tires and the breeze from the next block up and the immigrant neighbor's mystery dinner that came through the open window that evening and hit our shoulders when we were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk out front and the dog at daycare and the basement floor and marbles and tap water and peanut butter and my perfume and Dave's baseball glove and the juniper from the yard that he's not supposed to touch and the rosemary and lavender that he can if he wants and something else that no one has a name for but everyone can recall because we all smelled that way once and we took comfort in it and it's the reason we never wanted to take a bath when we were little because if we did it would go away and that smell is what put us to sleep and kept us safe at night.

I don't make Jake take too many baths. 
If I did he'd lose that smell that puts me to sleep and keeps me safe at night.

five facts/five minutes

1. I use the same soap on my skin as I do on my dishes.  Some people think that's weird, but I want to know what the hell do you put in your body that you need industrial strength detergents to get off your dishes?

2. No, I don't have six toes, it just looks like I do.  And no, I have no idea why my foot looks like that but I assure you it is fully functional and perfectly normal.  And perfectly adorable.

3. I try substituting the word "reality" for the word "issue" when I get annoyed with someone and I want to say that they have a (insert issue here) issue.  It usually gives me a new perspective on the what the individual may be dealing with and why they may behave in a certain way.  A mental health/alcohol/daddy reality is much more sobering and clinical sounding than a mental health/alcohol/daddy issue.

4. I love peanut butter and dill pickle sandwiches, and I used to pack them in my lunch for school when I was a kid.  As an aside, I refused to eat pickles or ice cream when I was pregnant.  I thought it was tacky and cliche to do so.

5. Speaking of tacky, I spent last weekend in dresses and sandals.  Usually I think open toed shoes in March is way gross but you know what?  Fuggit.  It was 75 degrees outside and I spent most of the hours outdoors and for all any of us could ever know I could have gotten hit by a bus on Monday morning and would have died knowing that I wasted a deliciously good two-day long summer vacation because age-old rules dictate that a lady doesn't show her hooves before tax day.

(meme brought to you by This is the glamorous)

you don't have to fight city hall. you can join them.

People of Philadelphia may know this, but if you are an out-of-towner, you probably don't.  Our Mayor is proposing a few tax hikes.  One of them is a $300 annual fee (read:tax) for garbage collection.  No, we don't pay to have our garbage collected here.  Yes, most places in the Free World do.  Our taxes are so low here, that you would probably puke in your pants if I told you what my annual property taxes are. 

My friend Lauren works for the Mayor, and the Mayor asked her to ask people (and she asked me) to write a Letter to the Editor on the topic of supporting the trash fee (if, in fact, I do support the trash fee).

Well, sure.  I love taxes.  Tax the shit out of me if you'll make my life better.  I'm all about quality of living and paying for a better today and a more promising tomorrow.  Please.  

But I can't just write a LttE.  I have the Mayor's ear on an issue that I've been struggling with big time in real life but haven't been burdening you guys because you probably don't want to hear about me going to Garbage Court and Recycling Forums and Trash Tribunals and garbage garbage garbage.  

So in the Spirit of Me and the Way I Write (can you believe that Lauren actually wanted me to use "facts" and "figures" in this thing?  ha, Lauren, ha.), I am presenting to you my Letter Plea to the Editor Mayor:


It's no secret that one of the luxuries of owning a home in the City of Philadelphia is relatively low property taxes.  So when I heard that there was a proposed "Trash Tax" my gut reaction was, "I'm okay with that.  That is fair".  But as I give it some thought, there are conditions. 

I'm okay with that if our trash is collected with respect.  If the men and women who collect our trash, collect it with respect to our streets and with respect to our properties.  I know that some residents do not tie up their bags well.  And some residents use shopping bags or old cardboard boxes rather than trash bags.  But it seems that the amount of trash that is strewn over our streets after a garbage truck has traveled down it is double that of the amount of trash on a normal day.  It seems that the trash collectors are in such a hurry to get the route finished that they do so with total disregard to our neighborhoods.  I've watched them spill entire bags of trash, shrug their shoulders and move to the next home.  Recycling collectors have spilled bins by accident and left the broken glass and errant papers for the residents to clean up.  Or ignore.  I am not comfortable paying for this type of negligence.

I was recently in garbage court.  I was fined because I was accused of not separating my recyclables from my trash.  It's true.  I had a bag that contained bottles and papers mixed with regular trash.  But it was not trash from my home, it was trash I collected from my street and trash that my neighbors threw in the bag that I set near my front steps.  I did not separate the trash, which included dog droppings, and rather than paying the fine I requested a hearing to explain what I was aiming to do.  Rather than a hearing notice, I received a penalty fine that was equal to double the original fine.  I paid it instead of fighting it.  A few months later on a weekend, my son and I cleaned up our street.  I did not want to bring the bags through my house to keep in the yard until trash day, so I kept them against the side of the house.  I was fined for setting my trash out too early.  I requested and received a hearing for this violation.  I did not want to fight the fine.  I deserved it.  I knew I broke a rule, but I wanted to speak to a hearing officer and ask what I could do to make my neighborhood a cleaner place.  The answer?  Not much. 

If we are charged a fee, and we are continued to be fined, we need to start seeing the results.  I want them to be be used for increased street cleaning on ALL Philadelphia blocks.  We need trash cans that are emptied regularly on ALL Philadelphia blocks, not just downtown and other desirable neighborhoods.  I was punished because I cleaned up my neighborhood.  That is unacceptable.  I was told in court that it is a health hazard for me to keep garbage bags in front of my house.  I feel that it is a health hazard to allow my four year old son to play on a street littered with animal droppings, dead cockroaches, broken glass, discarded drug baggies, cigarette butts, disintegrating newspapers, and other trash. 

Most street trash in most neighborhoods isn't soda bottles, or chip bags, or cigarette boxes.  It's pizza shop menus and free newspapers and door to door political and business flyers that are placed in our front railings and tossed on our doorsteps.  No one cares to check if there is anyone living in the houses that are being targeted.  Some houses have months worth of papers on the steps. 
I propose that the City begins fining the businesses that loosely fasten their ads and menus to our banisters and carelessly toss the newspapers and weekly packets of advertisements on our steps.  Require that the distributors slip them in our front doors or mail slots.  If they do not do this, fine them.  Set up a system that would make it easy for a citizen to report an offender.  Give ticketing authority to Parking Officers, Police Officers, and Waste Management Officers.  It's easy to figure out who the perpetrator is.  The name and address is right on the flier.  Use that fine to pay for a team of workers to remove dog droppings and other waste from our sidewalks and empty trashcans on a regular basis.  Or better yet, put the "garbage police" on double duty.  While they are walking around shaking our trash bags and slipping fine notices through our doors, have them cleaning up our streets and sidewalks.  (Please make sure that they separate the recyclables at the end of the shift!) 

So go ahead and raise our taxes.  Charge us for garbage collection just like they do everywhere else .  Just make sure we get a kickback.

Supposedly you have the potential to tell a lot about a person if you can get a hold of a sample of her handwriting. 

I saw something over at This is the glamorous the other day, but it seems he took it down.  I've known David, who writes over there, for twenty years and I noticed that his handwriting hasn't changed in all that time. 
So, I don't know much about handwriting analysis, but I know that I like when something about an old friend stays the same for two decades.

Thanks be to the miracle of Google Reader, I can still lift the game and play it here.

The Rules:
write the following
1) Your name/blog name.
2) Right-handed, left-handed, or ambidextrous?
3) Favorite letters to write.
4) Least favorite letters to write.
5) Write “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”
6) Write the following words in capital letters:
- CRAB
- HUMOR
- KALEIDOSCOPE
- PAJAMAS
- GAZILLION
7) Write your favorite song lyric.
8) Tag people!
9) Any special note or picture.

I write small, so I put a dime up there for reference.  Some people may say that small and tight penmanship may be indicative of certain personality traits.  I wouldn't be one to argue.  And see those large spaces between the lines?  That's for note taking.  I usually have four or five colors of pens so I can take notes on my notes.  And then add notes on my notes.  And sometimes I may need to note some notes on my notes on my notes.  Pilot V5 very fines come in blue, black, red, green, purple, and pink.  I try to carry two of each at all times. 
My friend Kristin and I were discussing my blossoming improv (dare I say?) career and she noted that my "edit feature is very strong".  She is right.  A very strong edit feature and the smallness and tightness of certain aspects of my personality is the reason I'm pushing myself into and onward with the improv stuff.  It's helping.  There were probably times when four lines of my handwriting would fit within the span of a dime.
 
Seriously.
 
Can you please do this little exercise so I can check out a part of you that I don't normally get a chance to spy on?
 

***

 

Special thanks to my favorite online Pagans Jon and Magaly for awarding me with a bit of sunshine, which is highly apropos this week, which has been a long deserved pretend summer.  Thank you so much, guys!  You two are amazing, and you bring peace and joy into my life with your words and your hearts, and I love the work you do by showing the world that Paganism is not a devil-worship, snakey-bloody, daddy-naked, orgy-inducing, booby-shaking, baby-burning practice.  Brightest blessings to you both!

 

***

 
Last but not least, thank you to Schmutzie and whoever (whomever?  this is why I need an editor) it was that loved the Hamburglar story enough to nominate it for Five Star Friday.  Being nominated for things gives me confidence to keep on keeping on over here.  So do emails thanking me for blogging.  I have a lot of words for a lot of things, but I don't have words that express the way that makes me feel.
 
I mix cream into my Jello before I eat it.  The exact viscosity of cream in Jello is how it makes me feel.
 
You guys are pretty damned terrific.
 
 

 
(my mom likes mayonnaise on her Jello.)

There are blog posts, and entire blogs, columns written, books published, not-so-secret societies devoted to parents admitting to what terrible jobs they are doing parenting their children.  It's become a bad joke.
"Ha ha, children of today.  Poor, poor you guys.  Boy will you need therapy because we are all drunken sucky grown ups who are laughing at you once you hit your bed crying."

Plastered everywhere are admissions driven by guilt, by laziness, by hilarious outcomes, by desire to fit in with the others, by just about anything you can imagine.  Parents do it because it makes them feel better.  Because it makes other parents feel better.  Solidarity in numbers.  We all take shortcuts.  When one parent admits to something, hundreds more chime in.  First in whispers, then louder, louder, louder, until it becomes a battle cry.

me  And me.  Me Too.  And Us!  WE ALL!

And it is "we".  We all cheat, and now that it's okay to admit it, most of us do that too.

How would you feel if someone treated your kid the way that you sometimes treat your kid?
Probably not so good, I'm guessing.
I sometimes do things with Jacob that I wouldn't be comfortable knowing you did with him.
On the flip side, there are things I'd rather you sometimes did with him.  Like taking him to McDonalds.  Or letting him go down the big slide backwards and upside down.

Have you ever had to admit to another parent that you cheated while caring for their child?  That you took some of those shortcuts, those liberties, with their baby?  Looked them dead in the eye and told them that a scraped knee or busted lip or broken heart or act of negligence was your fault?

I did.

It sucked.

Hard.

But I manned up and I did it and it wasn't the end of the world and the other parent understood and said that he was glad that I stepped in when I did and it seems that everything is going to be okay after all.

That other parent?  Was my dad.
And that kiddo?  Me.

When I was a senior in high school a guidance counselor recommended that I swipe a baby picture of myself from my parents and keep it somewhere important.  Preferably in a frame on a wall or on a desk and bureau.  Keep it as a reminder to take care of the little girl in that picture now that her mom and dad wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on her.  I do have that picture in a frame.  It's at the top of the stairs in the hall next to the pelican room.  Maybe you've seen it.

It was just so easy to let days and months and years and personal responsibilities slip by in favor of taking care of the things that life throws at you.  Not just big things like work and children and houses and marriage.  But little things like sunny days and friendships and good books and the way the wind sometimes blows up from the south and across the Delaware instead of down from the north and over the Schuykill and I am compelled to drop what I'm doing and run to the waterfront and let it all wash over me as if that can take care of the ails.  But it can't.  And I've learned.  And lately I'm doing things the way they are supposed to be done.

It's still Lent, People of The Lenten, how are you doing with your Lentils?  Remember how I was big on the idea that everyone is somebody's baby?  That means you too.  Taking care of yourself in a way that would do Papso and Mamsie proud is an excellent way to spend the days before Easter.

Just saying.

Two and a half weeks ago Samantha and I went out for drinks and cheeseburgers.  You might not know this about me, but I don't eat a lot of meat.  A few times a year, maybe.  I just don't like it.  I'm not on a dietary high horse.  Or a social/moral/political one, although it is a damned shame what is happening to our farmers and our farm animals and our farm land and our entire farming industry.  Not to mention what goes on behind slaughterhouse doors and processing units.  Oh, and the grocery industries and our grocery stores?  Let's not even talk about it.  Maybe we can talk about shipping and packaging standards one day.  Labor practices that the truckers are held to, and those styrofoam trays and the plastic wrap and the "expiration date" scams and the refrigeration and lack there of.  Ugh.

It all runs so deep and I'm just too shallow.  I'm not getting into it.

And when I do eat meat, it has to be done a certain way.  Like, not done at all.  If it is slightly warm or brown I will not eat it.  The edges can be seared, but that's it.  It's not really easy to find a restaurant that will serve you plate of practically raw meat.  Most places here in town that used to do it won't do it anymore because instead of raising prices on their burgers, they lowered quality.  What was once a Grade A, Top Quality Ground Sirloin?  Well, now it isn't.  You can't just serve any type of beef rare.  Well, you can.  But not without some severe and painful consequences.

So, cheeseburgers.  Extra rare.  Hard to find.

We landed ourselves at Rouge.  Have you been there?  It's one of Philadelphia's "better" spots, overlooking Rittenhouse, but it's casual which is perfect since we were wearing jeans and even though it's a bit pricey it isn't over the top.  Plus, we had just saved a lot of money by taking an hour-long walk around town because it was absolutely gorgeous out.  How is that saving money? you ask?  Easy!  We weren't sitting in a bar spending it.

We ordered drinks and our burgers and when they came out a girl sitting at the bar (which is about two feet away from our table, the place is tiny) turned around and gushed about how great they smell and how she has heard amazing things about them and how she is the Burger Queen and she gets the burger no matter where she goes and this is the only place she's never had one and and and and and and as a way to get her to shut up so I could eat I offered her a bite.  And of course she said no, but then she said, "well, maybe if you don't finish it".

Of course I'm not going to finish this thing.  The patty is the size of a softball.  It's $16 worth of food.  Meat.  My body can't handle half of this thing.  I don't eat this much beef in a year's time.  But surely she can't be serious.  If she wants one so bad, she'd order one.  I mean, her drinks probably cost $16.  One less merlot and one more burger, right?  Right?

The whole time we were eating, this girl (who was a normal looking girl, I might add.  Cute enough.  Not fat, not skinny.  Just a normal girl hanging out in Rittenhouse.  Long brown hair, by the looks of her tan make up and the sound of her voice I'm guessing she drove across the bridge to come out that night.  Dark pants, black and white striped sweater.  Expensive purse.  High heels.  Totally normal.  If you've been out in that part of town, you know exactly what I'm talking about) was eyeing us up.  Nostrils flaring.  She put on her lipstick twice.  Because it had been licked off, I presume.

As a joke, sort of, I put my leftovers on my bread plate and offered them to her.  And she took them.  And started eating them faster than I could warn her that the burger was, for all intents and purposes, raw.  Most people don't like raw meat.  Most people don't want my left overs.  Most people don't even want to watch me eat what is on my plate.  This girl was eating so fast that she didn't seem to notice that there was blood on her hands.  When I did get the warning out, she swallowed and replied, "oh I know!  I love it!  Usually when people give me their burgers, they are medium or medium well, and that is way too overdone for me.  This is just perfect!"

Recap.  Slo mo.  Usually when people give me their burgers...
This isn't the first time she's done this.
She's the Hamburglar. 

It's funny.  And shocking.  And weird.  And taboo.  And a thousand other things.  It happened two weeks ago and I'm still not sure exactly what happened there and what to think of it.  I mean, I'm really happy someone ate it, because that's a lot of food to go to waste.  I wouldn't have taken it home.  
I wouldn't have given that burger to a homeless person because raw foods usually send the old colon into a tailspin.  And if you don't have a working toilet at your disposal?  Yeah.
In all my years of working in and eating in restaurants, I've never seen this.  I can't stop thinking about it.
I've come to the conclusion that it's actually kind of sad.  None of her friends acted like it was strange.  No one said "put that down!" or "what are you doing!" or "if you are hungry let's order something!".  No one said anything.  It wasn't very late at night.  Nine maybe?  Ten.  No one should be so drunk by then that a stranger's food in an upscale- or downscale, or off scale, or even effing McDonald's- restaurant seems appealing.  No one should be so hungry that scraps are the only option.
It's a burger.  It wasn't something exotic that she maybe wanted to try before ordering.  Or her favorite something that the kitchen ran out of.  Or, gosh, I don't know.  I just don't know.

The damned girl ate off my plate in a fancypantsed place and I don't know what to make of it.

Do you?

So, there's this girl.

No, wait.  That's not a good way to start this story.

So, sometimes I ride the 23 bus downtown in the morning.  And there's this girl who gets on round about Ellsworth and I am just over the moon about her.  I'd say she's almost 40, but she looks just a little past 30.  I don't think she's a little past 30 but looks almost 40.  She's just not that kind of lady.  If I get on the bus around 8.40, she's sure to be on there, and I study everything she does and wears and the way she moves and how she breathes and situates her toes under her knees and and and and.

I was a bit preoccupied by my book this morning, and didn't notice that when the guy next to me got up, she sat down and I'm sort of glad I didn't but I almost wished I did and for three blocks I considered skipping my stop because I have a couple hours of comp time today that I was planning to use to clean the kitchen but I could just as easily use it to see where she works but that would be creepy and I didn't want to have to bother her by making her get up because she was clearly busy checking her phone and she looked so peaceful that I didn't want to cause a stir.  But, I did.

"Excuse me"

And she said, "oh sure.  I love your bag"

And my brain said "I love you, I love your hair, I love the way it curls and you don't try to straighten it but you know how to manage it and I love your glasses and your earrings and your nose and your wine colored lipstick that isn't matte but it isn't glossy and how you wear it all year round and I can depend on it in rain or shine and I love all your dresses and the way you make your jeans look and I love your shoes because I really love maryjanes and you have at least six pairs and I love your phone- I have a Blackberry too we can messenger each other all the time if we exchange numbers, and I love your rings and your bracelets and the anklet you wear in the summer and I love the books you read and the way you use Pilot V5s to do the puzzles in the Metro and the way you put your bus pass in the same spot in your wallet (that I love) and I love and admire the way you are on time every day and how you shake out your umbrella outside and put it away before you get on the bus so you don't make a mess and how you give your seat to old people and ladies with babies and little girls in skirts while you compliment them and do you have children because maybe we can make a playdate or we can just get a coffee during the day sometime or a tea maybe or do you like Thai because I know this great place at the Terminal if you want to get lunch sometime and maybe if lunch goes well we can get a drink one day after work or maybe on a Saturday and talk about starting a bookclub or a writers club do you write because you look like you write, I love your neighborhood, I love the way it's one neighborhood up from mine and although it's pretty much the same it's a little bit different and the Mexican food is a little bit better in yours but you have to deal with the tourists and the vermin from the Market more than I do, I love the Market, but I don't love tourists and vermin, do you deal with that much, and did you know that peppermint oil can keep away mice and  I love peppermint oil because it's not just good to keep away the mice, but it's also a disinfectant and it can help with bad breath and headaches and bellyaches and it's really good for clearing your sinuses if you put a little on the back of your neck and  your temples it helps clears you up and oh, have you ever neti-ed if not you really should  I love neti pots, I feel the way about neti pots the way some people feel about Jesus, I could seriously stand on a mountain and preach the Gospel of Neti but secretly I like to call it the Snot Pot, so gross right, have you done it, you really should.  Neti Saves.  You wouldn't believe what comes out of your head the first time you do it, I mean like, buttons and shit I had cat hair and, like, black, like, dust and stuff up there I almost puked when I saw what came out so can I get your number, or maybe your card, or should I give you mine and that way you can call me if you want to, I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to because no pressure, I wouldn't be offended if you didn't, I mean you really must be busy you look like a busy person, with the Blackberry and the books and the paper and you wear a lot of dresses so you probably have, like a real high end job or something so you might not want to call me or whatever I mean, whatever, do what you want.  I love you.  Call me.  Or don't.  I love you.  I've been watching you for years.  You're amazing.  You're everything I want to be.  You define the word "woman" for me.  Sometimes when I buy things I picture you wearing them.  One time I got close enough to you and I breathed really deep so I could smell your hair and I smiled because we use the same shampoo.  I love you.  Let's be friends and drive to the countryside when the weather breaks and make daisy chains and wear them in our hair and hold hands and spin in circles until we fall down laughing and just lie where we fall for hours and days.

But my mouth said, "thank you!  I like your...
and a thousand years passed and countless suns rose and set and I formed my word carefully because it was early in the morning and I wanted to be very cautious with what passed my lips because I'm still all dysphasic from the migraine meds and now my allergies are in full force and that never helps and so help me Neti if the word 'vagina' or 'breasts' or something of the like came out right here I would absolutely effing die and I would probably be sitting in a jail cell with a slapmark across my cheek right now
"jacket!  is it new?  I've been looking for one like that but it's near impossible to find something like that." 

And she said "oh, it's ages old, I'm almost embarrassed to tell you how long I've had it."
And then I laughed and she laughed and I got off the bus and maybe next time I see her I'll say hello instead of staring at her like some icked out creepster.

Is it just me who gets this way around certain people?  I'm normally extremely outgoing and comfortable around everyone and can think of one thousand conversation starters and middlers and enders and I never have a problem around most people.  But then I get a girlcrush on someone and I turn awkward and inept and and and desperately in need of a helmet and kneepads and 28 days of intensive inpatient therapeutic programming.


I was just going to say that maybe next time I see her I'll sneak a camera phone pic of her so you guys can see her, but that's probably a step in the wrong direction.  Plus, you'd be all, seriously Lora?  What's the big deal?  Just say hello.  Make a new friend.  People do it every day.  Stop being such a stalker.

coming out

So, I wasn't sure how to tell you this, or even if I should, or if it's too early, or too late, or if we're supposed to talk about it, or whatever, but I'm going to BlogHer.

Sort of.

I mean, it's right up the proverbial street from me this year, and if I don't like it or no one likes me I can always just jump on the Chinatown bus and come home whenever I want.  It's not like it's hard to get from here to there or there to here.  And I already have roomies. 

But, I don't have a ticket.  Or pass. Or whatever they call it.

And I'm not going to buy one, or try to score one off eBay, because I don't care a lick about networking and advertisements and sponsorships and promotions and all that other stuff that BlogHer (trademark) is all about.  Namely, I don't feel comfortable giving my money to The BlogHer Conference Fund for the same reasons that you don't see a BlogHer banner on my sidebar.  I think that BlogHer does a lot of good things, it's just not for me.  I'm weird like that.

I just care about togetherness and rainbows and kittens and sunshine and chronicling the human experience and hanging out with my internet and real life writer besties in New York a few days before my 34th birthday.

can I get a what what
from alla my bloggers
who ain't gotta intrest in
no monetizin' confrence.
but would ratha getta getta bus pass
and maybe maybe hit the City?
now lemme see who wantsa
bounce wit me bounce wit me .

I mean, all I'm saying is that all you writers out there who have ever felt like a failure because you aren't making bank off your words and photos or like you aren't good enough because you don't have a giant followership or those of you who don't have the hundreds of dollars to fork over or those of you who don't have a desire to spend the hundreds of dollars that you do have on something Corporate (fight the powers that be!), or those of you who don't want to be put on the waitlist... yeah... New York City is still open for business, and we can bring peanut butter and jelly and granola bars and loaves of bread so we don't have to spend tons of money on food.  And I'm pretty sure there are liquor stores and grocery stores and corner stores there.  So we don't have to spend mad dollars on food and booze.

No need to be intimidated.

And if we aren't going to the conferences, we don't have to worry about business casual attire.  So NO SPANX.  Do you hear me, ladies?  NO SPANX, or control tops of any kind.  No high heels during daylight hours unless you absolutely want to, since we will be walking around and getting cultured.  So many people complain that they enjoyed BlogHer but missed out on getting to know the host city.  Well, not us.  We are going out as we are and coming back better people for it.  Who cares if our stomachs stick out or our legs aren't elongated?  How about it?  We are writers.  No one ever stops a supermodel on the street and asks her to stop quick and draft a coherent essay.

And we will hang out in public, lessening our chances of being slaughtered by psycho blogstalkers.  (read: no hotel parties, especially with boybloggers.  Sorry, fellas.  A bunch of us ladies will meet you somewhere else if we all agree that's what we all want to do.).

And what else?  I'm trying to use this paragraph to list all the reasons I haven't yet been to BlogHer.  Can you tell? 

I did buy an Expo Hall and Cocktail Party pass though. 

And maybe I'll have some business cards made up.  It sounds douchey, but I think it's the normal thing to do there.

Anyone else headed to New York in August for this BlogGer thing?

Do you remember that feeling you had about the rival high school?  Or like, the way you feel when your favorite team plays their archenemies?  How much you really can't stand those other guys and you hope that they lose at everything?

That's how I feel about New Jersey.

I just don't like it over there.  I hate going there, I hate driving there, I hate spending my dollars in their stores, and I hate being there.

But I went there today.
Mostly to go to David's Bridal to buy a bridesmaid's dress for the wedding I'm in this August.  The dress is cute, and as a bonus I fit in it without getting any alterations.  Today.  We'll see how well I can slither into this thing in five months.
We have a DB here in Philadelphia, but it's a million miles away all the way up the Boulevard and it would have taken me the better part of the morning to get there and back.

So, I broke down and crossed the bridge.

Have you ever been shopping in Jersey?  It's like a real live place!  There's all sorts of things over there and it's all in one place!  Shopping malls, shopping centers, shopping plazas!  Shopping, shopping shopping, shopping!  Spend, want, buy, need!  A thousand stores, a thousand cars, a thousand people, all in one place, all doing the same thing!  It was like a retail circus!  Any store you could ever dream of, separated by nothing but a brick wall and a tanning salon!  Or nail salon! Or a women's only gym!  I got all my running around done in record time!  And I didn't have to ride the bus!  Or walk anywhere!  All my errands, all my to-do's done, all by noon!

Which would have been nice, but I use my running around and errands and to-do's to escape from my housework and my family. 
Don't tell them I told you that.

Is it sad that I look forward to grocery shopping, because it gives me a chance to listen to the voices that live inside my head?  That I hope for redlights because it means I can check my email on my phone?  That I purposely pick the longest line at Target?
I don't think so.  That it's sad, I mean.
I don't think I think so.
I don't know what I think.

But, I tried on twenty $20 dresses at Old Navy and bought two.  I picked up some party supplies and Easter basket stuffers (is that what we call it?  fillers? loot? booty? bunny booty.  I like it, and that's what we will be calling it in our house.) for next Saturday at Party City.  I drove around a few plazas just because I could and I wanted to see what was there just in case I ever needed to use New Jersey again.  I went to Target just because it was there and I wanted to see if it was different from the one in South Philly and I needed a few things.  It was. 

You know the racks full of stuff that we make fun of?  The baby doll dresses and shirts that you need fake boobs or no boobs to wear and J-Lo type onesies for grownups and that sort of thing?  People were flocked around those racks.  Pushing and fighting to be the first to get to the rompers before anyone else can.  Hand to God, I am absolutely not making a Jersey Joke.  Once I heard "I think this is a bathing suit cover up, but I'm going to wear it out tonight" and another time I heard "This is a bikini but I'm going to wear it for underwear".  I love it.

Oh also?  I wanted to pick up some self tanner?  But they were all out.  ALL out.  ALL ALL out.  Like, no self tanner anywhere to be found- no brands were left.  I guess it's quite popular on the eastern side of the Delaware River.  Who knew?

I need stockings, but I'm really picky about them.  I hate pantyhose/nylons/those nude/suntan/black colored sausage encasement things that remind me of unwashed office staff and smelly vaginal areas and all the scabby parts of Melanie Griffith and Courtney Love and Amy Winehouse balled together and crammed into a used condom.  I hate them.  I hate the way they look and feel and just, ick.  Everything about them. 
I like fishnets.  I will only wear fishnets.  Even to church.  In black or tan.  Not like, slutty fishnets.  But nice tightly-diamonded ones with a seam up the back.  The kind your grandma used to wear.  They are really hard to find and I just tore the last pair I had a month or so ago.  I figured that of all the States in the Union, New Jersey would carry them just about everywhere, but no.  I'm so mad.  And sad.
Out of desperation, I picked up something that I found on a clearance endcap. 
"fishnet flatters with sheer coverage"
Perfect!  I'll take it!
It turns out that this thing is a knock-off Spanx type thing, and even though they are touted as fishnets, they are more like fishnettesque print tight-like pantyhose.
Tights are for children. 
Pantyhose are for... not me.
What a disaster.
I'll let you know how this pans out.
I hope I'll be able to eat in this device thing, because I'm going out for Dave's birthday dinner tonight and I have a baby shower tomorrow and I plan on eating a great deal of food at both events. 
I blame the State of New Jersey.

You have to pay to leave New Jersey.  An Exit Tax. A Bridge Toll.  My favorite thing to do is to look in peoples' cars and find someone who looks like my dead opposite.  Someone who is the most un-white person on the bridge. Then I cut in front of them in the toll line.  Then I pay their toll and tell the person in the booth, "that's my mom/dad/sister/brother in that Ford/Acura/Mazda/Honda.  I'd like to pay for them too" and I drive off, wondering if the toll person is all like WTF? when they pull up.

Sometimes people drive up and wave, sometimes not.  I don't care much either way.  It's only $4. 

Today's $4 went to what I thought was a sad looking middle aged lady (the old black guy got pissed that I cut him off and swerved into another lane.  his loss) in a banged up pick up truck but what turned out to be a guy who looked like The Dude, sweater and all.  He followed me off my exit and up Broad.  Maybe he was going my way, maybe not.  He was crying and smiling and thanked me a thousand times at a red light.  I didn't know what to say.  I didn't want to say "it was only $4 and I did it because I had the will power to not buy myself a Shamrock Shake so you got the money I set aside for that" because to him it obviously was more, so I said "it's such a beautiful afternoon I wanted to share how happy I'm feeling with someone else.  Enjoy your day, Dude" (I had to call him that, I just had to) and took the long way home to make sure he wasn't following me.

I have to go back to Jersey in a few weeks to pick up my dyed-to-match shoes from David's.  So, if you need a ride over the bridge for anything, let me know and you can take a ride.  My dress will be ready in May, so that's another chance to head over.  If it's nice, maybe we'll hooky work and go to the beach for the day.  Play a dollar or two in AC and then drive to OC for a slice at Mack and Manco's or something.

A Charge to Keep I Have

Weather like this makes me glad I have a warm house. Not terribly warm, as we ran a bit low on oil a few times this winter and due to the- jeez, did we get four feet of snow this year? Six? I don't know. It was piled eight, nine, fifteen feet high in some spots.  All those snowstorms made it awfully chilly in here, but it was always warm enough.

The bad thing about snow in a city like this is you can't just shovel your driveway (you don't usually have a driveway to shovel) into your yard (ditto on the yard thing) and drive out onto a freshly plowed street and go about your day.

There is nowhere to put the snow. They tried dumping it in the river one year with terrible results. Flooding and pollution and pH problems and all sorts of mess. 
It's mostly gone now, and our water tastes like it came out of a swimming pool, but that happens sometimes.  It means the Waterworks is trying to keep it clean for us.  Just a side effect of Big City Living, and as long as you let it sit out for awhile it's fine.  Soon enough it will taste swampy, and that means Spring is here.  You take the good with the bad.

I tried to be good with the thermostat by keeping the house in the low 60s during the days and using the fireplace (ventless insta-gas. I think it's funny that Jake says "turn on the" instead of "build a", "set a", or "make a" fire.).  I think I hope I'm pretty sure we are through the worst of it.  There are a few 50 degree days in the forecast, and that has to count for something.  It has to be a sign that better days are on the way.

I've lined the pockets of the oilguy for last time this season, that much I know for sure.

***

This sort of winter makes me glad that I don't work with homeless Philadelphia residents anymore. Do you think it's weird to think of, to count, homeless people as residents?  To count homeless people as much of anything?  I did, when I first took the job. I thought it was weird to consider people without a home, as "residing" anywhere. But they do.  They reside right here, and over there, and there too. 

Philadelphia calls a Code Blue when the temps drop (and a Code Red when they skyrocket). They send outreach workers on the streets to round up the homeless. Most stay in the same spots each night. Workers get to know them. Their names. The spots they claim. It isn't too hard to get most of them to come willingly when the weather is so terrible. There aren't too many people freezing or boiling to death on our city streets every year, thankfully. In fact, I don't know for sure, but I think more people freeze or overheat to death in their homes each year than on their street. Wow, right? Take that to the bank and smoke it.

It's when the weather is half-decent to downright gorgeous that it is hard to keep tabs on people.

On a beautiful day it's hard to know whether someone is dead or alive. Sick or well. On meds or off. Infected. Defected. Affected. Dejected. Afflicted. Effected. Insected. All sorts of ecteded. That's sort of important in the Wide World of Public Health.

~It's sort of important in the Wide World of Tourism too.  When you bring your shiny happy children down to see the Liberty Bell, you might want to do so knowing that there isn't, say, an outbreak of _____ lurking on the park bench that you sit on to eat the pb&js you brought from home so you wouldn't have to eat off the icko lunch carts.~

When the weather was nice, it was always very hard for us to keep tabs on our clients when they didn't need us.  But we needed them.  We needed them to make sure they were well. 
But lots of times they didn't care if they were well so they didn't bother to show up for appointments to tell us how they were doing.
Sometimes they didn't need us because they just up and moved out of town or back home. 
Sometimes their mom/wife/sister/brother/friend/roommate/cousin took them back in. 
Sometimes they died. 
Sometimes they had plenty of food from whatever source they found.  Back then there were all sorts of soup kitchens, but at least then they were signing in and there was a network of social workers so we would know if and when and where they were signing in so we could tell Patti at St. Dogooder's Hall that we really need to see John Smith so next time John stopped in for a hot or a cot she would either send him in to us or get what we needed from him for us. 
Sometimes they found an abandoned house to squat in, and would hide out in there until the City boarded it up.  You can't just leave an abandoned house.  Someone else might take it.
Sometimes sometimes sometimes. 
But most times we couldn't find someone, it was because they were getting plenty of cash money to feed themselves and their addictions by begging it off passersby. 
Gotta quarter pretty lady?
Got change?  I need something to eat.
Anything to spare?
I used to ask how much my clients pulled in.  Some of them pulled in hundreds of dollars.  A day.  I saw it, balled up in socks and corners and creases and places you didn't know could hold money.

Keep your money out of your mouth. 

Not all homeless people are crazy.  Or addicts.
But lots are, and that's where the money goes.  And the ones that were really knew how to hustle.  They targeted students and Union League goers and the Young Republicans' functions.  I thought that was funny, that there was a system all worked out.  They did too.  "Ain't no Young Democrats givin' no bums no money.  They always jus tellin' me where the soup kitchens are an' shit.  Always tryin' to help with words.  Givin' me cards for the programs they work for.  I ain't got time for that shit.  Miss Lora, you gotta get at the Conservative folks.  They the ones with the guilt money.  Catch'em comin' outta rich folk functions.  Liberals got no money.  Y'all doin' jobs like the one you got here.  Y'all'r poor folks, I'm not takin' y'alls' change.". 

I guess it's not just chance that there is always a gaggle of homeless people hanging out by the valet stands.  Us liberals take the bus.  Or something.

And then there are the ones who steal clothes from the laundromat and clean themselves up and tell you they need train fare to get back to (Insert Main Line Stop Here).  You've seen them, right?  Who doesn't pony up a couple dollars for a stranded Main Liner, lost and all alone in the Big Scary City?

Mainliner, indeed.

I digress.  Point is, please be cautious when handing out money.  Philadelphia used to have a slogan for this "The more you give change, the more things stay the same".  I don't speak for all Public Health or Social Workers, but it was really hard to do my job when my clients had money.  Money buys food and drugs.  And if you have food and drugs, you have little use or time for your Social Worker.  If you want to help, please give a clean socks, clean underwear, soap, bottled water, a sweater, a coat, a new duffle bag.  Give your time at a shelter or kitchen.  Food is always tricky because like us, homeless people have preferences and allergies and restrictions too.  Don't expect someone to be happy with something just because you gave it to them and they are hungry.  Homeless Muslims don't eat pork any faster than Muslims with homes, keep your damned ham sandwich.  A lactose intolerant homeless person has no use for the waxen grilled cheese you don't want.

Food is a way to get men and women off the streets and into the clinics and shelters and kitchens.  We use it as an incentive for people who are willing to accept it in return for services.  And yes, in case you are wondering, there is plenty of free food out there for people who do not want services. 

Come and eat, and while you are here we'll give you a medical and psychological check up and make sure you haven't caught anything communicable and get you a round of vaccinations and talk to you about a treatment program and your shelter options and maybe get you in touch with your mother and your children and get you some clean clothes and have you jump in the shower while your clothes get washed and just see where you're at in life and let you know that we care about you because you are a real live human being who is worthy of love and care and conversation.