Friday, June 30, 2006
A Day in Iraq. Never good idea to go to a women's summer wine soiree when one of them has a son in Iraq. Especially when the son is in the 1st Battalion 25th Marines deployed in Fallajuh. Especially when the woman is articulate and can paint you a picture what you might feel if your own son were there. Suddenly pretty pedicured feet seem rather trivial and what happens is that you wake up the next day with a wicked hangover.
Certainly the 'Support Our Troops' magnets stuck to the back of SUV's seem pretty pathetic compared to the young soldiers who are enduring average daily temperatures between 105-120 degrees Fahrenheit. The sandstorms that blow in can immobilize a unit for days -- the fine grit gets into hair, eyes, mouth, and machinery alike. Showers are a rarity (on average once a week) and the packaged food they receive at meal time about as edible as dog food. The men carry backpacks weighing up to eighty pounds (Linda's son lost 30 pounds the first month of his arrival). Most of the men get about 3-4 hours of sleep a night -- the rest of their time is divided between their active shifts and/or being called to support other troops under attack. They hate the Iraqis and most could care less about the politics that brought them to Iraq in the first place. What gets them through the ordeal is the concept of the buddy system. The men form extremely strong bonds with one another. Their sole mission really is to look out for one another.
A Subsidized Military. It is really the loving generosity from families and friends that sustain these young men. Weekly packages are sent containing supplies of all kinds, from basic food to bullet-proof vests that actually work. And thank god for the internet. The 1/25 Marines website is an invaluable resource for the families of soldiers now half-way through their tour. Since Linda's son started seven months ago, his unit has lost five of their men in roadside bomb attacks.... The website: 1st Battalion Marines Official Website
Footnote: When Linda asked her son if he hadn't at least enjoyed an excursion that took him along the Euphrates river he replied, "Not really Mom. The river is full of dead bodies."
Certainly the 'Support Our Troops' magnets stuck to the back of SUV's seem pretty pathetic compared to the young soldiers who are enduring average daily temperatures between 105-120 degrees Fahrenheit. The sandstorms that blow in can immobilize a unit for days -- the fine grit gets into hair, eyes, mouth, and machinery alike. Showers are a rarity (on average once a week) and the packaged food they receive at meal time about as edible as dog food. The men carry backpacks weighing up to eighty pounds (Linda's son lost 30 pounds the first month of his arrival). Most of the men get about 3-4 hours of sleep a night -- the rest of their time is divided between their active shifts and/or being called to support other troops under attack. They hate the Iraqis and most could care less about the politics that brought them to Iraq in the first place. What gets them through the ordeal is the concept of the buddy system. The men form extremely strong bonds with one another. Their sole mission really is to look out for one another.
A Subsidized Military. It is really the loving generosity from families and friends that sustain these young men. Weekly packages are sent containing supplies of all kinds, from basic food to bullet-proof vests that actually work. And thank god for the internet. The 1/25 Marines website is an invaluable resource for the families of soldiers now half-way through their tour. Since Linda's son started seven months ago, his unit has lost five of their men in roadside bomb attacks.... The website: 1st Battalion Marines Official Website
Footnote: When Linda asked her son if he hadn't at least enjoyed an excursion that took him along the Euphrates river he replied, "Not really Mom. The river is full of dead bodies."
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
How A
bout a Foot Theme for the Week (or maybe not): These this-morning-French-pedicured feet will momentarily go out the door to a wine soiree made up of other forty-something women for what is our weekly summer (what summer...) wine soirees. Rule: when you've just pedicured your toenails, you always wear open-toed shoes to show them off.... 
bout a Foot Theme for the Week (or maybe not): These this-morning-French-pedicured feet will momentarily go out the door to a wine soiree made up of other forty-something women for what is our weekly summer (what summer...) wine soirees. Rule: when you've just pedicured your toenails, you always wear open-toed shoes to show them off.... 
BEHOLD THE 8 A.M PEDICURED FOOT (or Anna Bloviations with too much time on her hands on her day off). OK, ok, so the little toes are permanently scrunched into the shape of black-eyed peas but otherwise we like our feet immensely. They have served us very well too, having jogged Golden Gate Park, walked Vienna, hiked the alps, swum oceans and pools, carried the extra weight of pregnancies and toddlers, crammed themselves into uncomfortable ski boots, and borne the brunt of falls, bee stings, slivers, cuts, and general negligence. Today these feet track about 15 miles of power-walking a week plus the daily trek from the subway station to the State House. They don't complain much about the high-heeled shoes we wear; they are bunion/callous free. As far as Anna Bloviations is concerned, they are smooth-all-over kissable for those with a foot fetish. Guess it's a sign of being forty-something that our most well-pampered, least sagging feature are our god-d**** feet...
Monday, June 26, 2006
Walking the Line: No, not the Johnny Cash movie -- I mean life... In our puritan New England surroundings one might call hubby and me border-line alcoholics. Transported to Paris we might just be living normally and good-grief why don't we smoke? At the other end of the spectrum, in a Muslim country we would be flat-out flogged.
Admittedly, wine is integral to our lives -- in fact I couldn't actually imagine an evening without several glasses of it. This clearly constitutes dependency. That said, there is some relativity to the dependency aspect in that the French might say that wine is as integral as good food, beautiful surroundings, family and friends -- a taste odyssey not to be denied any human on a daily basis.
Bottom line: we admit that our wine does indeed numb certain aspects of life that become cumulative pressure points for Anna Bloviations e.g. the ugliness of the commute, the ugliness of how mankind treats one another, the ugliness of how mankind treats the planet. In essence for every evening that a glass of wine washes down a delectable dinner, two or three glasses of wine on another night wash down our over-sensitivity to a world we think mad.
But Anna Bloviations' life is relatively speaking wonderful. In a subjective kind of way. No let's qualify that: it is wonderful in a way many people would covet. Safe to say Anna Bloviations will successfully ward off any propensities to go over the edge into a daze of alcoholic stupor any time soon. Which is the only way. Not so for her youngest Austrian brother-in-law who has become a raging alcoholic we hear. He sits every evening in a Viennese 'Gasthaus' and drinks the place to a whirling, incoherent close. His alcoholism has made him paranoid i.e. the family is at fault for his woes. He weeps. He is alone. I think about him a lot now. Wine, like all good things, can tip precariously to darker sides dear friends. Coming from a long line of 'border line alcoholics, we see this painfully clear I'm afraid.
Admittedly, wine is integral to our lives -- in fact I couldn't actually imagine an evening without several glasses of it. This clearly constitutes dependency. That said, there is some relativity to the dependency aspect in that the French might say that wine is as integral as good food, beautiful surroundings, family and friends -- a taste odyssey not to be denied any human on a daily basis.
Bottom line: we admit that our wine does indeed numb certain aspects of life that become cumulative pressure points for Anna Bloviations e.g. the ugliness of the commute, the ugliness of how mankind treats one another, the ugliness of how mankind treats the planet. In essence for every evening that a glass of wine washes down a delectable dinner, two or three glasses of wine on another night wash down our over-sensitivity to a world we think mad.
But Anna Bloviations' life is relatively speaking wonderful. In a subjective kind of way. No let's qualify that: it is wonderful in a way many people would covet. Safe to say Anna Bloviations will successfully ward off any propensities to go over the edge into a daze of alcoholic stupor any time soon. Which is the only way. Not so for her youngest Austrian brother-in-law who has become a raging alcoholic we hear. He sits every evening in a Viennese 'Gasthaus' and drinks the place to a whirling, incoherent close. His alcoholism has made him paranoid i.e. the family is at fault for his woes. He weeps. He is alone. I think about him a lot now. Wine, like all good things, can tip precariously to darker sides dear friends. Coming from a long line of 'border line alcoholics, we see this painfully clear I'm afraid.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Local level: town residents are allowed to drop off four cans of latex paint to the dump daily. Anna Bloviations has about twenty or more in her garage, most of which were experiments for the new house. The offer to pay the town dump the money I'd be spending on gas to transport four cans of paint each so that they'd take them all at once was beyond their scope of comprehension. And our dear planet is that much warmer for their incomprehension.
The Massachusetts government hard at work: the Representative from Revere has submitted legislation to make the Fluffernutter sandwich (a concoction of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter) the Commonwealth's sandwich....
The federal government hard at work: the son's new US passport arrived (finally). Except oops. Somebody doesn't know their geography very well. Instead of being born in Austria, they wrote Australia...
Media Manipulations hard at work: the slow but incessant drum beat has begun i.e. how do you make sure the Republicans don't go down in flames this upcoming election? Fear. And the stories have started. A group 'with possible terrorist links' arrested here. An evil plot uncovered there. We're winning; we're winning: just stick with us and we'll win....
The Massachusetts government hard at work: the Representative from Revere has submitted legislation to make the Fluffernutter sandwich (a concoction of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter) the Commonwealth's sandwich....
The federal government hard at work: the son's new US passport arrived (finally). Except oops. Somebody doesn't know their geography very well. Instead of being born in Austria, they wrote Australia...
Media Manipulations hard at work: the slow but incessant drum beat has begun i.e. how do you make sure the Republicans don't go down in flames this upcoming election? Fear. And the stories have started. A group 'with possible terrorist links' arrested here. An evil plot uncovered there. We're winning; we're winning: just stick with us and we'll win....
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Let the Dog Sniff Me... i.e. according to Harper's Magazine stats, certain cancer-detecting dogs are more effective detecting cancer than anything modern western medicine can bring to the table. They're cheaper and cuter too.
After many years not bothering to go for a mamography, peer pressure finally cajoled me into going for a check-up. Geez, what a f***** scam. Here's what happens: they change you into putrid-green gowns of such an unbecoming shade that you begin to feel sick even if you are not. Then they make you wait with Judge Judy blaring her verdicts on the TV to barely literate morons. So now in addition to feeling sick, you are starting to go insane. You begin to leaf through old editions of House Garden and Ladies Home Journal -- insipid enough fare that you can't quite get the other women in the waiting room out of your peripheral. Are they there for just a routine check? Which one discovered a lump?
Anna Bloviation's was in for boob-squeeze Numero 2 after a nurse called to leave a soft-spoken, urgent sounding message that they would like to take a look a the right boob again following boob-squeeze Numero 1. Reluctantly, we enter into the boob imagery room and submit to painful sessions of trying to squeeze really-rather-petite boobs into 21st century machinery not much different from torture stretching machines of medieval times.
Suffice to say, Anna Bloviations has no intention of ever again submitting her right boob to any kind of machine intent on squishing it to painful submission. Especially given the aftermath. The aftermath entails sitting in the waiting room wondering what is taking the radiologist so long to diagnose your second set of pics to the point that even as a born-diehard-optimist, you can't help but begin to wonder if you don't have, gulp, the "C" word. Of course when we go across the hall to ask how much longer it might be because we've left the son waiting at Target to be picked up, we discover the radiologist and technicians having a nice chat about the Red Sox.
Now I'm on to them. They make you wait so long so you'll get frantically worried and then agree to ANYTHING they tell you they want to do with you in the future (especially if they know you have good insurance). "It'll be just two minutes," one of the technicians says gravely, but not entirely convincingly given he was just caught talking in an equally grave voice about an errant baseball player. When finally called in, the radiologist tries his best to regain the upper hand given that annoyance, rather than fear, is what meets him across the table. "Well there are these two very tiny specs which might possibly be calcium deposits. But on these other shots you can't even see them. So just to be sure we'd like you to come back in in six months....." Yeah right. I'm looking in the Yellow Pages for cancer-sniffing dogs thank you very much.
After many years not bothering to go for a mamography, peer pressure finally cajoled me into going for a check-up. Geez, what a f***** scam. Here's what happens: they change you into putrid-green gowns of such an unbecoming shade that you begin to feel sick even if you are not. Then they make you wait with Judge Judy blaring her verdicts on the TV to barely literate morons. So now in addition to feeling sick, you are starting to go insane. You begin to leaf through old editions of House Garden and Ladies Home Journal -- insipid enough fare that you can't quite get the other women in the waiting room out of your peripheral. Are they there for just a routine check? Which one discovered a lump?
Anna Bloviation's was in for boob-squeeze Numero 2 after a nurse called to leave a soft-spoken, urgent sounding message that they would like to take a look a the right boob again following boob-squeeze Numero 1. Reluctantly, we enter into the boob imagery room and submit to painful sessions of trying to squeeze really-rather-petite boobs into 21st century machinery not much different from torture stretching machines of medieval times.
Suffice to say, Anna Bloviations has no intention of ever again submitting her right boob to any kind of machine intent on squishing it to painful submission. Especially given the aftermath. The aftermath entails sitting in the waiting room wondering what is taking the radiologist so long to diagnose your second set of pics to the point that even as a born-diehard-optimist, you can't help but begin to wonder if you don't have, gulp, the "C" word. Of course when we go across the hall to ask how much longer it might be because we've left the son waiting at Target to be picked up, we discover the radiologist and technicians having a nice chat about the Red Sox.
Now I'm on to them. They make you wait so long so you'll get frantically worried and then agree to ANYTHING they tell you they want to do with you in the future (especially if they know you have good insurance). "It'll be just two minutes," one of the technicians says gravely, but not entirely convincingly given he was just caught talking in an equally grave voice about an errant baseball player. When finally called in, the radiologist tries his best to regain the upper hand given that annoyance, rather than fear, is what meets him across the table. "Well there are these two very tiny specs which might possibly be calcium deposits. But on these other shots you can't even see them. So just to be sure we'd like you to come back in in six months....." Yeah right. I'm looking in the Yellow Pages for cancer-sniffing dogs thank you very much.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Moment of Weakness. Rare, but it happens. As in we folded like cheap aluminum siding, we did... Yes the son that was to be kept in Washington D.C. is home for a short spell. He called with a gap of three or four days with no place to stay and his math calculated that a train ride home and back would be a lot cheaper than hotels. "OK", we said, "but you'll have to leave this weekend." But then we forgot that yesterday was Father's Day and how could we make him go home on Father's Day?... We also noticed what terrible care he has been taking of his teeth and so a dental appointment was made while he's here. Oh bother, 'just stay through until next weekend' we here ourselves say over a lovely glass of wine and Father's Day dinner.... We think of heavy-lifting projects we can make him do and intend to make sure he is sending out his resume every day to job postings. Something he probably wouldn't do holed up with the frat boys who invited the son to stay with them in their summer rental until the son's apartment is available July 1.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
BRILLIANT!!!!!!!!!!!! Kudos go to Nestle (Inc.?, LLC?). In response to recent legislation in many states banning soda from school premises (as a measure to minder childhood obesity), Nestle has launched a campaign promoting the latest and greatest in kids' drinks. Yes, water [!] is the trend drink of the moment. Packaged in a Tele-Tubby bottle called AquaPod (do they have an agreement do you think with Apple?), you could probably buy this new-fangled drink for $1.25...If I were a Town/City Water Department anywhere in the country with half-way decent water, I can tell you I'd be launching some kind of counter campaign against the absurdity of paying such a mark-up on what is in most parts of the country a still quite ubiquitous safe, healthful product...
The Awaited Pronoun. The Rep and Anna Bloviations have been wondering for weeks now if our new hire is gay or not. The Rep's 'Gay-dar' said yes; Anna Bloviations wasn't so sure. But hints were definitely dropped i.e. he let us know he was joining friends in last weekend's Gay Pride Parade in Boston. OK...., but the Rep often attends this parade and he's not gay so it doesn't necessarily follow that our new guy is gay by association. By experience, when a gay person wants to let you know they are gay, they at some point in a conversation non-chalantly drop the he/she pronoun i.e. he/she says: "Yes, this weekend I celebrated six months with my partner [almost the pronoun but not yet]. He's/She's just so great... I'm crazy about him/her." OK there it is. Thank you. Got it. But our new guy went about it a different way (we should mention as a matter of interest that he is from a family of eleven -- eight of whom are sisters -- Believe it or not they are neither Catholic or Mormon). But we digress. He says to me today, "Do you know the nearest place I might pick up a copy of the Improper Bostonian?" I suggest the Omni Hotel and am clueless to the direction of his inquiry. After lunch he comes back and flips the procured magazine to the back section. "Here's a picture of me and my friends!" he exclaims. The poor boy (all 25-years-old of him) is shaking as he hands me the magazine. I smile and look at the photo of him and two friends. His friends are two males. The backdrop of the photo/story is a hot new gay club on Boylston Street in Boston. We think briefly to the recently featured article in D.C. where Anna Bloviations' son's 'wingman'/hetero-sexual lifestyle was so prominently featured. Difference? Well, the son gave his name to the reporter for one thing (but not his picture). My guy at the State House didn't give his name (but there was his picture....) Is the son any more stupid than our newly hired? Hell if I know. I know both are smart. Both are charming. Both graduated college. Both are trying to make their way [our guy at the State House moved to Boston because his brother had cancer and he wanted to be closer to him]. Both obviously get drunk at bars and don't make the wisest of decisions vis a vis the press....
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
As Beautiful and Fragile As A Day. This beauty in Anna Bloviations' garden will be wilted by tomorrow i.e. the grand peony's bloom is especially susceptible to gravity -- the stems simply too slender to hold the weight of these showy petals. But on just the right day, these flowers are a breathtaking sight. And today is that day. A day we don't have to go to the office. And while puttering about, we will try not to worry about the new CEO at hubby's software company who is bound to wag his penis around like a usurping young male lion marking its territory -- another turf fight in the making and one that surely won't be pretty. And when we know that turf war is just over the hill, this blooming peony looks especially vulnerable to wayward piss....
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Hooked on Craigslist.com. There just isn't a better medium to hook up buyers to sellers who live in the same area i.e. my portable A/C listed Friday evening and twenty minutes later a guy from Wintrhop emailing interest to buy it. It is also how we found the young lady from Siberia who is now the official webmaster for the Representative's website. It will hopefully be a promising site for the son to find a job in D.C. (he can't play the wingman game all of the time after all).
Cell Phones and Google Maps. Perhaps no better way to help a wayward commuting daughter find her way home again in the lashing rain. Especially that borderline hysteria and incomprehensible sobbing are not conducive to asking strangers for directions.
A Whole Lot of Quality B.S. When the head of the business office marched upstairs to have someone in our office explain why it was we needed an extra computer, it was admitedly sheer luck that the Queen of B.S., Anna Bloviations, was on hand to confront the tough cookie from Dorchester. Her piercing blue eyes never wavered from my face -- clearly she was looking for tell-tale facial features that would indicate a yarn. You couldn't hear a pin drop in that office as I stared right back into don't-mess-with-me lady's face and used words like 'the inconvenience of toggling between applications' and 'a designated computer used solely for tracking legislation and budget items' etc. She asked all of the good hard questions like 'why can't you just minimize the applications you aren't working on' and I shot back things like 'the fragility of Excel, memory issues, crashing, etc. 'OK I'll tell them exactly what you said' she Dorchestered. We don't know who 'them' is but if there suddenly appears a new computer we'll know who won that one I guess.
Cell Phones and Google Maps. Perhaps no better way to help a wayward commuting daughter find her way home again in the lashing rain. Especially that borderline hysteria and incomprehensible sobbing are not conducive to asking strangers for directions.
A Whole Lot of Quality B.S. When the head of the business office marched upstairs to have someone in our office explain why it was we needed an extra computer, it was admitedly sheer luck that the Queen of B.S., Anna Bloviations, was on hand to confront the tough cookie from Dorchester. Her piercing blue eyes never wavered from my face -- clearly she was looking for tell-tale facial features that would indicate a yarn. You couldn't hear a pin drop in that office as I stared right back into don't-mess-with-me lady's face and used words like 'the inconvenience of toggling between applications' and 'a designated computer used solely for tracking legislation and budget items' etc. She asked all of the good hard questions like 'why can't you just minimize the applications you aren't working on' and I shot back things like 'the fragility of Excel, memory issues, crashing, etc. 'OK I'll tell them exactly what you said' she Dorchestered. We don't know who 'them' is but if there suddenly appears a new computer we'll know who won that one I guess.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The Wingman Game was recently featured in a major U.S. newspaper. What's that you ask? It's how young college men pick up girls in bars and clubs these days. Basically a guy spots a girl he would like to get to know (translation: go home to bed with) and he makes the approach. The problem is that the girl is surrounded by a pack of friends. Wingmen to the rescue! Their job is to swoop in and distract the girl's friends long enough for the lead man to talk the girl into going home with him. The backdrop to all this consists of lots of alcohol, loud music, text messaging, and hormones.
The story would have ended there but that it featured some of the GW University crowd thus pointing a finger at the son being part of the wingman game as well. Anna Bloviations forwarded this article to a number of people and the feedback was quite astonishing. First there was hubby who started to shake his head in dismay until I reminded him that he had himself been a ski instructor in his youth, with girls as numerous as shots of Schnapps. Another response came from a friend who said, "Gee it's good they played soccer all those years when they were young. Look what team spirit they have!" Yet another friend commented, "Sometimes youth is not wasted on the young...." The most conservative reactions ironically came from the west coast. "Do we condone this sort of behavior?" asked an old school friend who herself was no angel at USC. And then there is Anna Bloviations' own mother who commented she wasn't too happy about the article. This from a woman who was part of the Greenwich Village scene in New York in the 50's mind you... It's as if we think our own sexual forays during youth are somehow above the moral fray of today's sexual promiscuity, when really a one night stand is a one night stand. Period. Perhaps the only difference was that we just never got caught on the front page of a newspaper.... In the phone call Anna Bloviations made to the son following the article, "So do you think your wingman could help you score a good job while he's at it?"
The story would have ended there but that it featured some of the GW University crowd thus pointing a finger at the son being part of the wingman game as well. Anna Bloviations forwarded this article to a number of people and the feedback was quite astonishing. First there was hubby who started to shake his head in dismay until I reminded him that he had himself been a ski instructor in his youth, with girls as numerous as shots of Schnapps. Another response came from a friend who said, "Gee it's good they played soccer all those years when they were young. Look what team spirit they have!" Yet another friend commented, "Sometimes youth is not wasted on the young...." The most conservative reactions ironically came from the west coast. "Do we condone this sort of behavior?" asked an old school friend who herself was no angel at USC. And then there is Anna Bloviations' own mother who commented she wasn't too happy about the article. This from a woman who was part of the Greenwich Village scene in New York in the 50's mind you... It's as if we think our own sexual forays during youth are somehow above the moral fray of today's sexual promiscuity, when really a one night stand is a one night stand. Period. Perhaps the only difference was that we just never got caught on the front page of a newspaper.... In the phone call Anna Bloviations made to the son following the article, "So do you think your wingman could help you score a good job while he's at it?"
