What Choice Did I Have?

My mailbox these days has been the recipient of so many free, personalized address labels that I'll never again have to strain my poor little hand muscles with the task of picking up pen to inscribe my return address on an envelope's left hand corner. Thanks to Planned Parenthood, (it could have been NOW) my contact information has been hoing itself all over this town. First Doctors without Borders came knocking with a sleek and appealing red and white number, but I stayed strong. Then the New York Blood Center followed suit with a similar color scheme and the promise of a free insulated coffee mug if I promised to give blood three times this year. I promised. Emboldened, these guys (or was it these guys?) armed themselves with a forgetable design that was nowhere near impressive enough enough to persuade this vegan to donate a traditional turkey Thanksgiving dinner to a hungry New Yorker. Later, the The Nature Conservancy arrived looking suprisingly, refreshingly, sleek and stylish, and, woops - there went $15.

Poor Humane Society. With their itsy-bitsy rumpled puppies playing with teddy bears and rolling in flowers they were like the dude who arrives with melting CVS chocolates and a heart-shaped balloon on a stick just when your other Valentine is pulling a triple-decker cake out of the oven and whisking you out the door for your trip to Morroco. And my thoughts on pets and the problematics of linking basic rights to fuzziness and cuddles were just reinforced by that kitty on the free notepad. I'm just not that kind of girl.

Truthfully, all this attention has been getting a little tiring. So when another appeal arrived from Planned Parenthood, I was feeling a little ticked at them for scrawling my number on the non-profit world's bathroom stall door - I read the letter, and then I left it on the table to add to the recycling the next day. Then the next day came and I arrived home just in time to hear a recording of my president's personal thank you call to the Pro-Life marchers in Washington.

My mind was blown. I felt more offended by this show of support for the marchers then by any anti-choice bill he's signed or any anti-choice Supreme Court nomination he's made. How come I didn't know that he could do that? Somehow, it seemed illegal to so actively and publicly make such a partial move outside of the White House, outside the court house - like it was literally against his mandated role. But of course, it's not. And of course, had this president or any other one called last April when I was in Washington with Juliet, Aya, Clelia and thousands of others, I would have clapped till my hands burned, and felt righteous.

Needless to say, I uncrumpled Planned Parenthood's letter and wrote them another check.

Bring on the free address labels.

Urgent Friday Night Question

Is it acceptable that I just cleaned my bathtub with a wet paper towel? There are some things in life that I just don't really know to do. I mean, how do you deal with both dust and soap residue (or whatever invisible toxins might take up residence on porcelain) at the same time? I mostly make up my own three-quarter effect methods for things of this nature: in the case of the unsightly tub, I usually tackle it with plenty of Ajax, one sponge, and lots and lots of rinsing. But, somehow, there's always some stray dust floating in my bathwater, and I'm sure I'm pickling myself with remaining Ajax. It doesn't seem worth the effort.

I also don't know how to mop. Actually, that's not true - I think that I know how to mop but that mopping is innately ineffective. Until someone can prove that it's more than just pushing around dirty water, it remains the one task in our house I refuse to tackle (although I have been known to Swiffer Wet-Jet). And, in fact, if someone ever does prove to me that they can make mopping work, well then they should clearly remain the designated mopper - why cheapen them by taking their unique skill and making it universal?

Also - shower curtains. My, my, my, what a twentieth century burden. We shelled out way too much dough on our silly vinyl bathroom shield, and I don't want it to die a long and tortured death by mold. But how overwhelming is that expanse of plastic? And how do you clean it without pouring gallons of poisonous chemicals down your drain? I remember I once posed this issue when Juliet needed questions for an evironmentalist who was "speaking" on one of her P.O.V. websites. Was there every any resolution? Help me, cleanly friends.

Christmas Comes But Twice a Year

Tip: If you're planning a surprise birthday party, you can not fail if you schedule the event a minumum of three weeks after the recipient's birthday.

Friends were gathered. Our apartment was secretly and festively festooned with streamers and ballons (Zach's blue fan-to-table streamer sculpture was award-winning, but maybe not quite as satisfying to him as the pairs of "balloon boobs" he originally dreamed up). A cake was hurriedly baked and iced to perfection. Karaoke-making electronic magic and extra-chairs arrived with my dad. Panicked calls urgently summoning Mark home to deal with a ficticious broken kitchen sink faucet that was flooding our house were made. The shutters were closed. Bets were hedged about Mark's impending facial expression. And then he and the Academy Award winning Mikes arrived.

Mark's first words were "what the fuck is this?"

"This" was the birthday party for the boy born on Christmas day, the dude who never gets to celebrate with friends. While it may not have been quite as fun as showing off his newly purchased Resident Evil 4 game to the two Mikes, as he had been tricked into believing he would spend the evening doing, it certainly was better than coming home to help me deal with the broken kitchen sink. (THANK YOU again, Peter, for pointing out that the original burst pipe idea was flawed because our apartment has not a single exposed pipe. It's the details that count.)

After the surprise there was cake. And then there was Karaoke. From an extremely limited selection, we managed an impressive array of star performances. Who knew that so many twenty-somethings were so well versed in Sinatra? Or that "Stop in the Name of Love" had such raunch potential? I'm currently nursing a bruised and sprained knee from the stuffed crocodile that attacked me during "Crocodile Rocking", and Nick's rendition of "Take My Breath Away" has left me feeling asthmatic. But otherwise, it was a good night, and Mark was happy to have so many people get drunk and make fools of themselves in his honor.

Just like in the good ol' days when whatever two siblings weren't the birthday kid received a concilliatory present of their own on the real birthday kid's day, I got a present of my own yesterday, when my would-be Christmas gift from Mark finally made it to our house (after missing us by a couple of hours in New Mexico.) So today I attempted to alleviate the pain of my crocodile inflicted wounds with a long soak in the tub and this fantastic contraption.

(Picture the photo of a beautiful "bath caddy" that I've unsuccessfully been trying to upload for hours.)

What a brilliant, brilliant invention. No more wrinkled pages and soggy paragraphs from a book unconsciously allowed to rest on a soapy chest, no New Yorkers ruined by a sudden nodding off. And that Captain Hook-like thing on the back? No less than a wine glass holder, my friends. Not featured is the accompanying candle holder. Yes, the candle holder, which can hold normal table candles (is that what you call long, skinny candles?) or votive candles, depending on your lighting/aromatherapy needs. Ahh, serenity.

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Please forgive me if there are spelling errors in this or any other post. For some time now, Mark has been hoarding a bunch of Subway Sub Club stamps that for some inexplicable reason (or just plain stubborness) he refuses to a) stick on his Sub Club card, b) use, c) give to me to use since I eat at Subway once a week, or d) move. And he has decided that the only rightful place of residence for the stamps is on top of the dictionary that stands on the shelf to the left of this computer. So therefore, until I finally decide to just steal them from his weird self, I can't gaurantee the spelling on this site. Blame Mark.
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Earlier today Mark asked me for some suggestions of topics he could use in the Beggining Conversation class he's teaching this semester. I came up with the following five suggestions in succession and in succession he negged them all. He had already lesson planned for each and every one of them. They were:

• Ghosts
• The Future
• Cultural Differences
• Movies
• Food

Either Mark and I are very compatible or we are very, very boring.

Or do all foreigners have the same conversations on the same five topics with all Americans?

Read This AFTER Lunch

Poor Mark is sick. Really sick. He's spent more time with his head in the toilet bowl then on his pillow. And he's been generating heat like a cozy little furnace. But other than falling soundlessly asleep on the couch with his eyes wide open, he's a very good invalid, requiring nothing more than seltzer, a Conan movie and to have the blankets retucked from time to time.

He's also a remarkably placid puker. Yesterday he puked so much that from outside the bathroom door it sounded like a group of kids splashing in a swimming pool. Yet he didn't utter so much as a single whimper. I mean, when some people have to conduct that kind of eviction, the tenants put up a fight - there is moaning, and crying, and calls to the Gods. My childhood best friend, for example, was one giant commotion when her stomach was in turmoil. She would do that kind of sob-moan thing, and her mom would have to rub her back the entire time. Her cats would flee, and the neighbors would worry.

I think I fall into the "efficient" category - I just get the job done, as fast as possible. I remember once jumping out of this friend's car in the parking lot of her apartment building, puking into the scrub grass on the meridian and then climbing back in as my friend and her mom sat blinking, stunned by the ease of my bodily transaction. Until now, I thought I was champion of the easy expectoration, but now I know that Mark takes the cake (and then gives it back in digested form) . Mark is pure puking saint - no noise, no complaints, no drama, just a private and personal conversation with the toilet that he inflicts on noone else.

Before you throw up your hands (sorry) in disgust, one more anecdote. Once, after an impressive night of teenage drinking, the best friend above and her family joined my family and some others for a day out on a junk to Repulse Bay. (Oh wow, I was just going to give the American Heritage Dictionary definition of the word "junk" to explain that I wasn't intentionally making this post even more low-brow and gross by using it, and guess what the A.H.D gave me: "A Chinese flatbottom ship with a high poop and battened sails." Please forgive me if the pun factor in this paragraph forces you to find out what kind of puker you yourself are. And believe me when I tell you that Repulse Bay is the real-life name of one of Hong Kong's most popular beaches.)

Anyway, we're sailing out on the junk to Repulse Bay and I feel very sick. Although I made the trip from Aberdeen Harbor out to sea almost once a week during Hong Kong summers, it still always made me a tad queasy. This time however, the queasiness was compounded by a night of too many Blue Hawaiins (Malibu and Seven-Up) and Red Eyes (Malibu, grenadine and Seven-Up) at our favorite club (read: the club that served fifteen year olds) "Son of a Beach". (Yes, that's right, I spent half my teenage years in a club called Son of a Beach, located in Repulse Bay. Somethings about me can now be forgiven, can't they?)

To make this journey worse, Cornelia, the five year-old daughter of my dad's boss was infatuated with me and insisted on following me all around the boat as I tried to find a place of refuge while looking convincingly seasick instead of thoroughly hungover. And Cornelia was annoying. I liked kids, I liked her brother, but she and her little curls get on my nerves. And never more so then on that boat.

I was standing on the side of the boat, leaning my head over, trying to catch a cleansing breeze, when I suddenly knew I couldn't contain the red-eyed, blue haired beast that had taken up residence in my tummy. Cornelia was literally at my side. In my kindest pre-puke manner, I told herI wasn't feeling well, and to please leave me alone for a second. She didn't budge. I tried once more, and once more again - without the please and in my most commanding manner - but to no avail. And so it was that I had my most intimate vomiting experience - little Cornelia's little head with it's annoying little curls pressed up agianst my own, gazing at me as I poured my pain into the ocean. Let me tell you, that is an act of itimacy I hope never to repeat.

Then, the grossest part of this needless tale: as my puke hit the sea, a school of fish emerged from nowhere to swim through it, flitting their tails and flashing blue in a stream of orange. Cornelia squealed in delight and ran to tell all the parents about the beautiful experience. I lay on the salty deck and hoped for a burial at sea. Later, we told my dad and my friend's mom that I "must have eaten some bad french fries". Thanks be to them that they pretended to believe us. And thanks be to nature or nurture or whatever that we were naive enough to believe them.

Thank You, Visitor

Insect bombing your apartment? Need a break from your boyfriend? Just looking for a change of scenery? Come stay with us!

My good friend Josh is visiting New York and Mark and I had the privelage of hosting him in our apartment for two short nights. He was our first house guest in our new home. Thanks to him:
--The toilet is clean.
--We no longer need to dust off our feet before climbing into bed.
--The 3200 pairs of shoes that had infiltrated our hallway found their way back home.
--The suitcase used over our vacation followed them.
--Mark and I both got up at the same time every morning and only pressed snooze once.
--Mark went to the gym two mornings in a row.

If you are not more than 1.5 feet wide and 7 feet long, please come visit. We need you.

Jaime y Maria

Last Thursday Mark and I went over to my dad's house for a belated Christmas celebration. It was a fun affair. The house was still beautiful and Christmassy, the table festive. Each place had its own "adult" Christmas cracker, which made me nervous but to everyone's relief the cracker makers' definition of adult seemed simply to mean "make the jokes even dumber". No edible panties popped out of mine - instead I got a very grown-up mini squirt gun.

We ate delicious Italian chickpea soup, pasta, Roman bruscetta, drank lots and lots of wine, and opened presents - awesome, thoughtful, useful presents including a renewed New Yorker subscription, an immitation Rabbit wine opener, a cookbook all about mushrooms, and a rad, red Michael Jackson-esque jacket with maybe 42 snaps. Afterwards I aged thirty years and switched genders in order to "entertain" the family by hooking my new camera up to the TV and screening a slide show of our Mexico vacation pictures. Then, we trailed out of the house and went to a bar for a beery wine chaser.

Today, I heard this story: walking home from the bar, my dad, K, K's daughter and her boyfriend approached the house of this woman Mary. My dad used to be in a choir with her and they were once good acquaintances. I don't know her very well but for some indefininable reason I've never really liked her. Turns out, K's daughter (with cause) has no excess of love for her either, and when they get to her house she says: "I hate Mary! She still owes me babysitting money!"

In response, my dad stops dead in front of Mary's house and starts shouting at the top of his lungs in his best Spanish accent (which does not compete with most people's very worst Spanish accent):

"Maria! Maria, you dirty whore!"

Apparently, he yells this several times, trilling his "r"s with glee, even as K's daughter has run away in delighted panic, and K has to physically remove him from the sidewalk below Mary's stoop. My dad had no comment on this story. Why? Because he has no memory of it at all. He just sat and grinned as K relayed it to me this evening.

Did I mention that we were drinking lots and lots of wine?

K says her daughter's boyfriend now thinks my dad is the coolest man in the entire world. I just wonder where he was when I never got my last paycheck from the icecream store.

A Letter of Thanks

Dear American Airlines and America West,

I and my boyfriend recently travelled with your illustrious airlines over the Christmas holiday. I am writing today to thank you for the experience. Had we travelled with any other airlines, we might not have had the opportunity to:

Show Off An Immaculate Fashion Sense
Don't be surprised if the inhabitants of one small Mexican island start shedding their flip flops and ordering Uggs. Thanks to your airline's failure to produce my luggage upon my arrival in Cancun, I had the chance to strut my stuff on the beaches of Isla Mujeres clad in black corduroy pants and knee-high black boots, a look the locals were clearly impressed by, judging from the nudges, whispers and glances of the impressionable teenage population. Bathing suits? Shorts? Such a Carribean cliche.

Strengthen My Birth Control Regimen
Never again will I forget to swallow that teeny little estrogen cocktail before bed. Your policy of seating unwed twentysomethings in the midst of screaming toddlers, teething infants, and exhausted parents is so thoughtful and inventive. We especially appreciated the efforts you went to to delay each of the four flights we booked with you from Cancun to New Mexico, and to ensure that only the children with the healthiest lungs were permitted to remain by us in the departure area.

Learn the True Meaning of Christmas
Christmas isn't about material items, is it, American Airlines? It's not about the presents you painstakingly picked out and carried across the continent to deliver to your loving boyfriend and his sweet and generous family, or your winter jacket, socks, toothbrush, cell phone charger or any other of those useless possesions you packed in your suitcase, is it? It's easy to understand that this is the lesson you were trying to impart when you lost our luggage again on our way from Mexico to New Mexico. To lose our luggage twice must have been a real feat - you really went all out on our behalf. But, indeed we have been schooled: who cares if you have to wear the same underwear for two days in a row, and then turn them inside out for a third - it's Christmas!

Help Those in Need
I feel so much better knowing that a representative of the Transportation Security Administration is now in possesion of the Shostakovich box set and the three other CDs I originally purchased as a birthday gift for my boyfriend. Really, Mark was born on Christmas day - what more of a gift could you ask for? There's certainly no need to try to make his birthday seem significant next to Jesus' with something as piddling as a birthday present. Much better to pass the gift on to a needy baggage inspector during the days that my luggage is missing. Thank you for orchestrating this.

Experience Las Vegas
After four hours in the El Paso airport, we were somewhat reluctant to begin our journey home to New York City via Las Vegas, so it was with great delight that we flew all the way to Vegas, were unable to land (you did such a great job communicating with the Vegas air control - thank you), changed paths and flew to Pheonix to refuel, took an hour's breather on the runway, then returned to Vegas, where, to our happiness we discovered we would have the opportunity to take advantage of Vegas style hospitality with an overnight stay in the airport. And really, what facilities! How considerate to place slot machines in the departure area so that the weary traveller does not even have to exit the airport to hear that ringing and clanging din so characteristic of Vegas revelry. And the volume was perfectly pitched so that we would never doze off and miss any of the fun during those short nine hours between flights. We especially liked that called out "Wheel of Fortune!!!!!!" every 3 minutes for it reminded us to be thankful for our excellent travel luck. We were also glad to be able to shake off the chokehold of nutritious eating and to dine soley on popcorn, peanuts, animal crackers and oreos for 24 hours.

Freshen our Luggage
Any experienced traveler knows that clothes left in a suitcase can sometimes emerge seeming a little stale. While we attempted to avoid this by washing all our clothing just before our return home, no doubt our things would not have been quite as fresh had you not seen fit to give them another rinse. I can only assume you had the great sense to take advantage of the weather and to leave our luggage in the rain for several hours. We followed up your au natural rinse cycle by removing every single article of clothing, as well as some other items such as the original painting we received as a gift, and placing them all over our apartment to dry overnight. This lent a festive atmosphere to our home and helped ease the sadness we felt knowing that our travelling days with American Airlines and America West had come to an end.

In summary, your attention to detail, your superior customer service and your honesty were truly incomparable. As a very small token of my appreciation, on my next flight with American Airlines I plan to buy the headsets you so generously offer for sale for both myself and my boyfriend. And on America West, I pledge to purchase one of the delectable lunch options you sell from your wheelable inflight cafe. I hope that the money will contribute to a spectacular travel experience for two more lucky customers.

Yours Sincerely,

Tian