Gaydate

That's right, Natorettes, children have playdates, but lesbians have gaydates.

My gaydate last night with Mrs. Nator - the first since going to the hospital! - was particularly gay, too. We started off with cheese fondue and red wine at a little place near the Theatre District (or Hell's Kitchen, as the real estate agents are calling everything between Chelsea and the Upper West Side nowadays.) There was some drunken fumbling with baklava and some faulty bandaging (caution: your neighbours at the next café table might not appreciate seeing your red, beefy leg insides right when they are about to tuck into an entrée of fondued meatballs), and then we went on to a show.

What show, may you ask? Why Charles Busch's off-Broadway theatrical version of Die Mommy Die!, of course. I've been a fan of Busch's since the early nineties, when I heard him singing in the shower via our apartment building shaftway. Sadly, as many times as I meant to go see it, I missed seeing Vampire Lesbians of Sodom during its NY run (revival, anyone?). But Busch was in full high drag effect as washed-up starlet Angela Arden (or is she?), desperate murderess, last night, which partially made up for that loss. Actually, as Mrs. Nator put it, what Busch does is beyond high drag. We're not exactly sure what to call it, except that it is both drag and Art. Camp surpassed by intimate understanding and acting ability and then twisted back into itself as gasp-inducing, physically trembling, poop-humour hilarious camp.

"Darling, this long scarf is a fabulous gift, but why do you keep calling me 'Isadora'?”

The rest of the cast was wonderful, too, especially newcomer Ashley Morris as Edith and the delightfully physical Chris Hoch, whom we remembered fondly from Spamalot, as Tony Parker. However, just to put it all over the top into squee-inducing homofabulosity was soap opera twinkie-boy Van Hansis as the dimwitted sexbomb Lance. Why? Because Van Hansis not only plays the sad, blonde, recently paralyzed (or is he?) half of the gay boy duo Luke and Noah (AKA "Nuke," in gaymo/fangirl circles) on ABC's As The World Turns, but his stage name is Van Hansis for Christ's sake. I mean, is that the sobriquet of a closeted, hunky, 1950s movie star, or what? "Tab Hunter, Rock Hudson, meet Van Hansis. I'm sure you'll have a lot to talk about."

Not your mother's daytime television.

Van is also our latest gay fantasy boyfriend, along with being one of the models for my latest haircut. I'm still clinging to Dan Gillespie Sells of The Feeling, as well, myself, but I haven't seen him lithely hump a couch up close from the front row, lately.

To top it all off, we saw reportedly-straight lesbian heartthrob Sigourney Weaver in the theatre, who sadly seems to have segued from looking potentially dykey into the librarian spinster look. We love you, Sigourney, but a bouffant, granny coat and femme-ified penny loafers do not do you justice. Were you undercover, or what?

Ripley, is that you?

Nevermind, it was a gay old time, and I hope we can do it again, soon, barring further accidents, study-induced mental breakdowns or ending up on the bread line. Next time, won't you go on a gaydate with us?

I'm OK, You're OK

Good news: I just got back from the surgeon's office, and he said my wound is healing excellently. Thanks to Mrs. Nator's vigilant and attentive care, it is now no longer acute, but "red, beefy and granular," which is apparently how the inside of one's leg is supposed to look.

This means that I am okayed to go back to all my normal activities. Yay! So, it's back to class for me on Tuesday, and back to pet sitting sometime this weekend. Now, if I can get all caught up with my studying and other duties, maybe I will have something more interesting to blog about than fevers and misapplied stitches. (I'm working on it.)

As an aside, I found out today that there's a good reason that surgeons aren't usually the ones bandaging their own work. Ten minutes out of the doctor's office and my ace bandage had exploded, leaving me trailing gauze out my jeans leg and down the street. As a consequence, I also found out today that I can dress my own wound! Either I'm just getting used to the sight of a big hole in my shin, or it really is getting a lot better looking. Maybe both.

P.S.: For those or you (sickos) who requested photos (and you know who you are), this is the closest you're going to get. Actually, at first it looked a lot worse than that, so maybe for Halloween I should just ditch the dressing and wear shorts...?

Art for Art's Sake

I've finally got some more photos of my mom's paintings up at her art blog site. Some of the ones that weren't yet up were older paintings, so I put them towards the bottom.

If you know anyone in the Mercer County, NJ area, tell them to go by and take a look at her exhibition at Orpha's coffee shop in Stillwell... maybe even buy, if they're that type.

But don't order the Toffee Frappeccino. It sucks.

P.S.: Next stop: MoMA! Chaaarge!

Well, Then.

So, remember how I said I was back from the hospital? Well, that lasted all of about three hours.

Yup, I took a nap and woke up with a high fever and my leg all inflamed again. I do not know why they discharged me, but I don't trust that hospital anymore, so I went to my regular doctor. He took a look at it and sent me immediately to another hospital, where he is friends with the director of the ER. Fortunately, this meant I was able to get in pretty quickly.

Long story short, I was admitted, tested and given many more rounds of antibiotics. On top of that, a surgeon was called in to look at my wound and, after making all of the disgusted faces that everyone seems to be compelled to make when they see it, he said I needed the stitches removed immediately, and to have it debrided. This meant that they knocked me out, opened that puppy back up, and cut out all the worst parts with a scalpel. Fun, fun, fun!

After that, it's been a few days of more antibiotics, wound cleaning, monitoring and Percoset as they saw how things went. It was not until yesterday, Friday, that I was finally allowed to go home, much to my relief (and Mrs. Nator's and Ma Nator's, who had come in to visit me). Now that I'm home, however, I still need a visiting nurse to come in every day for a while to clean the wound and change the packing (yes, packing - it's basically an open trench in my right shin about 7-8 inches long and 1-2 inches wide, and down almost to the bone, stuffed with loose gauze). Plus, I'll be on antibiotics and the occasional narcotic, as well as restricted movement, so I'll be out of classes for at least another week.

It's all so strange. Who knew a shopping cart could be so deadly? The good news is, I can walk - just not for long distances - and it doesn't hurt terribly most of the time. The bad news is, THERE'S A GIANT FREAKIN' HOLE IN MY LEG!

Not only that, but from what I learned from the surgeon, the first hospital did pretty much exactly the wrong thing with my wound (which - did I mention? - he compared to a "serious shrapnel wound"). Stitching it up tight and sending me home without making sure I was on antibiotics - then, later, discharging me after one night and keep thing the stitches in - made everything work. Now we have to talk to a lawyer friend and consider taking some action, which is not something I'd ever expect myself to do, but CARNFARN IT, I'M MAD!!!

Ahem. Anyway, I'm back and all that, for now. Perhaps I'll post next time on Percoset, just to make it entertaining.

P.S.: Shopping cart = my new KHAAAAANNNN!!!

Well, It Hurts Now

Just popping in to say that I'm back from the hospital. I was admitted overnight for a couple courses of intravenous antibiotics because my wound was infected and it turned out I had a fever of 103.6. Stupid broken home thermometer.

Anyway, being in the hospital was just a barrel of laughs, but at least my fever broke, and I got to get out today. Nobody wanted to be clear on how to treat my wound, and it was like pulling teeth to get an excuse note for school (again) even though they told me I'd have to take a week off. I'm off to see my regular doctor, who I trust more, this evening, in hopes he can make things clearer.

Later, Natorettes...

 

P.S.: While sweating out my fever last night, I had a dream that I met a couple including Mia Kirshner from The L Word and some random annoying guy, and I ended up having an affair with the random annoying guy. The moral of the story: 1.) Any dream about Mia Kirshner is a nightmare, and 2.) As Jenny on The L Word, Mia Kirshner is so annoying that she could turn me straight.

The End.

Ruh-Roh

I'm back from the wilds of New Jersey, and I thought I might get a chance to relax for a while today. Unfortunately, I feel like crap and we think my leg might be infected.

Sigh.

Back to the emergency room...

 

P.S.: No funnel cake, but I lots of photos and a pumpkin donut. I'll have more photos of my mom's art up on her blog soon, too.

What The...?

Y'all, the last week has been doggone crazy. As if the unfortunate Cart of Dooooommmm accident wasn't enough, being out for that one day put me all behind. I think I did alright on the Intro to Vet Tech quiz, despite falling asleep while studying that afternoon and thus being late for class (no blue workbooks, though; I guess my dreams aren't that psychic). But then I had to stay up late that night to finish some materials I promised to design for my mom's art show, and thus ran late this morning, stumbling into Chemistry class to find out we were having a surprise quiz - O, Joy! I don't think I did very well on it. It wasn't that I didn't know the material, per se, so much as I was so exhausted and frazzled that I couldn't tell where the donkey should go, how significant those places between him and the f*ck-chain were, and whether his name was Kelvin or Celsius.

THEN I get my Chemistry homework back, and Yay! because I got all the answers right, but Boo! because the prof took 30% off my score for "lateness." So, I had to follow him around for ten minutes until I could get him to pay attention to the fact that I had contacted him the morning after my night in the freakin' emergency room, so it had been an excused absence. He said he would change it back to 100%, but I have a feeling I'm just another face in the crowd to him, so I'd better watch him like a hawk.

NEXT it turned out that there was a message on my voicemail that I could make my missed lab class up, after all, but ONLY IF I RUN RIGHT NOW TO THE OTHER BUILDING AND TAKE IT CHOP CHOP RIGHT NOW DON'T STOP JUST GO! So, I did. And it was... fine. Like being in junior high once again, really, including having the partner who seemed a little slow and thus I ended up doing everything while she watched and copied my notes, except for the one thing she did do which messed up the experiment and would have ruined our results, had I not gone back and doctored the numbers.

Are we having fun yet?

Then, it was RACE back to Brooklyn to meet with my pet sitting partner, who had been circling in her car for over a half hour with two little dogs, waiting for me to meet them. They are cute, but I am not convinced they won't gnaw my face off when I go to walk them without her. I'm planning to Shake 'n Bake myself in a leaf bag full of crushed dog treats, hoping that they will then decide I'm worth sparing.

Now I'm late to get to my mom's house before the massage she's giving tonight, so I have to pack and await a call from her. Then it's schlepping to New Jerseyfor one day full of hanging her show, printing her materials, doing some store returns and hanging out at some harvest festival for a few hours while she gives chair massages. If there is a God, there will be fair weather and funnel cake.

Finally, on Sunday and Monday, I have to catch up on all the studying I'm behind on, try to do some of the neglected housework, and let Mrs. Nator know I'm still around, as well as resuming pet-sitting duties.

One day, and everything's backed up. And I'm only taking three classes right now (well, more like 2 and 1/2, since the student seminar is a gut course of sorts), y'all. God forbid I get the flu, or something, in Spring, when I'll presumably be taking at least 4 or 5.

Oh, and now my wound and shot site are beginning to hurt pretty regularly, thanks for asking.

And my Mega Millions ticket was not a winner.

Sigh.

 

...funnel cake?

Your Dreams Explained!

1. If you dream that you are flying, but suddenly start to fall:
You are afraid of success, or that your success and happiness will end. Is there someone or something in your life holding you back?

2. If you dream about turtles:
You will make slow but steady progress. You need to slow down and pace yourself. Alternatively, it indicates that you are sheltering yourself from the realities of life.

3. If you dream about your teeth falling out:
Either you are feeling powerless, or you are lying. Cut that shit out.

4. If you dream there are rocks you must climb:
You are taking too much Prozac. Also, you have issues with shoes. Stay away from pigs, if you know what's good for you.

5. If you dream you are a pirate bearing an uncanny resemblance to Angelina Jolie:
Alright, now you're just making shit up.

6. If you dream you are suddenly back in high school, where you have to take multiple exams you didn't know about in those infernal blue booklets, and you are late for all of them and don't remember how to do anything, and all the kids are teasing you and trying to tell the teacher that you are cheating:
You have returned to school later in life, and most of the students are 20 years younger than you. You just had an unfortunate and unlikely accident with a shopping cart that kept you out of classes that, little did you know, were to prep you for your first Chemistry homework and your first Intro to Vet Tech quiz, which requires extensive memorization of medical terms. Also? You can't ever make up that lab you missed. Oh, and you're so stressed about studying that you're procrastinating my writing stupid blog entries. Nervous, yet?

Or, you will soon come into a big fortune!

Your mileage may vary.

I Left My Leg... In Brooklyn, New York!

And my laundry in a bar on Fifth Avenue. Okay, it was just part of my leg. What the hell am I talking about?

Well, I had a little accident last night. I was wheeling my laundry home, thinking about Chem class the next morning and grumbling to myself, when I came to the well-known fucked-up curb ramp on 16th St and 5th Ave. "There's that well-known fucked-up curb ramp," I thought briefly to myself. "I hate that thing. Now I'm going to have to dykehandle my laundry cart over the big holes in it." Which I proceeded to do, while looking away from it for oncoming traffic. And that's when I had the accident.

If you are familiar with New York, you probably know about the Ubiquitous Metal Cart, or UMC. Because most New Yorkers walk everywhere and many don't have laundry facilities in their buildings, on a daily basis you may see dozens of people pushing their UMCs full of groceries, junk, or bags of laundry. What you did not know is that, apparently, the UMCs should also be known as The Carts of DOOOOOM!!!

All of which is to say that my cart wheel wedged in the hole, tipped over forward, and somehow gouged a large chunk out of my leg. I wasn't even sure what happened at first - I was just mad it fell over and thought I had a scrape. Then I saw the blood filling my shoe.

Fortunately, a very kind stranger named Cathy happened to be just behind me with her shopping cart, and saw the whole thing. She righted the cart, helped me fish an old towel out of the laundry to staunch the flow, let me use her cell phone and wheeled the cart into a local bar for safekeeping. If that weren't enough, just a few moments later an ambulance happened to be passing by, and she hailed it so they pulled over to help me. She even hopped into the ambulance with me, asking if I needed her to go to the hospital with me for "emotional support"! By then, I had gone from pissed but calm, to blubbering mini-panic when I actually saw the severity of the wound, and back into bemused but calm again, so I told her thank you and I'd buy her a drink at the bar sometime, but she could go.

I was very lucky during the whole thing, besides the weird sort of foul luck that allows one to get disfigured by a runaway, nine-dollar shopping cart, that is. The truth is, I had almost no pain the whole time, until they did the lavage and numbing shots, and even that was just a sting now and then. I had a kind stranger look after me, some very nice paramedics who just happened to be there at the time (guardian angel, much?) and a cast of cute young doctors out of Scrubs cast by a fashion shoot. I expected to finally be in pain this morning, both from the 29 stitches (8 inside, 21 out) and the infamously sore-making tetanus shot, but so far, barely a twinge. In fact, the only bad consequences so far have been missing my first Chem lab (boo hoo), a probable very ugly scar to come, and the loss of a blood-soaked sock (the paramedics' advice of washing the sneaker in hydrogen peroxide seems to have done the job, which FN might appreciate knowing). Well, those things and a lingering feeling of nausea after seeing my leg open down to the muscle (I'm hoping I'll be able to better handle seeing animal injuries than this, or vet tech school might be a mistake), and washing out my shoe to find sizable... bits of me still clinging to it. You're welcome for that image, by the way.

And that's my story, kids. My lessons learned?

1.) Be careful where you're going, especially when pushing a cheap, sharp metal cart.

2.) Relying on the kindness of strangers really isn't so bad
&
3.) God as my witness, from now on I will have my laundry picked up and delivered!

P.S.: Do you think I can sue the various nurses who kept walking by and recoiling, then commenting how bad my cut looked, for emotional trauma? What about the one who gasped and said, "oh, that looks so bad! And you had such beautiful skin!" Do they teach that kind of bedside manner in nursing school?

P.P.S.: Can I sue the city for the fucked-up curb? I don't think I was being inordinately clumsy, and I have a witness! Plus, then I wouldn't have to work while in school. Hmmm...

This Just In - Pigs Can Now Fly

My mother, a woman who, after seven years of not being able to get her computer to work properly, finally gave up on connecting to the Internet, is on YouTube.

Finding this out yesterday was a total surprise. I was doing a search on her in order to decide some things about how I want to update her art blog...

Let me back up here a minute and explain: my mom did not set up the art blog, nor does she know much about it. I set it up for her, when she started painting again after many years, and was considering showing her work to galleries and/or selling it. I think she's only looked at it a couple times. It's also due for an update, which will happen after next weekend, when I visit her to photograph her new works and help her hang them in her first show. Go, Ma Nator! I'm proud of her.

Anyway, long story short, during the search I found that my mother came up in some videos on YouTube. It turns out that she appeared in some short videos the massage school she works at produced, and the videos were posted on YouTube to educate viewers and promote the school.*

Once I got over the shock at seeing my mom on the Intertubes, I called her up.

DN: "Mom! I didn't know you were on YouTube!"

MN: "I am?" (Well, this sounds more like her.)

DN: "Um, yeah. I saw you in those massage videos..."

MN: "Oh, yes. I knew we made the videos, but I forgot they put them on YouTube. How did you find them?"

DN: (Still surprised that she even knows what YouTube is,) "Completely by accident. It's a great video."

MN: "Oh, thank you - I'm told I have thousands of hits!" (Here we both giggle, somewhat incredulously.)

DN: "Yeah, and you have lots of great comments, too. Everyone says your voice is very soothing."

MN: (Chuckles) Really? Well, I have been told that before. I'll have to remember to go check it out, sometime. I've never looked at YouTube before." (Now that sounds more like the Ma Nator I know.)

So, now I have to adjust to a world where, although my mother still hasn't ever actually seen YouTube, she not only knows (sort of) what it is, but is becoming something of a CeWebrity. Now if only I can track down and beat those assholes who are commenting that they want her to give them a blowjob...

*I'm neither going to bore you nor threaten my usual semi-kinda-anonymity on this blog by posting the videos she's in, but if you really want to, you can see one of them here.

Chemistree fore Eediots!

Hello, and welcome to Chemistree fore Eediots! Our first installment is on significant vs. insignificant figures. And by a significant figure, we don't mean this:

I'm as significant as you get, bitches!

No, by significant and insignificant figures, we are referring to the figures in measured numbers that count for something, like this:

Remember, children: "Clickie pickie makey biggy!"

Confused? Let's try a simple similie analogy hominy:

Say you're having an orgy.

Oh, where do I begin?

Imagine that each mammal person is a number, except zero, which would mean no person is there, like so:

fig.1

To have a good orgy, you want everything arranged so that everyone is having a good time. To do this, you want everyone to be sexually engaged with at least one other person at the party. Then, each person will be having a significant relationship, and thus will count as an significant figure.

fig. 2, whoop-de-doo!

"But," you may interject, "doesn't Chemisteree have fancy things like decimals involved?" Indeed, it does. So, let's imagine your orgy is taking place in Tijuana. Therefore, the decimal point shall be represented by a donkey.

fig. three-haw

Thus, we may also include people on either side of the donkey as significant, and picture a number with decimals like so:

fig. 4: "Qué sucede en México, permanece en México."

So, from looking at these figures, we can determine the rule that All non-zero numbers in a measured number are significant.

Unfortunately, as we all know, Chemissterry can get even more complicated than that. Yes, numbers in Chemisorry Chem include zeros. So, how are we to handle these in our hominorgy? Well, let's imagine they are empty spaces where no one is. This leads us to the next rule: "Sandwiched" zeros occur between nonzero numbers and are significant.

See, for example, this doohickey here:

fig. 5, or is that 5.0?

As you can see, we count each person as significant, on either side of the donkey. We also count the empty spot in the middle as significant, too, as it is in-between the first significant person and the second... or, in this case, the donkey, and thus is a sandwich. Well, it's not actually a sandwich, or we'd have to search Google for images of a sandwich. What we mean is, a space between people, or other mammals, is okay for our purposes. It's probably just because one person needs a little space right now, or is a voyeur.

Um, okay. So next we have another another kind of zeros. These are the kind of zeros that appear at the end of numbers, and are called "trailing zeros." Our rules about trailing zeros are: Trailing zeros follow non-zero numbers in numbers without decimal points, are usually place holders, and are not significant.

Meaning, no matter how many people you have in your orgy, or spaces between them, they are all significant. But, as you'd expect, the space between the last person and the wall or door is not significant, because that's the end of the f***-chain.

fig. sex

Similarly, Leading zeros precede non-zero digits in a decimal number and are not significant.

So, as you will see in fig. 7, like trailing zero empty spaces, leading zero empty spaces are kind of the space between the f***-chain and the other wall, and don't count, despite the donkey, who is off practicing his lines for A Midsummer Night's Dream, or something.

fig. newton 7

Finally, you may well ask, "but aren't there more complicated numbers in Colostomystery? Like, this thing I've heard of, 'scientific notation'?" Well, yes, but it's really not that complicated at all, as our last figure will illustrate.

fig. whatever, I can't be bothered.

As you can see, the multiplication symbol acts as a rift in the space-time continuum, turning the spaces between the people (and donkeys) into trailing zeros by eating the sandwiches. In addition, the midgets or children or whatever at the top right don't count, because they have no legal standing in Tijuana.

We hope you enjoyed this installment of Chem 4 Idjitiots. Tune in next week for Intro to Vet Tech for Total Morons!

Morris, is that you?

I'm Under Her Spell

If being excited to go to the midnight Buffy, The Musical Sing-Along this weekend makes me a giant goober, well... just bring it on!

Now to finish up my chemistry reading...

P.S.: We also got tickets to see Kathy Griffin at MSG in January! WOO!!!

Not AARGH?

Holy shit. I actually just got into one of the required chemistry courses! W00T!

Wow. It's going to be really hard. I didn't do well in chemistry in high school and my math schools are seriously atrophied. Uh, w00t?

I'm disappointed I won't be taking biology, now. I was actually looking forward to it. So much so, that I feel bad that I'm going to have to return my books. They looked so pretty!

Now I just need to make sure my credit count is high enough for my student loans... which, I hope so, because anything more would be quite a strain.

After that, getting the correct books and assignments should be easy. Now, doing the assignments...

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHH!!!!!

School? Things are not going well.

So, I thought my schedule was all set. Not so, grasshopper. Once again, it proves that no one in admissions, financial aid or the bursar's office at that school knows diddlysquat. Oh, they may proclaim in loud, indignant tones that they know diddly and they know squat, but it is all smoke and mirrors, my friends. Those, and giant turds.

The bottom line is, after finding out in my first Intro to Vet Tech course that 1.) the way my schedule was set up would basically disallow me from being considered for the clinical vet tech program until next fucking year, and 2.) Intro to Vet Tech is probably going to be a brain-draining asskick of a course, I spent the ENtire day today trying to get things in order. I got a person with half a brain in admissions to override the glitch in the system that was not allowing me to register for Vertebrate Anat & Phys in the Fall II semester, even though I was qualified. Now all I need is one measly chemistry classes: one in one of three courses - that's seventeen sections, total. And how many seats are available in these classes? None.

So, let's recap. After months of misinformation and incorrect advisement, I've missed out on getting into the one class that will qualify me for the program. If I take the class after the Fall I semester, I do not qualify for the program this year. Which means, they took my money and gave me a spot in a program which has no room for me to participate. Rage, anyone?

I'm still working on my options. I had a sudden rush of joy when it looked like someone had dropped the course and a slot was available, but then it turned out that it had already been filled, and the online system was lagging behind. I'm still trying to reach the head of the science department, who I'm told used to authorize "over tallies", i.e. shoe-horning people into already full classes, up until last year, when she decided she wasn't going to do it anymore. I'm hoping that either she will reconsider once I tell her my sob story, or a bunch of people will get knocked out of the classes tomorrow when they do automatic drops for outstanding bills, and I'll get in. But if I don't? I don't know. I'm not sure it would make sense to continue going to school this year. Not that they're going to give me my money, much less my wasted time, back, for sure.

Anyway, please send me giant wooOOONNnnns of good luck for this, and tune in later, Natorettes. I'm trying not to let this make me question whether the universe is telling me I'm supposed to be going back to school or not, and figure I should accept that I'm supposed to be a desk jockey for the rest of my life. Melodrama! But that's me. Must've been all that Morrissey I listened to in high school.

Further bulletins as events unfold...

Now My Life Is Complete

Clicky Pickie Makey Biggie

Lassie Come Home

Sigh.

I hate lost pet cases.

I wish I could make everything better.

Sometimes being an animal communicator is hard.

Haircut 100

Anybody remember that band? Yes, I am old.

I got a new haircut today. I've had pretty much the same hairstyle for a number of years now, and it was time for a change. Mrs. Nator likes it when my hair is a bit longer, so I let it go for a while, until finally the shagginess drove me mad (and I got some money for my birthday I could spend on a hair cut).

So, rather than my old, outdated gay boy-style haircut, something like this:

I now have something between an emo cut like this:

and a twink cut like this:

My hairstylist totally rocks, and Mrs. Nator and I are both happy with the results.

I only hope that when I go back to school the cool kids like me! I'll just die if they don't...

Red Surprise

I found this photo in early 2005 on the downtown platform of the 66th street 1 station. I've meant to turn it in to Found magazine for some time, but I've never been able to do it. I think I like having it in my possession and just sharing it here and there.

I love the lurid quality of the overabundance of saturated red, the metal elevator doors juxtaposed with the gritty cinderblock, the glare of the flash. The girl in the picture is completely anonymous, so I can make up any story I want about where she is, why her picture is being taken, and why she is hiding her face. It's probably a simple reason, like a friend or family member was fooling around with her and snapped a picture when she didn't feel pretty. There are two high schools and a low income project nearby, so that wouldn't be surprising. But there's still that element of mystery: what if there's something more interesting or nefarious going on here? She's a victim of a killer who takes snapshots of his prey; she's a celebrity; she has an over-sensitivity to light; she was caught exiting a crime scene; she saw something she shouldn't have; she's had a surprise; her rival caught her wearing the jacket of the man she's having an affair with; she doesn't want you to see her tears; she was supposed to take the stairs; she's a stranger, and someone snapped her just because...

Make up a story. Go ahead. I'll listen.

Anbesaaaawww...

OK, you know that commercial where the baby is crying, and someone shoves a fingerful of Anbesol in his mouth, and he immediately shuts up? Well, I tried a similar product for a toothache today, and now I know why the baby stopped bawling. That kid's pain didn't stop - his whole mouth went numb. The look of shock on his face is because he's totally gobsmacked that he's lost all feeling in and motor control of his entire mouth and throat.

I wonder what non-indicated uses people have gotten up to with this stuff...

Just A Walk In The Park - The Sequel

A little clarification in response to the comments on my last post:

WT: Basically, I did my "don't look at the dangerous animal and you won't enrage them," routine. I fortunately was very close to the larger, more populated path at that point, and I figured if he was doing something he didn't want to be caught at - or was trying to show women something he wanted to be caught at - if I pretended not to see him he would leave me alone. The one time I got hit by a stranger it was because I caught two teenaged guys doing something they shouldn't. More on that later.

CB: You do have a point: there's always danger in the big city. Of course, there's danger everywhere. Suburbs have rampant economic, drug and drinking problems, and the random violence that go with them. Plus, if you're out in the country, no one can hear you scream...

CD: No thank you. As angry and scared as I get sometimes, I can't wrap my mind around carrying a weapon. It just seems too likely to escalate things, or be turned against me.

I did study Goju karate and self-defense for several years, which has made me feel slightly more competent when it comes to looking out for myself. However, given my propensity to freeze like a deer in headlights in the face of strong danger, I find it most practical for me to practice the flight response rather than the fight response. As any good martial artist will tell you, the best self-defense is avoiding a fight as much as possible. Plus, I'm pretty much a pacifist.

Of course, there was the one time I got hit by the teenagers cited above. Punched right in the jaw where I'd just had oral surgery, when I discovered them defacing a subway hallway. I surprised my self by swinging up one of the very heavy suitcases I was holding and smacking the attacker upside the head. When he ran away, I yelled up the stairs to his compatriot (who had scampered up at my arrival), "Yo! Your boy just hit me - and if I see him again, I'm gonna kill 'im!"

I had no idea I was so ghetto.

Just A Walk In The Park

I did something today that I normally don't do: I wandered alone in the park. To be honest, I rarely "wander" alone anywhere. If I am walking somewhere alone, it must always be with a purpose. I must have people to see or errands to run. If I am with someone else, I can sometimes wander, even though being with someone usually means there will be a discussion of where to go. However, when I am by myself, I usually have to have a destination in mind, or I'm likely to stay inside.

Why is this? Well, I thought to myself while following a dappled path through Prospect Park, the fact is that I feel vulnerable when I am outside alone. On regular days I may just feel a little conspicuous - that is, I feel as though I don't want anyone looking at me. On good days I'm alright with it, but on bad days it devolves into downright social anxiety. In my mind, somebody, or some persons, are out to get me, whether it's with a few rude comments or an outright attack, and I must remain alert at all times, and scurry home as soon as my business is done.

Today was one of the bad days, for some reason, and while I'd had a lovely day wandering much of the neighbourhood with a friend-cum-longstanding AC client, as soon as she was gone, I felt strange. I decided that it was a beautiful day and it was time to get my butt to the park and get some sun and exercise, rather than sitting in my hidey-hole for hours. The previous day I'd barely ventured outside - only to do some quick grocery shopping - and I worry that feeding my neurosis only worsens it. So it was that around five thirty I found myself meandering through a groomed forest, and wondering why, instead of enjoying the greenery and light, I was having visions of scenes from The Blair Witch every time I looked around at the trees.

Why am I so afraid? I thought. Is it because my mother left our house when I was six, imprinting some kind of lack of protection on my tender brain? Is it because I grew up as one of the only white kids in a tough neighbourhood, routinely chided and threatened? Is it because of the training I received as a child of the 1970s, that strangers might try to kidnap and rape little kids, or at least put razor blades in their Halloween apples? Is it due to the two minor muggings I've been through, where I wasn't even badly hurt... my alcoholic stepfather... the events of 9/11? Just what is it that makes me so tense while alone in public that I cannot enjoy a simple stroll?

I decided then and there that I was going to push forward, keep walking, and get out by myself more often. I'd go to the park alone again soon. Maybe Coney Island, maybe a movie and lunch. I would wander with no direction, perhaps even without my ever-present iPod and camera that I sometimes use to separate a part of myself from the rest of the world. Here I was, on a gorgeous day in a gorgeous park, dozens of happy people just down the path enjoying the late summer sunshine without the slightest tremor of doubt, and I was going to continue down this path and enjoy it, too.

And that's when I saw the ragged looking half-undressed guy lurking behind a tree.

Random Observations of the Day

1. I am sick of hearing about Michael Vick on football shows. Yes, he did a bad thing, and he will be punished for it. I am actually thrilled that he was caught, will be punished and it all has been publicized, because animal abuse runs rampant in this country, with very little to stop it and mainly slaps on the wrist for abusers. However, when I watch my cheesy football programs, I want at least three quarters of them to be dedicated to general football news, not just the whole Michael Vick thing. Not only does it get boring, otherwise, but opening day is coming up and I've got three fantasy teams to maintain, people. TYFYPATTVIM.

2. Bread should be soft. Crusty is great, but the entirety of a slice of bread should not be like unto a slab of drywall. I'm not saying I like all my bread to be Wonderbread squishy - that's really only okay for PB&J or diner toast. But if the bread completely dominates the sandwich, it is too aggressive, capiche?

2b. Likewise, not all fancy bread needs to be sourdough. The uses of sourdough are limited! If I want some delicious rosemary bread, it does not to be sourdough, as well. Then, who can taste the rosemary?

3. If you want to see how your neighbours live, try pet sitting. Not only has the past week allowed me to meet lovely new critters, but to wander in the homes of several complete strangers. I've seen everything from a simple railroad flat to a richly appointed five-story victorian, aboriginal art to Herman Miller chairs, chipped floorboards to carved hearths, and it has been very interesting, indeed. And, although I do experience some apartment envy, it's also fun to realize what benefits our present abode does have (lots of space, with separate rooms but no separate levels) and what I would and wouldn't like in our next home, when we can afford one.

4. I always seem to have the latest gay boy haircut, unless you count the bald look. I think Mrs. Nator and I are fine with that.

5. I am the Greatest Procrastinator in the World!

Time to do something productive?

The Good, The Bad and The Creepy

Item: There is a trail of blood leading to our door - literally. We discovered it yesterday morning, but weren't sure what it was. Our landlords later told us that someone had been stabbed outside a local bar and stumbled down our block, stopping just in front of our building. Our downstairs neighbours had seen the cops dealing with the situation, but we had our air conditioner and TV on and didn't hear a thing. It's nausea-inducing enough to see a trail of splotches weaving up the block and around the corner and learn it is blood, but why did he stop, and leave an extra big splatter, in front of our building? Is this just where he dropped?

No further news on what happened, or how the victim is doing. Our neighbourhood is usually pretty good, so even if it's bound to happen once in a while in the big city, it's disconcerting.

Item: So far this week I have nine pet sitting and two communication gigs. Yesterday saw me visiting a parrot, two (lesbian) doves and four cats over three apartments. The cats are all love bugs, but the birds are suspicious of me. The most I could get out of the parrot was a several-minute round of exclamations of "hello!" back and forth between us. Most of the time, he snuck around in an almost cartoonish manner, sussing me out. It's fairly common for birds to be cautious with strangers, so I'm just trying to be gentle and give them their space. It does get a little tiresome, however, when the conversation goes like this: "Hello!" "Uh, hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Oh, for Christ's sake..." "*burping noise*"

Item: Happy birthday to me. Today I turn (sigh) 37. When did birthdays stop being a cause for a big celebration?

Anyway, we're just having a low-key dinner out for two to celebrate, so today is free for me to finish up my pet sitting duties, confirm that the school processed my tuition, do some work on my business site, and contemplate the enormity of my lifestyle changes. Um, yipes.

Do I have enough stamina and enthusiasm to make it as a student while working at my advanced age? Stay tuned to find out...

Ain't That America

I think I finally got myself off some of the collectibles and xtian sites that started plaguing me after I bought that Thomas Kinkade angel figurine for Mrs. Nator's grandmother. (I know. Don't get me started.) Here, however, is just a small section from one of their recent emails to me. Clicky piccy makey biggy.

The Horror.

I think the juxtaposition of the creepy preemie doll, the John Wayne knife and the Disney fairy just says it all about the U.S. of A., don't you? The Thomas Kinkade and Precious Moments links are just side Jell-O salads to this remarkable Spam Casserole of Middle American goodness.

I think I'm going to have to go do something very deviant right now. Don't wait up.

Eau de Old Geek: Smells Like Burning Floppies

I am old, and I am geeky. Therefore, I found this rather funny:

The Sim City Board of Advisors

You mileage (to scale) may vary.

Open for Bidness

Well, I've started my animal communication business up again, and started the pet sitting. Guess what? I'm feeling really good about it!

Sure, I've had to lay out some money for new supplies, new web ads and some new software (I can now offer phone call recordings on CD or MP3 download, so check me out, lalala). Sure, I've only made a bit of that money back so far, but my first pet sitting gig and latest two ac consultations, including a brand new client with a very emotional case, went really well.

So, even though I'm still feeling somewhat nervous and cautious, it's a good start. And the important thing is, not only do I feel I did a pretty good job thus far, but I've really enjoyed it, especially the cat sitting. I mean, the first clients were easy, but what's not to love about getting paid to play with kitties and have them climb up on your shoulders and lick you all over with their stinky kitty breafs? Nothing, that's what.

As for those of you who I promised I'd do free practice consultations with your animal kids... uh, I'm an idiot? And a terrible person? I just had a lot of nerves about performing well enough for my blog friends, I guess. I feel really guilty about not doing it for so long. But, if any of you still want a session, let me know, and we'll set something up.

Now I'm off to give my own critter brood some attention. Sonya Fitzpatrick, look out!

Late Registration

Well, there it is. At least for now. A few of the courses might change depending on what happens with drop/add later in the month. Also, I still haven't paid my tuition yet, as I have to get my final loan confirmation. Now that I know roughly what courses I'll be taking, I know that I have to add at least $550 per semester for the books I'll need. That's half again the tuition for this city college, people. Oy!

The biology and psychology courses aren't required, but I'm taking them because I want to see what grabs my interest. It may be that I get all excited about biology and decide to change my goal to a degree in that or zoology, or I like psych and decide to pursue becoming an animal behaviourist. Yes, I've taken those subjects before and enjoyed them (as I took Chemistry before and really struggled with the equations), but that was all 20-25 years ago. I think it would be best to brush up. Anyway, the bio course can also be used as a prereq for some vet tech courses later.

Speaking of a long time ago, I recently found my college ID cards from when I first registered in 1988 at just barely 18 years old. Good Lord.

"Hey. Wanna go out clubbing?"

Man. The hair. The makeup. The lack of fat. The enthusiasm. The youth. Who knew that nearly 20 years later I'd be dragging my sorry ass back to classes, to attend with kids fresh out of high school? Not that I'd have appreciated being called a kid at the time, what with going to live on my own in New York City and mingling nightly with the most drugged up adults Manhattan had to offer...

"New York City! Just like I pictured it... skyscrapers, and ev'rythang."

Yes, I had a fedora and a guitar pick earring. What of them? And no, I never throw anything out.

Keep laughing, people. Meanwhile, I'll keep cursing that my metabolism petered out and being grateful for my life experience since then.

I wonder if I can get my hair to swoop like that, again?

Aloha 'Oe

So, while First Nations is gettin' all scrumdillyiciously descriptive about her four day trip, you've heard barely a burp from me about Hawai'i thus far. This is is because:

1. I miss it so much that I am having major trouble adjusting to being back in the city, and thus can't really think about my vacation without going a little crazy

2. I'm afraid to bore all of y'all, since I don't seem to be at my writerly best of late (must be the stress, not lack of talent, right?)
&
3. We did so much over two weeks that it's a bit overwhelming trying to remember and artfully describe it all.

I did, however, finally post a jumble of description, reviews and pointers at TripAdvisor, so if you're so inclined, you can see that post to find out a bit of what our trip was like.

Other than that, I will drill away at getting the photos up, but as I'm so anal about post-processing them, it may be next summer before I get all of 'em chosen and adjusted just so. I can only hope some of them will be worth the trouble, even if they can't fully illustrate the gorgeous sights of the Big Island.

In the mean time, wish me luck Natorettes. Tomorrow I'm going to track down the head of the Vet Tech department and whinge at her in person!

Help A Poor Student

OK, who's going to buy me tickets to the Def Leppard/Foreigner/Styx show at Jones Beach? The impoverished inner-city students of today need to experience some culture, I tell you. Come on, be a man and step up! Or something.

It's Not The Heat, It's The... Tornadoes?

I didn't want to schlep to Queens today in the 90-plus degree heat to try to sort out my registration issues. I knew that the guy who had been helping me with my loans was still out, and that the new head of the Vet Tech department, who I spoke with several times this week, had not yet been able to schedule another section of the course I need. Little did I know, the storms that briefly woke me up in the wee hours with raging thunder and rain would insure I wouldn't make that trip.

Although reports coming in to the New York Times, Gothamist, NY1 television and WNYC, the local NPR station, point out that there is no verification from the National Weather Service yet that one or more tornadoes came through Brooklyn last night, photos and calls from residents testify to some very-tornado like phenomena. That's right, large trees uprooted and flung tens of feet, roofs ripped off, a low roar like a train coming through in the middle of the night, and clear demarcations between blocks of severe destruction and blocks with no damage. In Brooklyn.

On top of that, rain upwards of three inches in an hour have flooded out and shut down pretty much the entire subway system, save one line. While Mrs. Nator slept in unusually late, commuters from New Jersey and Long Island found themselves stuck in the city, and subway and bus riders in all boroughs wandered, trying to find a running train or a bus not immobilized by traffic with space for one more body. It is a mess out there, my friends.

Of course, it reminds a lot of people of some of the other big recent crises when transportation and communication failed. Callers into local radio shows are complaining that nothing has changed since 9/11, as the MTA still neglects telling riders exactly what is going on, or makes announcements that are not only unhelpful, but unintelligible. When are they going to get it together?

For my part, it also reminds me a bit of that infamous day, because Mrs. Nator and I were both lucky. Six years ago I was the one who slept late and missed getting on a train before the event, and Mrs. Nator has made it safely to work beforehand. This morning, I had nowhere I had to go, and she couldn't seem to wake up on time. What's more, no major damage seems to have hit our neighbourhood.

Of course, it's still dangerously hot. As I listened to the callers from around Brooklyn complaining on the radio about what looked to them like tornado damage and the MTA's incompetency, I was leafing through An Inconvenient Truth. To my delight, the book was given free to every new student entering my new school this Fall as assigned reading. As I listened to weather experts connecting global warming with record-breaking heat and severe storms like hurricanes and tornadoes on the radio, I came to the section of the book that proved the same thing. In other words, it's not just New Orleans and Florida that have to worry anymore. The gangstas in the Boogie-Down better start rapping about whether they're tough enough to survive twenty-foot rises in sea levels, yo.

It made me feel slightly better that I had ordered biodegradable trash bags and recycled toilet paper yesterday. But not much.

 

P.S.: Best commentary of the day, courtesy of Gothamist:

Update: The NOAA has now confirmed a tornado touched down in Brooklyn. Forensic evidence suggests wind speeds of 111-135 MPH, making this about an F2 level tornado. Crazy!

Busy, Busy, Busy

Doing semi-productive things, like trying to work out my school and job situations.

So, in the meantime, which is the funnier word: gleet or queef?
Discuss.

Beware The Crankenmonster!

1. I swore they wouldn't make me cry this time. They didn't, yet, but it was close. It turns out that after months of telling me I had to get my financial aid status worked out before I could register, not only was the rep who was helping me out for two weeks when I came in to register yesterday, but it turns out that I could have registered before the aid paperwork was done. Imagine my rage and frustration, then, when it turned out that not only will my loan paperwork not be processed for weeks, but two of the core courses I must take to enter the Vet Tech program are already filled.

I can't take other courses in their place because, as someone who already has a BA and some grad work, I've already fulfilled most of the credit requirements for the program! Which all means there may be only one or two courses open to me this semester, i.e. I'd be less than a half-time student, not eligible for any loans, still responsible for paying interest and payments on my pre-existing loans and have to return to work full time. Da Nator is Not. Pleased.

My only hope at this point is that I will be able to reach the director of the program (who is probably God Knows Where during August) and convince her to allow my a spot in the courses. Wish me lots of luck. Groveling Hat... on!

2. On a much less important note, "the most beautiful thing ever"? I think not. While I think Mia Michaels is a great choreographer, if she hadn't shared the backstory that this piece on So You Think You Can Dance last night was about her and her recently deceased father reuniting in heaven, would everyone be crying and raving at the end? The piece was good, but nowhere near as wonderful as her Emmy-nominated "bench" piece from last year. To cap it off, Neil's extra-Caucasian one-note dancing drained much of the spirit out of it, and Lacey, who normally is a bit better at conveying emotion (at least outwardly), must have been brought down to his level, because she spent the whole dance with a precious, frozen grin plastered on her face. Let's face it, what everybody loved about the piece was the dead father, and possibly the fake flowers all over the stage.

Lacey has been mostly consistent and vote-worthy, but Neil should have been gone a long time ago. He has been getting by on his WASPY, non-threatening-to-tweens looks, rather than his dancing or emotive ability. Boo, I say, BOO!

Thus endeth the gripe session for the day. Now I'm off to try reaching the program director again, setting up some work ours with my pet-sitter friend, and moping in the most obnoxious way possible. Maybe I'll work on vacation photos tomorrow. Today, I'm missing Hawai'i too much...

technorati tags: so you think you can dance,sytycd,vet tech,school

Fuck. We're Back.

Fresh lychee breakfasts while watching sea turtles and tropical fish frolic from our balcony.

Snorkeling, snorkeling and more snorkeling.

Semi-successful sea kayaking (sure, we tipped over, but at least we didn't try to drown each other in a panic like one of the other couples).

Scenic hiking to a secluded spot ringed by lava rocks, coconut palms and basking green turtles.

Reeeeally good potato-mac salad.

SCUBA diving for the first time (with sharks!)

Sunset tropical cocktails at Don the Beachcomber's.

Frolics on scenic and secluded beaches.

Traversing several climate zones to partake in scenic views (mostly of cows).

Minor nervous breakdown while realizing one's own universal insignificance while hiking across a huge volcanic caldera full of baby Earth.

First helicopter flight - over flowing lava!

Approximately one squillion photos and videos of trip to go through.

Airplane breakdown and weather resulting in over 48 hours of travel home, including a forced layover in scenic Pittsburgh, PA.

Return to very happy cats and very stinky apartment.

Mrs. Nator's newly hired staff member emailing that he won't be able to take the job after all, as his partner has been transferred.

Landlords claiming that we will have to pay for damages to the drop ceiling of the apartment below due to a minor amount of water getting through the floor that they've known for years is hole-ridden subflooring that funnels any spills right through.

Trying to figure out if I'll get student loans, how to register on Wednesday and how the hell I can start making at least $400 per week immediately.

... any questions?

Aloha, Bitches!

See you on the flip side...

I'm Still Here

... and alive, y'all. I've just been busy, what with the mother-in-law here until last Thursday, and getting everything ready for school, the big trip and around the house before we leave this Thursday. Whew!

For those who asked, the MIL visit was fine, bordering on great. Mrs. Nator had some lady issues and had to work some, so MIL Nator and I hung out a lot, going to see the frogs at the American Museum of Natural History together and such. We actually have a lot in common, such as a love of natural science and taking photographs, so we get along great, besides her being a (non-proselytistic) born-again Christian and me being a Godless lesbian who has sexual relations with her daughter. We especially had fun going to Roosevelt Island to watch the fireworks in a rainstorm on the 4th of July, and despite her seeming a bit worn out and stressed at times (which makes sense due to other things in her life) and me needing a bit of alone time now and then, I think we all had a good time.

Alas, the Meeting of The Moms did not occur, because my mom's car broke down on her way here. I was disappointed they didn't meet, but more bugged by the fact that my mom is officially a senior citizen now and still never has a car that is reliable. The fact is that she just can't afford a new car and on her relatively low income, which makes me worry for her safety and the future. Mrs. Nator and I even talked a bit about getting all the kids together and contributing to a decent car for her in the not-so-distant future, although I'm not sure how we'd afford that, much less with us planning to throw her mom a big surprise party for her 65th birthday. It sucks not to be rich. Not enough for me to go work in the corporate world or anything, but, yeah.

Still, everyone is reasonably well, our new bed seems to be great for both Mrs. Nator's and my chronic back problems, I'm almost all set to go to school in September, it looks like I may have a new gig working for my friend's cat-sitting business when we get back (how perfect for me is THAT? I am tres excited), and, oh yeah, where will we be getting back from? HAWAI'I, that's where! Have I mentioned that enough?

I should have a buttload of photos up soon from my roaming photography sprees with MIL Nator shortly, as I want to try to get them up before I have 12,000 photos of lava and green sea turtles to process. Oh, yes - I'm trying SCUBA diving while there AND taking a doors-open helicopter tour over the volcano vent, y'all. Do not expect a coherent post beyond something like "OMGSOAWESOMES!!!1!!1" for awhile, mmmkay? If ever. Assuming I survive, that is.

Enjoy the rest of July, Natorettes. I'll be thinking of you, and wishing you could snorkel with me...

Mother-in-Law on Board

Mother-in-law visit: so far, so good.

July 4th will herald not just our first trip to Roosevelt Island to watch the fireworks, but the first Meeting of The Moms.

More later...

Update

Good news! The doctor has okayed me to go SCUBA diving, and I think I've almost convinced Mrs. Nator to let me do it. Keep those WooOOOnnns coming!

In other news, I still have to clean the entire house tomorrow. That's over 1100 square feet of cat fur, kitty litter dust and highway grit. And that doesn't even count the de-pornifying. I love my mother-in-law and we get along famously, but damn.

Have I mentioned the new bed is HUGE? The cats still haven't figured out a way to get up on it.

Later, taters...

Sundry

Giant-Ass Bed

Well, we done dood it. We finally got a new bed. King size, in fact. Simmons firm plush top, so it's steady with all those little coils, but the top gives.

It is HYOOOOGE. Like, I have to hop up to get my butt on it, and my legs dangle way off the ground. It's not a California King, because apparently 1-800-MATTRES leaves those on the West Coast, along with leaving off the last S for Savings. I think it will accommodate Mrs. Nator in all her lengthy glory, however. She can make up the couple inches of length by lying more diagonally.

Spending the money was scary, but with both of our backs giving out at times, it had to be done. Now we just have to try to keep the cats away from it, other than when we're in it. They're traumatized enough already by the movers schlepping it in. Anyone know how to rig up a boat horn to a pressure-sensitive mattres(s) pad?

Happy Pride

I guess. I dunno. I am so old and nest-y, I can't be bothered. Do I really want to sweat for hours watching a parade and then wander around trying to find a place to get a drink? No.

Wish Me Luck

on two things coming up. The first is today, when I have my exam to see if it's okay for me to take a beginning SCUBA class. I really want to take one in Hawaii. However, since I fat, lazy, on prescription drugs and have had spinal surgery, I have to get the okay from my doctor. I'll also be getting a blood test to make sure I got my measles-mumps-rubella vaccinations, because I have to verify that before I register for classes. I'm not worried about that, though. I just want my doctor to look at the SCUBA form while I'm there and tell me I'm healthy enough to do it. WoooOOOOnnns, please!

The second is cleaning for my mother-in-law's visit. She's coming on Wednesday, and thus far, I have been having a hard time getting my ass in gear. It's just pure procrastination stemming from feeling overwhelmed at how grubby this place is. There's no cure for my laziness long-term, I suspect, but a little boost of WoooOOOnns for one task couldn't hurt.

And that's it for now. I feel as though I've become rather boring, lately. Sorry if I have - there's just been a lot to do in preparation for school, mom-in-law's visit and Hawaii. My brain is rarely in the now, because I'm so excited about the close future. I guess if you're really bored, 1. fuck you, schmendrick & 2. you can go look at slideshows of my trip to the NY Botanical Garden or my visit with my sister, bro-in-law and the niece and nephew. I'm out!

Collidge fore Dummies

As part of my loan search activities, I signed up on a whim for collegboard.com's SAT question of the day. I figured I would limber up my mind a little bit and see how rusty it's gotten. You can imagine, then, the sudden sweat I break into on seeing answers like this:

Suppose that x quarts of the final mixture of dye will be made. Since it is to be made from equal amounts of orange and green dye, it will consist of 1 over 2x quarts of orange dye and 1 over 2x quarts of green dye. Since the orange dye has 2 parts yellow dye for each 5 parts total dye, 2 over 5 of it is yellow dye. Similarly, 1 over 3 of the green dye is yellow dye. The amount of yellow in the final mixture is given by (2 over 5)(1 over 2)x + (1 over 3)(1 over 2)x = 1 over 5x + 1 over 6x = 11 over 30x quarts

Yeah.

In my defense, only 30% of answerers got this question correct, and it was labeled as "hard." That said, I'm nervous. I thought I'd taken calculus in high school and that would get me out of the pre-calc requirement for the vet tech program. Alas, when I received my transcript, it showed I'd taken trig, and done rather badly at it. (Now that I remember, I used to get into ceaseless arguments with the Russian teacher, because I usually got the right answers, but in a complete bass-ackwards way.) Balls.

It's become worrisome enough that I've started having dreams about it. Last night I was back in college, and couldn't find anything. I had a math class to go to, and while the teacher and classmates were very nice, I'd missed the first class, didn't have the book and was so tired I couldn't concentrate at all. Then I proceeded to wander around campus in what seemed to be a partially-open hospital gown, revealing my ass to all, unable to figure out where I was supposed to be going or where any of my friends were at lunchtime. Curiously, however, it wasn't all panic and exhaustion. I was actually still fairly happy to be blundering about at school, and particularly happy that I'd been assigned a small room to myself with a bed and desk in it in a dorm, where I could nap and study to my heart's content. Strange.

Of course, when I go back to school, I won't have such a room. But I doubt I'll be wearing an actual hospital gown, either.

And the good news is, I still do quite well on the verbal questions. Haven't missed one yet.

Lord, I am in for a change...

Chompin' at the Bit

The hotel on the right is where will be staying in less than a month, my friends. See all that beautiful bright blue water with brownish bits in it all around? That's prime snorkeling reef, with gorgeous fish, coral of several kinds and a family of placid green turtles.

Have I mentioned I am going mad just waiting?

Goody Two-Shoes

I am terrible at being a criminal. Sure, I sneaked liquor from my parents' cabinet a couple times. I went to a lot of clubs when I was underage and drank and did other illegal substances. But all of those were pretty much given to me for being pretty (shut up - I was back then!) and didn't require a whole lot of effort on my part. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was that lack of effort that left half the Haitian drug dealers in late 1980s Manhattan with blue balls. Poor Haitian drug dealers. Hi-yo!

Anyway, my point is, my life of crime has been negligible. There was the time when I was working three student jobs to get through college that I'd sometimes under report the earnings at the student lounge/pool hall by a couple dollars, so I could get a juice and some crackers from the vending machine for lunch. Horrors! The thing was, I felt terribly guilty and I like I was going to get caught every time. I knew that I was fortunate in that I appeared to be the last person anyone would suspect of stealing: a small, shy, lower-middle-class white girl with good manners and a semi-midwestern accent (my parents hailed from out there, even if I was raised in New Jersey). Of course, many teenage girls will tell you that's why they know they'll never get caught. But I genuinely hated doing it and thought I was a terrible person the whole time. Plus, above and beyond that, I was always waiting for The Man to catch me and stomp me down with the iron-heeled boot of justice. "I have terrible luck and am a terrible liar, and therefore, if anyone gets caught, it will be me," was my reasoning. It still echoes today.

Thus, standing by the line for the Rufus Wainwright show trying to sell my tickets was an alarming affair. It didn't matter that there was a geeky-looking kid of maybe 15 or 16 beside me who'd bought his tickets at the original rate of $40, and was trying to sell them for over $200, while I wasn't even hoping to break even on the $220 Mrs. Nator had spent on seats in the same section via eBay. The whole time I was sweating, and waiting to be accosted by the ginourmous bouncer at the front of the line.

Even getting to the place was surreal. It being one of those sudden summer weekends in New York where five million events were going on at once, the subways were full of a mix of rainbow-bedecked Brooklyn Pride goers, Puerto Rican flag draped Boriquas making their way home from the PR parade, and blonde tourist families in matching sneakers and golf shirts whispering to each other "Daddy, is that man speaking Hispanic? And why is that fat lesbian sweating like she's been caught in Singapore customs with a condom full of crank up her ass?"

Outside of the subway was more weirdness. Hordes of people surrounded food tents in Madison Square Park, supervised by far too many irritated-looking police than I wanted to see at that juncture. Then, just as I was drawing up to the venue, a mob of bedraggled bicyclists came barreling down 23rd Street, taking up the lanes with everything from tiny foldable bikes to weird, double-cranksetted contraptions about eight or nine feet high. This did nothing, I assure you, to make me feel more comfortable.

I suppose I could have imagined that, what with all this going on, little old me trying to sell a couple of tickets would hardly be on major law enforcement's radar. I also must confess that, in actuality, I'm not even sure this whole deal was illegal at all. Still, the first pair of gays that talked me down to $110 for the pair got the tickets, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. (I just know the kid beside me was grateful to see me go. There was no way he was going to make a profit with the weenie with the air of desperation throwing better tickets than he had at people at a loss.) Besides, I had to get back to Brooklyn to get a quart of Italian ice and Mrs. Nator's anti-inflammatory prescription before the stores closed.

As I made my way home, circumnavigating stocky women plastered with Puerto Rico stickers and Gay Pride buttons and sniffing the rare sea-tang in the air from a front blowing in, I took stock. I got $110 for the tickets, half of what we paid for them, and $60 of which were blown on frozen desserts and medications within 20 minutes. Not so great a deal. If I had hung in there, no doubt I could have made a lot more. Ah, but the relief from fearing that I was going to get hauled in and ass-raped in the hoosegow? Priceless.

Tell Me Somethin' Good

I could use it. The title of this post, in it's twisted way, refers to a song by Chaka Khan and Rufus, and I thought of it because we have 2 tickets to the Rufus Wainwright concert tonight that we can't use. Mrs. Nator's back is out again, and not only is she in pain, but she's heartbroken that she can't go. We also spent a lot of money on those tickets!

Anyone know anyone who might want to buy them? Or has anyone ever tried selling tickets outside a theatre? I don't know the legalities or procedure for it, but with our finances the way they are, I'm willing to try...

In the meantime, please send wooOOOnns for Mrs. Nator. Poor baby!

She No Likey

We are well-meaning, we really are. But our critters don't care.

Case in point, our female turtle, Edamame. By all general measures, she has thrived. She has grown to large, may we say giant-ass, proportions, has her own 90 gallon tank (since she evicted Aubergine, the boy turtle, by repeatedly biting chunks out of his butt), a nice, hard shell, a good diet, etc. But the one thing she will not do is lay eggs.

"But Nator," you ask, "why should that turtle lay eggs if she doesn't want to, much less hasn't even been fertilized by a male turtle?" Well, I'll tell you, you ignorant slut. Like chickens, lady turtles produce eggs whether they are fertilized are not. Also like chickens, they like a dry, warm place to lay their eggs. Unfortunately, unlike chickens, lady turtles spend most of their time swimming in water, or basking on hard surfaces. In the wild, they would find a patch of loose dirt or sand not far from their pond, dig down a ways and let 'er rip. But in a captive environment, you need to furnish them with some sort of nesting area, because if they don't lay, the eggs get all calcified and hard inside the lady turtle, taking up space where, say, lady turtle organs should be. Not good.

In our case, constructing some kind of land/water hybrid terrarium was an overwhelming prospect. So, we figured we'd do as some other folks do and get Ms. Eddie a box full of loose earth where she could spend some quiet time laying her eggs. Of course, it can't just be any box of dirt. It's got to be big enough to hold her giant ass and then some, so she can turn around, and full of enough loose dirt that she can dig down all the way the length of her giant-ass shell. And the dirt has to be the right texture, plus free of outside organisms that might put an indoor-raised turtle's immune system into a frenzy, so you have to buy some kind of special amphibian dirt from the pet store. The most common and economical kind is not really dirt at all, but blocks of dehydrated coconut husks, which you soak in water and then dry out to form a loose, dirt-ish, fibrous substance that turtles can dig in. And that's what we done done. Done dood. Whatever.

The problem is, Eddie hates it. She doesn't like being taken out of her tank (and her giant ass is matched by a giant, bitey mouth on the other end), she doesn't like going in the box, she doesn't like the coconut husks and she most certainly doesn't like staying in the box. So, rather than relaxing and laying her eggs, Ms. Eddie tries repeatedly to escape, almost succeeding, until we put something heavy on the top of it. She then gets quiet - ominously quiet - until you think something's wrong in there, like she suffocated herself or something. So you go and check on her and she just glares at you, like she is the most abused creature ever and you are the worst being in the world. Then if you seal her up again she tries to escape some more, until you give up, rinse the coating of coconut husks off her and put her back in her tank. Results? No eggs, no how, no doin'.

Also? After a few days sitting around? Rehydrated coconuts husks smell.

Let me out of thees box, you stupeed human! I keel you! And get thees atrocious, smelly coconuts off me!

Meanwhile, Aubergine has just gotten used to having her big tank to cavort in (where he's gotten play time, since he's normally confined to the small tank, away from her bitey mouth), but now you have to go scoop him out and confine him again, making him fear you like the giant, mammalian, probable turtle-eater that you are. All in all, you are a Bad Mommy, and whenever the turtles get to the turtle afterlife, they're going to tell on you to St. Peter or St. Francis or the Keymaster of Gozer or whoever and generally make sure you become a shish kabob when you arrive, yourself.

I has a big tank!

But, there's nothing for it. For now, we have to keep on trying, to see if maybe she gets used to it eventually and squirts out some huevos. If that doesn't happen, at some point we will have to haul her into an "exotic" specialist vet to get some x-rays taken, to make sure that she hasn't gotten impacted. And if she has? Extremely expensive and risky turtle surgery, or probable death. Hooray!

So all y'all out there who feel for critters, please send us wooOOOOoons of egg-laying, now and then, to encourage Ms. Eddie to freakin' save her own life. We hate to scare her by putting her in the box - fear is not good for turtles' immune systems, either - but we don't have much choice.

Unless anyone out there has a nice, clean home pond they'd want some turtles for? Anyone? Bueller...?

Viva la Revolución

Being a lesbian housewife isn't that hard, really. Oh, sure, you have to do a little cleaning, some shopping, make the dinners, and clean up after the cats... the many, many cats... but it's really not as difficult as I expected. I think the key thing is that lesbians tend to be very sympathetic to labourers, particularly female domestics. Generally all I have to say to the Mrs. if I haven't gotten anything done that day is that I had cramps, or was contemplating my spiritual place in the universe, or I suddenly realized the cats were going to die someday, and it's "there, there" and a drink and a rubdown, when I've lifted nary a finger. It also helps that I have a genetic folding deficiency. If I so much as look at a fitted sheet, my fingers all jump out of their sockets at once. In light of my delicate nature, I rarely have to do more than whimper to get away with being completely useless. However, in case of emergency, I do have my backups: a carefully placed utterance of the word "exploitation," and a simple yet colourful serape. I'm even ready to stand on the kitchen table, holding up a poorly-written sign that says "UNION" if it comes to that.

In actuality I am Doing Things, even if they aren't always obvious. I am reviewing my student loan and admissions paperwork. I am pricing web hosting sites and going over PHP/MySQL tutorials while mulling over the relative merits of full vs. partial-Flash site design. I am even (sort of) "working out" sometimes. Then I am getting overwhelmed by everything and switching gears to peruse the TripAdvisor Hawaii forums or play cell-phone Boggle on the stoop. Hey, somebody's got to keep the stoop warm. This is Brooklyn, you know.

P.S.: Did I mention we are going to HAWAI'I?