While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Archives for January 2009

The pug loves Pantene Pro V

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It’s always fun to tell people I shower with the pug. The reactions I get are all over the board. 

If it’s someone who has a dog, he/she will likely say: “How do you get him to stand in the SHOWER? Isn’t he freaked out by the WATER?”
If it’s a woman who doesn’t have a dog, but wants one super badly, but her square-of-a-husband won’t let her, she will say: “AWWW. That’s so cute! I didn’t think dogs took showers!” (Motioning to her husband to pay closer attention.) “Her dog takes showers with her! Isn’t that a hoot?”
If it’s anyone (male or female) who doesn’t have a dog/isn’t a dog person/ doesn’t want to be a dog person, they will say: “That’s kind of messed up, don’t you think?”
If it’s a guy whose not necessarily a dog-lover or a dog-hater, but just a pervert, he will say: “That’s hot, dude. Don’t drop the soap.”
If it’s a kindred spirit who also showers with their dog, and understands the utilitarian genius of this method, he/she will say: “Yeah. Isn’t it a whole lot easier than bathing him? I figure if I’m gonna get soaked anyway, might as well do it in the shower. I started doing it when he was a puppy. The dog’s totally cool with it.” 
On that note. Good morning and happy showering, or whatever it is you do to get clean in the morning. 
—
PS. The pug does not shower every day. It’s bad for his coat. Also: he doesn’t always use Pantene. It’s usually Hartz Oatmeal dog shampoo, however HARTZ’s flea and tick medicine and collars are reportedly killing cats and dogs, so I’m not buying their products anymore. Shampoo suggestions anyone?

Thank you for pushing my buttons.

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Of all countries, my first blog critic hails from Canada. Miffed over my blase attitude toward guardian bum angels.
You may have already read Natasha’s comment after the Tree frogs, bums & wedding dress post. My face was burning when I read it. I haven’t been this scolded since a newspaper advertiser reprimanded me for likening his real estate gimmicks to David Hasselhoff’s German popularity.
YET, I was simultaneously thrilled and pissed. A Mormon Canadian mother-of-four wearing an adorable scarf in her blog photo AGHAST at something I wrote in St. Petersburg, Fla.?
Before I hammered out a reply I Mapquested Alberta, Canada and saw that her province’s southern towns border Montana. Picturing this blonde woman and her husband Jude, their four kiddos and tag-a-long dog living in some prairie mountain town north of the border, I was flattered to have held her attention.
Pasted below is our exchange. It is by far the most constructive feedback I’ve received since starting Lance last April.
BUT, before I go … Natasha, how do you feel about the word canuck?
—
Heidi,

I was going to give you some Twitter advice to help you promote your blog because I uncharacteristically clicked on your spam barrage of links on your Twitter feed and I thought, Huh– this blog is not half bad.

Then I read this post.

I am AGHAST at your LACK of “humanity”. You were indignant and offended at the ladies at the store who didn’t say “good anything” to you and yet when presented with a man whose foot just might even have to be amputated, you told him it was disgusting and gave him all of one dollar. When telling his friend to get Jed to a clinic, you forgot to add, “…after you collect a lot more money because, of course, a dollar isn’t going to get you anywhere.” Maybe you don’t have much money or didn’t have much on you. That’s understandable. What is not understandable is your comments to him. Not, “I hope that gets better soon!” or “I’m so sorry. That looks painful.” No, you “snapped” that his foot was “dis-gusting”. Where was your compassion? You judge some ladies for having poor manners when you lacked something greater?

Your first thought was “Foot ointment? Ah, this is one I haven’t heard before.” You were judging him. Sure, a lot of homeless people suffer from alcoholism, to try and shut out the pain of their world, but not all of them do. And because you cannot know for certain, you should never, ever take it upon yourself to judge. Live generously without judging and be blessed while letting the sin of lying be upon the head of he who lied to get money from you.

You couldn’t have taken him to the clinic yourself and asked someone to fix his foot? Asked if they had any sort of charity program or whatnot? I don’t know how it works there. In Canada you don’t have to pay for basic health care– everyone is cared for.

Even the word you use for these people– “bums”– associates them with something lowly and maybe they are by appearances. But when judgment day comes, it’s very possible that these bums will rise higher than you, because they’ve very likely been given very little with which to work.

And even if you don’t believe in God, you claim to believe in humanity. But you begrudged it.

Even to sandwich such a sad issue like homelessness in with your prophetic tree frog and your wedding dress shopping is so dismissive!

I NEVER leave critical comments on people’s blogs. But you really don’t seem to have any idea how this post comes across and since you put it out there, and you linked to it, and you’re trying to drive more traffic to it, and you’re trying to become a writer, I couldn’t in good conscience walk by and just toss you a measly dollar.

Best of luck with not stepping on the tree frog, finding the right dress, and dealing with “the bums”.

—


Natasha,
Your blog is very pretty. I like the scarf in your picture and I dig most of the to do’s on your bucket list. I figured this place was as good as any to post a reply to your criticism (ie: MY first hate mail.)

What can I say? I refer to bums as bums. It rolls off the tongue.

I realize it’s less P.C. than “homeless person,” “man on the street,” or “transient.” I’ve learned from many conversations with bums that street peeps resent the word transient. Most of these guys/gals hang around one city block longer than I’ve lived in some apartments. And since “homeless man” or “man on the street” sounds too Phil Collins, and since most of the ones I interact with nearly every day tend to do a lot of bumming around, I’ll stick with bums.

Despite my crude sense of humor, I do have a heart. I’m a sucker for GD bums. In fact, I have friends with much more sarcastic senses of humor who’ve suggested I suffer from, “a Pollyanna complex.”

Note: I only had two bucks on me that day.

Note: When my boyfriend moved out of his apartment two years ago, I delivered a stack of his old blankets and pillows to a man sleeping on the sidewalk. Having observed this man earlier in the day on a bike ride, I returned with my car and the bedding, careful not to wake the old bugger as I set a pillow by his head.

Good lord, Mormon. I wasn’t passing judgment. Sure the guy’s foot was battered, but no more than mine after a muddy music festival and a bad fall. His request for foot ointment WAS a new plea. Usually I get asked for cigarettes, quarters, dollar bills, lighters, etc … And usually these requests are followed by – or preceded by – a catcall.

Was I cavalier? Probably. Am I always cavalier? No. Was this post an honest snapshot of the day? Sure. Did I embellish his wound by calling it “gangrenous?” Probably. I’m a writer not a doctor.

As for driving this guy to a walk-in clinic, if I were to personally escort every ailing person I pass to a medical facility in St. Pete, I’d log more miles than a NYC cab.


Natasha, your blog is lovely. And I mean that sincerely. My boyfriend was “following” you on Twitter and since I’m a blogger with limited readership I figured I’d follow you too. I wanted to share my posts. The “spam barrage of links” on my Twitter feed is the only way I know how to draw traffic to my site, that and Facebook and MySpace. As irritating and exhausting as social networking sites can be, they’ve introduced me to a bevy of talented writers and photographers.

Like you, I just want to make people laugh and think and come back for more. If my “behavior” chaps your ass, I encourage you to read more of my posts. I’m much more than a bum-bashing pisspot.

Also, by scolding my dismissive behavior you totally overlooked my two favorite literary devices – juxtaposition and symbolism. The post that left you AGHAST had both.

Having said all that, thank you for your comment. I’m tickled by hate mail too. I was working on a freelance piece about a Tuskegee Airman when I read your comment. It woke me up and carried me through to deadline.

Maybe we can be friends.

—

Hi, Heidi. (That was the name of our favourite cat, by the way.)

Okay, first of all, I did not give you hate mail. I didn’t call you stupid or use crude language. I was commenting on your behaviour and I believe my writing left it open as a dialogue.

I sort of hear you on the symbolism and juxtaposition thing. Sort of. I wrote a post about my Twitter philosophy that got me MY first critical comment, except that unlike my comment to you, this one attacked ME personally instead of just my behaviour. And the reason she attacked me was because she didn’t notice the symbolism in the very thing she was criticizing: I was telling people who use Twitter to tell me (or you or any other Twitter follower) how they could make them happy, make them “remarkable”, etc. etc. I objected to the arrogant language by using it myself to say, “Maybe I can help YOU!” and then proceeded to tell them a better way to use Twitter and it was TOTALLY on purpose and some readers picked up on it.

Speaking of which, here is what I wanted to tell you: People want to get to know you. If you tweeted little random thoughts, links to other things on the web, comments back to people, and funny observations, only then intermingling links to your blog, you’d get a lot more followers and ones who would be following not out of obligation but because they found you engaging. Twitter really is about relationships. But when all your tweets are about your blog, it looks like you don’t want a relationship. You just want to talk about you.

And that’s NOT a criticism. I am not suggesting that there’s any symbolism there with how you use Twitter. You just started. And normally I don’t even bother to tell people how to use it better but I could tell you weren’t just some big business jerk-off and I liked your blog title.

However, approaching your point about symbolism and juxtaposition, I don’t see it. If we’re going to critique it as a piece of writing, here goes: It read like a “Here’s what I did today” diary type post. It did not seem to have a moral, a lesson, etc. There was no point. Which is fine, for a blog post. Not all of my posts have a point. But for there to be juxtaposition or symbolism as a creative writing tool, there needs to be a point that is magnified by those tools.

And because it doesn’t look like there was any intended point besides to give a snapshot of your day and your life (and your character, so it seemed) it did put you in a bad light. As I said, I didn’t think you realized how it made you look and how it encouraged a similar mindset for readers. A few of these points that you’re saying here, could have been included. Like how often you’re catcalled, etc. You could have worked it in without breaking up the writing.

My heart is warmed to hear about you dropping off the blankets and I don’t doubt you’re telling the truth.

I’m friends with lots of people and you’ve made it clear that you can have a mature dialogue and are not easily offended. So, SURE!


—
PS. I took the photo above a year ago on a bike ride through downtown St. Pete. It is the staircase of the country’s first open-air post office. Built in 1916, the St. Petersburg Post Office was designed by George Stuart, an architect who served as a captain in the Canadian militia in the 1890s. After he was shot in the neck by an arrow in Canada’s Last Indian War, Stuart moved to Texas – where they used guns. Eventually he retired to St. Petersburg, Fla. (go figure) where he designed the St. Petersburg Yacht Club, the post office and dozens of gothic-y homes. I thought it was an appropriate picture given the context.

A post for Ricci’s 26th birthday

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This is Ricci and Mbaye.

If you’ve met them, you know they’re a pretty dynamic couple.
Ricci moved to Senegal a year ago.
To say she moved there “to find herself,” would totally undersell her career ambitions and gut instincts.
She’s a remarkable photographer with an adventurous soul. And like all of us, she settles into comfort zones and second guesses her impulses, of which she has many.
When we were both journalists living in downtown Sarasota, Ricci would frolic around my shanty cottage in her bathing suit, reminiscing about the beach picnic we had just had as if it had happened 30 years ago. I suppose it’s because she knows a good thing when she’s got it. That, and she’s grateful for moments. Not stuff.
But Ricci utterly thrives when she’s plucked herself out of a comfort zone. Some flowers live OK in the shade but blossom in the sun. Such is the case with the Ricci species.
Last January, the night before her flight to Dakar, Ricci called me to debate her decision to move to West Africa.
“Buck up,” I said. “Board the GD plane. Africa was all you could talk about for months. If you turn around now, you’ll have shackled your brilliant whims and awesome plans to fear and anxiety.”
In truth, I wasn’t that eloquent and Ricci called several friends that day who were all likely to say jump, so of course she boarded the plane. Had she dialed my German grandmother I’m afraid she’d have accepted a full-time job as a staff writer for a magazine in Chicago with medical, dental and a 401K.
So Ricci moved to Dakar and worked as a correspondent/photographer for Voice of America, a radio and television broadcasting service governed by the United States and stationed in countries around the word.
And so it was, that as my life became increasingly domestic hers became fiercely independent. At night I’d browse her blog, blown away by the pictures – Bill Clinton on an AIDS mission, the president of Iran at an Islamic Summit, men in wheelchairs playing basketball, big-bellied women stirring vats of cous-cous, children sliding off the backs of beached whales, goats getting slaughtered in the street …
I was so proud of her – mostly for politely stomaching goat intestine soup – that tears wet my laptop. Every now and then she’d post a picture of herself, and even in a headscarf and dusty pants I could tell she was euphoric.
Then she met Mbaye, a soccer player with a come-what-may attitude and contagious smile. They dated for nine months in Dakar and then Ricci moved back to Chicago.

A month later she flew back to Dakar. By Thanksgiving she and Mbaye were back in the states – Mbaye for the first time in his life.

Rather than explain any of this I’ll dig up an old e-mail written by Ricci in bullet-point fashion, as I’m sure she was writing it while filing a story about Senegalese scrabble champions, while photographing a sword-juggling monkey, while carrying on a conversation (in French) with a soothsayer, while daydreaming of malted milkshakes.

Heids,
Filed the story and now ready to file my story with you.
  • have bought plane ticket back to states for sept. 17. this freaks me out, because i do not want to truly leave to dakar.
  • also have plane ticket back to dakar, where i will stay from oct. 20 — nov. 22 (i have some work to do here at that time)
  • my boy and i are going to the us embassy next wed. to apply for a visitor visa so he can come here and meet the fam. we’re SO nervous. i’m scared of the us government. if they say no, i guess we’ll just have to get married so he can come visit. (do NOT get me started on the ridiculousness of this process. i’m actually documenting it (via words).. it’s SO convoluted and feels like some ridiculous Willy Wonka-type, bureaucratic scavenger hunt. Just so he can come VISIT!!) our country blows sometimes.
Not one to stop at a visitors visa, Ricci contacted a sports agent in the U.S., who arranged for Mbaye to try out for several soccer teams on the East Coast. In between tryouts they stayed with me for a weekend in St. Pete.

I interviewed the couple earlier this month on a sun-drenched stretch of interstate on route to Sarasota. Since Mbaye speaks only French and Wolof – his native Senegalese language – and since the only French sentence I know goes something like, “Ohh la la j’ai une rendevous avec David dans 20 minutes …” I asked Ricci to translate.

Note: Unless Mbaye gets signed to an American soccer team he will have to return to Dakar in May.

—

Mbaye, are you nervous about your soccer tryout next week?
(Ricci translates)
“He says he’s a little nervous because he doesn’t know who he’s going to meet and if they’ll be as nice as they were last time.”

Ricci, are you nervous?
“I’m nervous about him flying by himself, about him getting lost at the airport or something.”

You don’t feel the fate of your relationship hangs on whether or not he makes the team?
“I just have to think we’re going to work it out no matter what happens. If he makes the team, great. If he doesn’t we’ll figure something out.”

Have your communication skills improved, dating someone who doesn’t speak English?
“If we have a fight — and it’s usually me who gets mad because he rarely gets mad — I want to make sure I say how I feel correctly in French. And after I go through it in my head I realize if I can’t explain it simply in terms he can understand, then it’s probably not worth getting mad over because it’s convoluted and more my problem than his.”

You’ve learned to not overreact.
“There’s a level of communication that has to be there because sometimes when you speak the same language, you just assume what somebody means when they say something. For us, when I say something, it’s like this is what I’m saying, but this is what I mean.”

What do you guys fight about?
(Translates into French for Mbaye)
Ricci: “I don’t think we’ve had a big blow-out fight.”
(Mbaye interrupts in French.)
Ricci: “Oh yeah. We had one in Senegal.”
(Mbaye again.)
Ricci: “It was over money.”
(Mbaye again.)
Ricci: “And we got in one once when we got in a car and I didn’t know where I was going. I was freaking out and he was l like, ‘Don’t freak out you’re going to get in an accident.’”

Is that his role? To calm you down?
“Oh yeah.”

(Ricci laughs. Translates into French.)

Mbaye (in broken English): “She is never calm.”

Ricci: “One time I was calm and peaceful and he was like, ‘What’s wrong?’ and I said, ‘Nothing, why?’ And he said, ‘When the volcano is quiet one must question why.’”

Did Mbaye have anxiety about coming to the United States?
“He worried that my friends were going to think he was different or maybe not a good guy. He wasn’t afraid that they would be mean. He just figured they’d act weird around him.”

Did we act weird?
(Translates)
“He says no. He says all my friends were so nice and took such good care of him.”

Does he have a favorite American food?
(Translates)
“He says he has a stomach he doesn’t understand. It accepts everything that goes into it.”

How has your relationship changed in the United States?
“In Africa he knew how to get around and he knew the language and I was the person who didn’t know what was going on. If we’d have to get something done, he would know exactly what to do and I wouldn’t even ask questions. In Africa we never spent the night together. There were days we wouldn’t see each other. And here, I don’t think we’ve been apart more than an hour — once when he flew to Charleston for a tryout. I was worried at first that we would get sick of each other, but we’ve gotten along better the more we’re together.”

(Translates into French for Mbaye.)

“He says the relationship is better here. When we were apart I’d call him 20 times a day.”

Because your insecurities are magnified when you’re apart. That’s pretty normal, I think.
“Yeah. We fought more in Senegal than we do here.”

Were you worried Mbaye wouldn’t adapt to American shizzle?
“I was worried he might get homesick, but I wasn’t worried about him adapting at all.”

(In lousy French) Le Ikea pullout couch etait-il comfortable la nuit?
Mbaye: “Tres comfortable.”

Ricci, how would you describe your relationship with Mbaye?
“It’s easy. It’s almost like … I don’t know … I’m happy. Girls always say, ‘I want to find The One. I want to find The One,’ and when you think about it, it’s like, oh this is it. Anticlimactic is the wrong word because it has a negative connotation, but I don’t know … it just feels good.”

Finding The One was less dramatic than you thought.
“Yes, I guess.”

The people in your life better be comfortable around cameras. Does Mbaye ever tire of being your model?
“He loves it. He always jokes he’s the poorest model in the world.”

Is it frustrating for him to not be able to communicate with your friends?
(Translates)
“He says he’s not frustrated. He’s sorry he can’t speak English but the fact that people try to talk to him is the most important thing. He says there’s a lot a smile and hand gestures can communicate.”

In what ways is this relationship different than others you’ve had?
“Well, we don’t speak English and we’re biracial. Those are the obvious ways it’s different. He makes me a better person. I feel like I have to be a better person because he raises the bar for me. Sometimes I’m like, but what do I do for you?”

How has the biracial thing played out?
“I have a lot of friends who date Senegalese men, but it’s also like ‘he’s with her because she has money and connections. Or, ‘he’s using her to get further or whatever.’ Someone said to me once when we were applying for a visa – ‘how do you know he’s not just using you for the visa?”

That’s a rotten thing to say.
“First of all I said, ‘He wouldn’t do that because he’s a good guy and an honest person.’ Second of all, there’s a level of trust in every relationship. How do you know your girlfriend is not cheating on you? You have to trust people are who they say they are in any relationship.”

But generally you haven’t felt discriminated against?
“Most of my friends are super liberal and accepting. I’m sure there are some people who have problems with it but then it’s like, it’s not your relationship. I’d rather be with him and have these kinds of problems than be with somebody who doesn’t make me happy and have people look at us like we are – quote – normal.”

True dat.
“I feel like most of our problems are the world’s problems, not our problems.”

And what does Mbaye think?
(Translates)
“He says people look at us strangely because we’re beautiful.”
—

PS. The picture above was taken during a turkey sammie picnic on St. Pete Beach. For a glorious list of sammie recipes click here.

Tree frogs, bums & the dress I didn’t keep.

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To be honest, I’ve put more thought into purchasing a six-pack of Charmin toilet paper.
…
I bought my wedding dress last month for $128 at White House|Black Market, and I returned it last week not because I didn’t like it, but because I thought I could do better. 
Also because toothpastes have caused greater fits of indecision. 
I blame the tree frog who showed up by our front door last month, who for one week, no matter where I moved him to, would return to our front door to hibernate precariously close to the welcome mat.

“That frog,” I told Joe, “is going to get stomped on.”

Remembering a former new age-y boss, who once confessed to me during a long Christmas shift at Waldenbooks, that he had a groundhog spirit guide, I decided to reference the frog in Ted Andrews book, Animal Speak.

According to Andrews, if a frog has presented itself, “it may be time to breathe new life into an old project or goal.”

The frog is a symbol of fertility, rebirth and resurrection. Since I’m in no hurry to get preggers, I took this is as a message to get cracking on The Book, which I realize has nothing to do with returning The Dress. 

But you know, I digress. 

Armed with frog knowledge I took off to purchase a present for a friend in downtown St. Pete, and as usual, I passed a gaggle of bums, and as usual, one of them called out to me.

“M’am,” he croaked. “Can you spare some change so I can get ointment for my foot.”

This is a new one, I thought. Foot ointment. Surely this bum – I’ll call him Jed – has milked other ailments in the past, but foot ailments? C’mon, dude. Wear shoes and your feet won’t slough off. 

Mildly irritated, I looked at Jed’s foot. 
Sure enough the shit was horrible. Propped up on a curb, looking as if it had been shot, the foot was purplish, bulbous and the wound was the size of a fist and oozing something green. His toes, what I could see of them, looked gangrenous.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a dollar bill, handed it to Jed and snapped, “That foot. Is dis-gusting.”

Jed took the dollar bill and nodded gratefully, his ruddy face creasing in the afternoon sun like an origami crane. It hit me just then, like a sack of bricks to the belly, that bums are ageless. Not ageless in the sense that they are young, but ageless in the sense that they are without an age. To those of us who pass them by, bums are just bums with no names and no ages. No numbers and letters to hang over their heads. Just time. 

Humanity is a funny thing when it socks you. Wrinkled by dirt, and wounded by the absence of time or perhaps by the weight of time, I blushed when Jed thanked me. When I passed the bum sitting to him, I handed that guy a dollar bill and said, “take your friend to a walk-in clinic.”
The last thing on my mind was a wedding dress, but then I passed White House|Black Market on the corner of 2nd Avenue and 2nd Street. And though I’ve never purchased anything from this yuppity boutique, I’m a fan of simple semantics. A store named White House Black Market that sells only white and black merchandise is a store after my utilitarian heart.
I instantly spotted the lone ivory sheath hanging on a back rack in the oft-forgotten clearance corner, and for the helluvit I asked to try it on. To the delight of the women behind the counter, it fit like a kind of satin liquid – save for a teensy bit of gut-sucking and an obvious granny panty line. 

“Linda,” said the one saleswoman. “Get over here. You’re not gonna believe how well this dress fits.”

“Like a glove!” Squealed Linda. “Oo! We’ve been waiting for someone to buy this dress!”

Oh Lord, I thought. My Cinderella moment, and here I am still contemplating Jed’s seeping foot. 
I asked one of them to unzip me so could I purchase it because after all, it fit like a glove and when you’re wired like me, you don’t question the significance of that. 

“How long do I have to return it?” I asked.

“Return it?” They snapped. “Why would you return it?”

“In case I find something better.”
This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because as I left the store, bag in hand, both women forgot to say goodbye, good day or good anything for that matter. 
Sashaying past my guardian bum angels, I winked. Frugal, no-frills and with a 30-day return policy, I had just bought my wedding dress. Or at least, I was dating my wedding dress.
It was simple, so ho-hum that it slid easily behind our bedroom drapes. And when Joe got home from work I boasted about the price like I had just purchased two-for-one lamp chops at the downtown butcher. 
“Wow. $128,” he said. “Nicely done.”
So not a Big Deal that it’s behind the bedroom drapes. But don’t look, I said. It’s still a wedding dress goddammit.

And then, two weeks later I returned it. I think the saleswomen had a bet, because when I walked in with the dress in a Target bag, the one smirked at the other like, Itoldyouso. 

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “It didn’t work out.”

“Well that’s too bad,” the one woman said. “It fit you like a glove.”

On my way up 2nd Avenue I passed Ann Taylor, walked inside and purchased a fetching tweed number for the rehearsal dinner. 

Guess what?
It fit like a glove.
—
PS. The dress pictured above is the one I didn’t keep. It was unfussy, prettier than some dresses and less pretty than others. It was slightly beaded and cheaply priced, but in the end, not the dress for me. We had too much in common.

Treading dopamine, waiting for my ship to come in.

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There are eight men outside my office window sawing down a tree. The noise is sharpening all the Q-tips in my house into tiny white knives.

These clowns have been cutting down trees all week. It’s like listening to 100 dentists bore 100 cavities at once.

I’m half inclined to ask them if I can have a few logs for our outdoor fire pit, but I’m sure the City of St. Pete has loftier plans … what with its stellar reputation for recycling.

It a spectacular day out. Gray. Rainy. Sky the color of a chalkboard. Perfect writing weather. It’s not that bad weather inspires me to write, it’s that the break in 75-degree monotonous sunshine triggers spirited introspection, which is such an ungrateful thing for a Buffalo girl to say, so my apologies to the folks back home.

Which brings me to my next tangent. Lately I’ve been fascinated by the human brain, in particular the day-to-day drudgery that is pierced by darts of distraction dipped in dopamine. What triggers these stabs of bliss and ambition? And why must they hit at the most inconvenient times?
Dopamine, just so we’re clear, is a neurotransmitter, a chemical produced in our brains that serves as a lifeboat for neurons. When I picture dopamine, I picture ladies in Victorian dresses treading cold blue water in the North Atlantic as the Titanic sinks slowly in the distance. I picture a sea of dopamine carrying yellow lifeboats, and I picture bustle gowns like sensory neurons, billowing out under glacial water, desperate for a lifeboat, stockinged legs paddling dopamine like dendritic cellular projections.

When I picture our brain, I picture the globe. Divided into hemispheres, our brain is not unlike the earth. The frontal lobe is where most of our dopamine-sensitive neurons sit and stew, waiting patiently, hands clasped on their laps like southern belles at the Kentucky Derby, for a dopamine breeze to blow their hats off.

Often when we think of our brain’s pleasure molecules, we think of serotonin. But in my not-so-expert opinion, serotonin is fleeting. Like a bite-sized Snickers. Dopamine however, seems more enduring. Like a gallon of chocolate ice cream.

Just the sound of the word dopamine is intoxicating. First discovered in 1952 by a Swedish scientist, (who by the way wasn’t awarded his Nobel Prize for this discovery until 2000) dopamine is my enemy and my lover.

I drink dopamine every day in my coffee, and I know I could get it elsewhere if I wanted, but I tell myself to buck up, synthesize it on your own.

Which is why I’m throwing every ounce of literary ambition into a novel. I want to swim laps in a sea of dopamine. The last time I attempted a novel, I was so filled with dopamine it seeped out my eyes. 

—
PS. The picture is by Norbert Wu. It is not a Victorian bustle gown but the largest jellyfish in the Antarctic Circle. It was featured in TIME Magazine and published in Wu’s 2004 book, Under Antarctic Ice. 

Ringing in the new year with ABC gum

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Happy New Year! 

Resolutions are for the birds. To quit doing some thing, or to start doing another thing, there has to be a motivating factor.
For example, I stopped chewing gum in 8th grade because it disgusted me. Cows chew on cud. People should know better. Plus, it’s too conveniently stuck to the bottom of things – chairs, shoes, desks, bathroom stalls, a pair of Levi’s Silver Tabs in 7th grade homeroom. 
I had a friend who liked to shove her chewed gum into whatever bottle of beer she was drinking. As a child, this same friend also placed chewed gum on her cafeteria lunch tray while she ate, and then after lunch, would pop the gum back into her mouth for more chewing. 
I brush my teeth twice a day, floss occasionally, and avoid garlic. If my breath reeks, I pop a peppermint. Aint nothing so rank inside my mouth that a hard candy can’t lick, which is why I have not chewed gum in 13 years. 
Canadian artist Jason Kronenwald created this portrait of 1960s pixie, Twiggy, using people’s chewed bubble gum. Check out his series of Gum Blondes here. To create his paintings he hires a team of chewers to chomp on wads of gum, (he prefers the texture of Trident) and using a bevy of colorful flavors, which Kronenwald asks his chewers to mix inside their mouths, he stretches the gum across planks of plywood and begins molding the visages of famous blondes. 
As a blonde, I’m mildly insulted by the connotation of this art. Hey, Kronenwald: ask your grandma to start chewing on those Bit-O-Honeys she keeps in her candy jar, then have her fork over her dentures. The sticky aftermath will make for a nice series of brunettes. 
My father is disgusted with his beer gut, so to whittle it he started walking today from his house on Langford Road to the town highway department on Eden Road. (It’s about three miles.) I called my mother this morning to talk about overpriced wedding photographers, and my father, gung ho and out of breath, answered the cell phone. 

“What’s up with you?”

“Ah yes,” he rasped. “I’m walking.”

“Walking?”

“I’m almost to the highway department.”

“You sound out of breath.”

“I’m OK. It’s beautiful out.”

“Is it?”

“It’s 19 degrees out, but no wind and bright sunshine.”

“And you’re walking to the highway department?”

“Yes. I’m almost there.”

“Did you bring the cell phone in case you needed to call Mom to pick you up?”

“I brought the cell phone in case I fell dead from a heart attack I could call 911 before I hit the ground.”

“What did you and Mom do for New Years Eve?”

“Fell asleep.”

“So did we.”

“That’s OK. At least we all woke up.”

“Right. Alright Dad, good luck walking. Tell Mom I called about wedding photographers.”

“Will do. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”