Pay No Attention is the official home of the "Ask a Grouchy Woman" advice column, plus Grouchy Woman's travelogues, book reviews, film reviews, commentary on politics and current events, recipes and miscellaneous grouching.
In case you aren't familiar with Operation Santa Claus: The Post Office collected letters to Santa written by underprivileged children. You could then go to the post office, pick out one of the letters, and send the child what he or she wanted for Christmas.
It was a wonderful program. I participated a couple of times, and it felt great to send these little kids gifts. My favorite was a seven year old boy in the Bronx who just said "Dear Santa, anything you give me is good." I thought this kid deserved the earth, and since I was pulling in the big bucks at the time, I gave it to him. Or rather, I sent him a razor scooter, a remote control car, a few books, a giant box of crayons, paints and paper, candy and a sweater (which several seven and eight year old boys in the Gap solemnly assured me was really cool), and some other stuff. I signed it all "from Santa", and I hope he really did believe in Santa that year. I can't tell you how good it felt to picture that kid on Christmas morning, and I think it probably felt good to be that kid, too.
Anyway, I guess it was inevitable that the world couldn't let such a terrific program go untarnished.
[A]t one of the programs, not New York’s, a man whom a letter carrier recognized as a registered sex offender had “adopted” a letter. When postal officials confronted the man, the official said, he said he was sincerely trying to do a good deed, but postal inspectors nonetheless retrieved the letter and notified the family of the child.
The good news is that the Post Office is hoping to re-start the program with new rules:
Under the fixes, the program will acquire an anonymity that might drain it of some of its warmth. Names and addresses will be blacked out and letters will be numbered. Instead of sending gifts directly, gift-givers will need to take wrapped presents to the post office and provide the recipient’s number. The post office will then send them out.
The idea of personally delivering gifts to children in the city’s poorest corners — a step that many program participants most enjoyed — is now completely unthinkable.
Well, it's better than nothing. In the meantime, I gave a more generous gift than usual to Toys for Tots this year.
First, I'd like to point out that the guy looks seriously creepy. If she's considering him, I've gotta think his bid was on the high side. Not to get all sentimental on you, but losing your virginity should be a special experience. Man, I'd hate to remember it being with this guy in return for a check. And eeww, he went on TV to discuss paying a kajillion for sex with some random virgin? He must know he's never going to get laid for free again. Who IS this guy? Doesn't he have friends and relatives who are going to be grossed out? And eeewww, he's almost three times her age. Eeww, eeewww, eeeewwww.
Second, on the flip side, I'd like to point out that . . . um . . . guys are willing to pay seven figures for sex with this chick? Is it just me being catty, or, well . . . isn't she just a tad matronly- looking when she's not airbrushed and digitally altered? I gotta say -- I'm way older than she is, but I'll bet I turn more heads in a bar than she does, even if her bajoombas ARE the size of my head. I can maybe see a guy willing to shell out the big bucks to sleep with Angelina Jolie, but this chick? I'm thinking she knows she'll look middle-aged by the time she's 27, so she's going to milk what she's got for all it's worth for the limited time she's got it.
And while I'm being catty, let me get this out -- if she's going on TV trying to sell a single night of inexperienced passion for a sum in excess of a million, couldn't she pick a more flattering blouse? Buxom, strapping maidens with robust arms should not wear fussy ruffled purple blouses with puffy sleeves. Actually, come to think of it, no one should.wear that particular blouse, but particularly not women with her build.
And Natalie's chock full of meaningless pseudo-intellectual babble to boot, coming out with snort-inducing statements like "[w]e wanted to study the dichotomous nature between virginity and prostitution. There’s really been so few case studies of it." Pompous and inane -- now that'll make for some sexy pillow talk. Next she'll probably be bleating about doing a case study on the hegemonic relationship between a prostitute and her pimp (although, actually, that statement would make more sense, and would also be a more interesting case study).
A whole class of people out there think that if they throw a word like "dichotomous" into a sentence, they've automatically said something intelligent. (Worse yet, there's a whole class of people out there that falls for it.) Natalie clearly falls into this class. Maybe once she uses her newly-earned millions to go to graduate school, she'll be a little less ridiculous? Nah, what am I saying, she'll be twice as ridiculous. In any case, I've gotta think she'll be pretty annoying to wake up with. ("When you're done, can we discuss the alterity between whore and john? There's really been so little research into that.")
Actually, now that I think about it, these two may be perfect for each other. Let's just forget I brought it up.
Oh boy, found the video of the Tyra Banks interview!
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Yep, Natalie's every bit as pretentious and ludicrous as I thought she'd be -- but I'll bet she'll cringe about this in 10 - 20 years. Huh -- Natalie's sister Aviah is way hotter than Natalie is, don't you think? But then again, Aviah also says things like "we've studied woman in the psycho-social implementation, uh, in public, you know, in public, for years, for four years -- that was our degree." FYI, Aviah worked in the brothel where Natalie plans to do the deed, so that's probably where she studied "psycho-social implementation in public."
Oh boy-- and here's the interview with Lee, the 59 year old guy who wants to deflower Natalie!
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In case you're interested, there are also three more segments to the show -- one interviewing Dennis, the brothel owner who is getting a 50% cut -- yep, 50%! -- of Natalie's profits http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPfvqr7zyVo , one interviewing two professional prostitutes at the brothel http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SX7FUMYwB88, and one that gets more babble out of Natalie in response to audience members http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXCNu3x_Jv4. I rather recommend the one with the prostitutes. Air Force Amy reminds me of what's her face, that ditzy blonde chick who used to be on Saturday Night Live. Hell, watch 'em all. But I warn you -- you'll feel just a little dirty afterward, and probably not in a good way.
My friend Amber and I dressed up and headed downtown to check out the annual Village Halloween Parade. (She was a she-devil and I was Anne Boleyn -- I've posted a photo to the left.)
What a crazy scene it was -- throngs of people in costumes ranging from the ho-hum "is that person dressed up for Halloween or not" kind of get-up to truly beautiful, imaginative designs. I think I'd award the most amusing prize to a couple, one dressed as a shark (complete with scuba-finned legs dangling out of his mouth), and the other dressed as a bloodied and mangled snorkler. It was really well done and funny.
Amber and I had our share of fans, too. Several people asked us if they could take our pictures -- I expect our costumes will make an appearance on a few blogs and in a few photo albums, particularly in Japan. (Japanese tourists seemed particularly enamored with my costume.) And of course, a lot of dudes were checking out Amber, who, as you can see, looked decidedly hot in her she-devil costume. But my favorite incident of the evening was a little girl, maybe three or four years old, giving me candy.
The little girl (dressed as Snow White) was eating dinner with her parents at an outside table at a restaurant a block or two from the parade. As Amber and I walked by, the family admired my costume, and we stopped to chat for a second. The father asked, "Are you Catherine of Aragon?" [That's Henry VIII's first wife, if you're not a history buff.] I said "Close! I'm Anne Boleyn." [That's Henry VIII's second wife]. Meanwhile the little girl is looking up at me with great big solemn eyes. The mother said to the little girl, "See, she's a princess, just like you!" and I admired her cute little dress. The little girl gave me a shy little smile and handed me a piece of candy. It was, I gotta tell you, the cutest thing ever.
We bumped into them again a little later, and they came over to say they hadn't seen a prettier gown than mine all evening. Grouchy Mom will be pleased -- she made my gown for me as a birthday gift after I'd admired the costumes she'd made for my nieces. I cobbled together the French hood (the thing perched on my head), which is modeled on the style Anne would have worn (I've posted a portrait of the real Anne to the right). Of course, I tend to doubt that Anne Boleyn used cardboard in the construction of her French hood, but you never know.
My costume will make another appearance at a party tomorrow night. That will give me another shot to work out some bugs with the French hood. If Anne were alive today, I'd ask her what she did to keep the damn thing on straight -- I had to keep adjusting it all night.
OK, maybe we weren't speaking of deep vein thrombosis, but I was thinking about it, as I always do before long flights. Did you know athletic people are actually more susceptible to it than sedentary people? 'Struth. I've got my fancy-pancy compression socks, which are supposed to help, but I'm still always kind of nervous about it. it can kill you, you know.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago someone told me about a company called GTC Biotherapeutics, which has this herd of genetically-engineered goats. Apparently their milk has some kind of proteins in it that could be used to create a drug, A Tryn, that would treat a bunch of illnesses in humans, including strokes. I was googling the company this afternoon, and it turns out one of the things for which the drug potentially could be used is to prevent deep-vein thrombosis. Huh.
Anyway, the FDA assigned A Tryn priority review this month (see previous link), and will act on it in February. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to toss the compression socks some day. Stay tuned.
I thought he was a great actor, a fine man, and he was still gorgeous and charming in his 80's.
He was also half of one of the only genuine Hollywood love stories. He and Joanne Woodward were married for -- what was it, fifty years? -- and I never heard a breath about an infidelity for either of them, despite the fact that both of them were beautiful and probably had people throwing themselves at them all the time. (Get back to me in 46 years, OK, Brangelina?) And they weren't always trying to call attention to themselves, either.
Anyway, I'm sad. I don't think that we're making too many stars of the Newman caliber these days. Actually, I don't think we ever did.
Last night, I dreamt that someone sawed off my thumb.
I was fixing some kind of gear -- I'm not sure on what -- I keep thinking it was a bike, but it didn't really look like a bike. By the way, sometimes I was a woman in the dream (when I was narrating the story -- you'll see what I mean -- and at times when I was fixing the gear), but other times for some reason I think I was a man (when the guy was sawing off my thumb).
There was a young man helping me with the gear. I was well aware he'd hurt me in the past while we'd been working on the gear -- burned my other hand, I think -- so I wasn't all that surprised when he got my hand behind my back and began doing something to it. But we were both strangely laid back. I wasn't all that afraid or upset -- I was describing it all in a clinical way while it was happening, as though I were writing about something that happened to someone else. I was even rather joking with him -- "don't you think that perhaps the best thing for my hand would be to run some cold water over it instead of to cut it up or burn it?" And the guy was as calm as a cucumber, telling me "you're going to feel this", like he was a doctor about to give me a shot. And weirdly, I knew he liked me -- he was not doing this because he hated me. Perhaps that's why I wasn't afraid?
I was occasionally "re-writing" things while it all was happening, saying or thinking (it was hard to tell) that some piece of dialogue wasn't all that effective and could be sharpened. The really odd thing is that I was sort of two people -- my writer self in the dream (who was a woman) was fully aware that the thumb was coming off and everything that was going to happen. But my male self was not aware -- he was only aware that the young man wanted to do something to him. But both of us were totally calm, considering the circumstances.
After my thumb was off, the guy released my hand. I was describing to myself (not experiencing, but describing -- as though I were writing) a scene in which I tried to grip my driver's license and couldn't, instead only leaving a bloody smear on the license before it slipped to the floor. I was thinking that would be a very effective way to describe the realization that I no longer had an opposable digit. And then I really did freak out -- holy crap, he cut my thumb off! I don't have a thumb! I don't have a thumb! And then I woke up.
This is definitely the Lariam. On the one hand, I'm a little scared about whether the dreams are going to get scarier and more disturbing. But on the other hand, there's also some really screwed-up Freudian imagery here. Have at it. Dissect my psyche! Analyze my dream! Go hog wild!
* * * * *
By the way -- and this might be the weirdest part -- I felt like it was possible to stop it all from happening, but I didn't. I didn't even struggle physically -- I more or less succumbed.
Actually, I know I could have stopped it. In general I have a lot of control over my dreams. I'm not sure how common that is -- I've mentioned it to a few people and they all look at me like I'm a whacko. But I can fly in my dreams -- generally whenever I want -- and I often am aware that I'm dreaming and can change -- actually "re-write" -- the outcome of the dream. For example, when I have a nightmare where someone is chasing me, I know I can fly and get away from them. That's usually what I do, but occasionally I instead, mid-dream, will invent some plot twist where I lead the pursuer into a trap.
Come to think of it, what I call my "writer self" usually intervenes in my dreams. Every once in a while I'll have a nightmare where the "writer self" doesn't step in, and I don't know I'm dreaming. That's much more common with a dream (like the wedding planning dream the other night) than with a nightmare. When that does happen, it's particularly unsettling and scary to me.
* * * * *
Oh wow, I'm not nuts (well, at least not as it relates to the ability to control my dreams)! There's even a name for it -- lucid dreaming! How cool is that?
. . . in the O'Donahue's kitchen. (The O'Donahues lived across the street from me when I was a kid. Mrs. O'Donahue still lives there, although the kids are all grown up.) It was afternoon, the sun was slanting into the kitchen, making golden streaks across the table and kitchen floor, and I could hear the Mr. Softee truck and kids playing outside. I don't know where Mrs. O'Donahue was, but I wasn't worried about it because Bill and I were engrossed in a very serious conversation. Bill was explaining to me why he, rather than Obama or McCain -- or for that matter, Hillary -- would be taking over the presidency.
Apparently I hadn't read the 22nd Amendment to the Constitution carefully enough, because it clearly provides for a president having more than two elected terms under certain circumstances. In this instance, no election need take place at all because he automatically would take over. He showed me a copy of the Constitution, and sure enough, it provides for a former president to assume the presidency under certain situations, and apparently, one of those situations had occurred, and Bill met the requirements. No one cared anymore about Monica Lewinsky. Bill and I agreed it was a good thing -- I was quite happy. It seemed the obvious solution to everything, and I couldn't understand why I hadn't realized it sooner. (Bill didn't say how Hillary felt about it, and it didn't occur to me to ask him.)
We went for a walk, and judging from the trees, autumn was far more advanced than I'd thought -- the maple leaves were yellow and red and brown, and I was wading and crunching through them to get to school, scattering them out of their neat piles and all over the sidewalk. It was cool and crisp and I was glad I had my sweater. There was Maple Avenue school right up the street, looking just the way I remember it, except with a big red slide in front and an elaborate marble fountain in front of the gymnasium door.
I had a prolonged conversation with my kindergarten teacher, Miss McCormick, who was much, much nicer than I ever remembered her being. Back when I was five, Miss McCormick was a total bitch who had no business working with kids -- she very clearly did not like them. She particularly resented me because I could read; she seemed to feel that this threw the whole class off kilter somehow. She used to reprimanded me whenever she caught me reading something, whether it were a book or just a sign on the wall. I was supposed to be learning the alphabet and eating animal crackers, not reading. I never understood -- then or now -- why this bothered her, but it clearly did. I also don't understand the point of a teacher taking away books from a child who can read them fluently and wants to do so, and instead having her recite the alphabet, which she already learned a couple of years earlier. (Can any of you elementary school teacher types explain the logic? Or was my kindergarten teacher just a freak?)
Anyway, in addition to dramatically changing her attitude, Miss McCormick had also changed her name, her hair color, her size, and her face so entirely I wouldn't have known her. She was sorry she took my books away. I felt much better having straightened things out with her. I then went to look for Mrs. Halter (my fourth grade teacher), and Mr. Candy (my fifth and sixth grade teacher). I spotted Mr. Candy (who hadn't aged a bit), and ran over to greet him. He at first seemed to recognize me and know who I was, but then he denied being Mr. Candy, and began joking around with me and teasing me. I was kind of embarrassed as I began to realize that Mr. Candy must be much older than this now . . .
As I've mentioned before, I need to take malaria medication for my upcoming Egypt/Kenya trip. My doctor gave me a prescription for Larium. You take the medication once a week, starting one week before you go, continuing once a week throughout the trip, and then once a week for a couple of weeks after you get back. Since I leave next Sunday, I started the medication yesterday.
After I already had paid $100 for the prescription, I learned that for a small number of people, Lariam has some scary side effects, ranging from nausea and vomiting (the most common side effect), raging insomnia, strangely vivid dreams (also quite common), all the way to severe depression that has resulted in suicide. Yikes.
Putting it in perspective, the whole suicide thing is rare, and I consider myself forewarned, should I get suicidal impulses over the next few weeks, that it might just be the meds. After one dose, so far I'm pretty cheerful, despite the stock market plunge and the kidnapping of a tour group in Egypt. There's no sign of nausea or any other stomach complaint. I slept all right (that one really worried me -- I have a tendency towards insomnia anyway when I travel, and the last thing I need is something else to keep me wide awake).
But then there's the vivid dream thing, and I think that's going to be my side effect.
A friend of mine told me that when her husband took Lariam, he dreamt that he was in a war, carrying a machete. I didn't go that far, but I did have a very weird (or at least uncharacteristic) dream that was so vivid it took me a few minutes after awakening to realize that it was just a dream.
In the dream, which was all in vivid, brilliant color, I was frantically running around town planning a big wedding. My wedding. Which, I'd just remembered, was to take place almost immediately, but somehow I'd forgotten all about it until now. I needed to get the cake, flowers, etc. all in order. I was really happy about the wedding, but at the same time very worried that I wouldn't be able to get all of the festivities in order. I was at the bakery, explaining the kind of cake I needed to the baker -- actually, we were assembling big, colorful sample cakes to see how they'd look -- and saying how I had to hurry, because I was so busy planning the wedding, when suddenly I realized I couldn't remember the name of the guy I was marrying. I knew I was happy and madly in love, it seemed like it was all on the tip of my tongue, but damn, I couldn't remember the dude's name. I was struggling to come up with it . . . and then of course I woke up.
Now in itself, maybe that doesn't sound particularly weird, except that it was so very vivid. But -- I've never wanted a big wedding. And I'm not engaged. I'm not even dating anyone at the moment. Hell, I'm not even on Match.com. I'm not remotely planning on getting married. And I haven't spent much time (consciously, at least) regretting any of that, and I'm probably not putting enough effort into looking for a relationship. So I find the fact that I had a technicolor dream about being bridezilla a little weird.
But here's the really weird part. For several minutes after I woke up -- I had time to go to the bathroom and turn on the coffee pot -- I was still in the world of the dream. I was sleepily but happily thinking about what else I had to do to get the wedding together and struggling through my pre-coffee fog for the name of my husband-to-be. It hit me like a brick that it was in fact only a dream -- actually, it took me a couple sips of coffee to be 100% sure it was only a dream. And then I had a momentary, but distinct, feeling of loss. I felt like I'd just broken off a relationship. That's how vivid the dream was.
And then I had another sip of coffee and I felt normal again. But I'm still a little weirded out. Is this a totally obvious indication that I'm denying to myself a secret desire for a big wedding with all the trimmings? Or do I just want some cake? Perhaps the wedding represents some other kind of big planning thing that's currently engrossing me -- say, my trip to Africa? Or can I just blame the Larium?
I guess I prefer the wedding-planning dream to the war-zone-with-machete dream, but who knows what tonight has in store. Stay tuned.
Not everyone can afford $650 dollars for the Washlet, the ass-washing toilet seat. If you're one of those unfortunate people, but still want an exciting new ass-cleaning experience, you're in luck. Toilet-paper technicians have been hard at work on your behalf.
The new product will be launched Monday. The company touts the toilet tissue as "ultra-soft" and says it plans to market the product to women 45 and older who view their bathroom as a "sanctuary for quality time."
I'm not old enough for the new toilet paper quite yet, but am chalking off the days until I am. However, while that's fine for me, it does raise an important issue. This toilet paper is decidedly sexist and age-ist.
What about men 45 and older who view their bathroom as a "sanctuary for quality time"? And what about the younger crowd? Isn't this possible that some of them view their bathroom as a "sanctuary for quality time" too? Is this just an attempt to succor outraged Hillary voters?
