Archive for March, 2010

I just ‘friended’ the White House.  On Facebook.  I know it’s really the White House because its Pennsylvania Avenue address is listed and there is a picture of it.  Apparently, I get to sit in on a meeting today about flexible work schedules.  And there will be a live discussion afterwards. Via Facebook.  Um, cool, but like any old person in the face of societal and technological change, I’m TOTALLY WEIRDED OUT, and I think it’s the beginning of the end of what at one time began and weirded out the good people who are now really, REALLY OLD or who reside in urns on our fireplace mantles.  (May they rest in peace, just as I hope to rest in peace some day in the unimaginably DISTANT future.  Knock on wood.  Toi, toi, toi!)

The president, the first lady and his meeting are going to be live streamed or streamed lived.  Now I appreciate the opportunity to sit in so I can enjoy the illusion that I’m part of the process (workplace flexibility has no significance whatsoever to the literal masses who work in service businesses (i.e. my husband), the folks who, I would venture to say, work the hardest for the least remuneration), but I’m really scared that the White House is part of a system where the terms LOL and LMFAO flow with the volume and force of Niagara Falls.  It’s not that it’s a threat to the GNP or the GDP or even the PDQ, it just kind lacks the vibe of Executive Branch exclusion that we have all come to know and love.

There’s probably not a choice on this anymore.  I”m sure the next election will be decided in part on the quality of Obama’s Twitter posts.  I’m not sure we really exist outside of these computer programs anymore, and why would we want to?  Why be there when you can beam there?    And why deny folks our every thought, whim, and picture of us eating lunch with people that they are no longer friends with?

Gotta run!  I have a ten o’clock meeting in DC.  And I haven’t showered yet in California.

For those of you who would like to attend a White House meeting, click here.  I suggest combing your hair and wearing a power suit.  Costuming is an important part of illusion.

I would like to encourage you, most wonderfullest readers, to subscribe to my blog.  What does this mean?  It means that whenever Greta posts she will be delivered to your email inbox.  She would be so honored to be shoved in between your news flashes from the LA Times and your Facebook updates.   She would have said emails from friends, but friends don’t send them anymore since Facebook took over the world and made one kid rich and all of us busy.  Only the PTA and colleagues or clients send emails.  If you are fortunate to have colleagues and clients.   In that case, I salute you since, according to the latest report, 12.8 percent of us don’t.  And of those people who have jobs, many are part-time, and the full-time workers are saddled with expenses like day care and lattes, so everyone is pretty strapped for cash these days, except for those who aren’t and they all seem to live within 20 miles of my house which certainly gives you a skewed perspective on existence.  But it’s impossible not to remain cheerful because most of us, if not all of us, are doing truly incredible things with our lives, things like breathing, laughing and going on the occasional picnic.  And we are doing many other things that are too numerous and too fabulous to list.

So consider getting an email subscription.  The only cost is the threat of reading something which you might find relevant to your world at 1 AM or (better) during the busiest, most high-stakes part of your workday.  And I promise to limit my use of the f-word and my talk of vaginas, and will only sometimes complain about the TCB.  And maybe we can all hold virtual hands and be friends for four minutes a day, if you want.  Only if you want.  We can also be enemies, and if we are, please post a comment because cyberspats are good for the soul, too.  Thank you.  Good night.

So find the column on the far right that says Bugle Calls and click on Get Notified By Email.  Or just click the link in the sentence you just read.  I love it!  And you for inviting me to your invade your inbox along with the REALLY BORING ads from Staples (not a sponsor).  And I do, by the way, like and don’t mean to offend office supplies or the people who use them.

Image via Wikipedia

Greta has the wonderful opportunity to perform in Eve Ensler‘s The Vagina Monologues next weekend at a women’s club in the area.  If you don’t already know, The Vagina Monologues is an important theatrical work which brings to light our attitudes about a subject that is often shrouded in awkwardness and Fruit of the Loom.  In monologues that are serious, silly, hilarious and heart-wrenching, we learn about some serious growing up that the world has to do regarding the vagina.  Even the word causes a bit of discomfort.  VAGINA.

Now, why exactly do vaginas need monologues?  Haven’t mouths done an adequate job in the theater of the last 3,000 years?  What can a vagina say that my mouth can’t?  Don’t answer that.  Seriously, what’s next, the Penis Papers?  Or the Butthole Diaries?  Eyebrow and Elbow Stories?  Haven’t vaginas raised enough of a stink by their odor alone?  Truth be told, they’ve been douched on since they were first introduced to Adam.  Not every one, but a lot of them.  The word ‘vagina’ has not been invited to be a part of polite conversation.  Unless you’re a doctor or a quirky and clinical bedfellow, you’re not allowed to say it.  In fact, Kotex, a manfacturer of ‘feminine protection products’ (huh?), recently created an ad which used the word ‘vagina’ but it was rejected by the major networks.  Understandably.  Why would we actually name the thing that grows new life, accepts visitors, and has the audacity to drip blood every month JUST SO our species can exist?  THAT’S GROSS and apparently not a good marketing tool.  VAGINA.

Of course, just because it exists doesn’t mean we need to talk about it.  Defecation comes to mind as something that is central to our well-being, but is best not rendered on the stage or TV for our thorough contemplation, even if we are being arty.  I do think the vagina deserves the same amount of stage time as does its good buddy and counterpart, the PENIS.

You see, you could mention penis envy at a dinner party and you would, at the very worst, be called Freudian.  But if you accused your friend’s husband of having clitoral envy you would be called weird, and he would be called Tiger Woods.  Also, no woman since the beginning of mankind has ever been accused of thinking with her cervix, yet entire offices have been staffed by the semi-stifled, under-the-table erections of the world’s most powerful men, men whom you might call the Cock of the Walk, even though you’d never call Oprah or Hilary Clinton the Fallopian Tubes of the Town.  Or the Canals of the Canal.  When it comes to attention beyond the nudie bar, vaginas get no play.  They’re blackballed, in fact.  See, there’s no female equivalent to that.  Well, maybe getting the shaft.  VAGINA.

And here’s the point.  As long as our vaginas are denied their due monologues, we leave all the vagina dialogues to the PORN INDUSTRY.  That’s right.  Whom would you rather have educating your daughter about her ‘down there’, Larry Flynt or Mother Theresa?  The good people of the world who are too afraid to say ‘vagina’ are losing their voice against an unsavory cast of characters who tell women where their vaginas belong:  in a bathing suit on a runway, at the beck and call of that jerky boyfriend, or in the throes of violent aggression by those who despise women for having vaginas in the first place.  Misogyny and gender inequality are widespread on this manly ball of earth.  In subtly subversive ways and in THE MOST HORRIFYING WAYS IMAGINABLE.

In fact, Eve Ensler has required in the performance agreement of all The Vagina Monologue productions that the play be completely centered around creating awareness and garnering funds to support the women of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.  She has dubbed this region THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE ON THE PLANET TO BE A WOMAN OR A GIRL.  Congolese women and girls are being raped, tortured, genitally mutilated, humiliated and then ostracized by their own families if, in fact, they are not killed or do not die from their wounds.  This occurs in mass numbers.  All because they are women.  Here are some chilling accounts of the femicide.  Read this on a day you are willing to experience shock and bewildering horror, but do read it.

Perhaps talking about what makes women women, is the beginning of understanding why one in three will experience violence during her lifetime, often at the hands of someone she knows.  Saying the word and hearing monologues won’t stop the violence, but it might teach us to be more mindful of how we do or don’t respect the vagina and the female souls anchored to them.  VAGINA.

For information on performances of The Vagina Monologues in your area, click here.

For REALLY, REALLY important information on how to help stop the violence in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, click here.

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Greta would like to give a shout out to Bollywood‘s heartland, Mumbai, from where Linksys technical support rep ABHISHEK hails. Abhishek did in 15 minutes what it took some other folks an hour-and-a-half to not do and then accidentally hang up on us. Abhishek patiently and efficiently fixed our computers’ router so that both my husband and I can be online at the same time and possibly never have to hold a complete conversation again. Why would we want to when there are YouTube videos via which we can simultaneously entertain and rot our brains?

It’s nice to know that good customer service still exists, even if you have to go across the globe to get it from someone who begins his work day at ONE AM.  I can’t imagine that kind of effort from the manager of the local Michael’s Craft Store who always tries to close ten minutes early and gives you dirty looks and says, “What?” when you ask her on what aisle you might possibly, maybe, if her staff was feeling up to restocking, find the acrylic paints.

So thank you, Abhishek, from whom this moment was brought to you, for as I blog from my trusty laptop, my husband is at our old, slow computer, experiencing the luxury of downloading pictures of his high school choir to his Facebook page. Abhishek, you are what I call a LIFESAVER.  Thanks!

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• An Indian state (theworld.org)

What happened?  Apparently President Obama signed a bill that will overhaul our health care system, a system which, in its current state, is not terribly adored by ANYONE in this country, except maybe the four people making an enormous profit from it. And it’s not the doctors who are getting the cash, those poor folks who have to smell our breath, tell us that we’re fat, and peek at our private parts, all the while struggling to pay back their student loans and malpractice insurance premiums.

The interesting thing is I have no idea if I should be happy or sad.  I have NO IDEA what passed.  Even those who have an idea have no idea because they don’t  know what the true ramifications will be since the variable of our behavior (how much we do or don’t see the doctor) is out of the equation.  How can you solve for x when some xes drink milkshakes and others have bulimia and use the Stairmaster?

I do like the idea that there will be better access for those who can’t afford health care.  And there will be less of:  Oh we cover that, but not that, oh and that, but, no way, not that! And hopefully there will be less of the no more coverage once you exceed $1 million, which is easy to do when each pill costs $100 and your wheelchair cost $50,000, and your surgery costs $2 million.  And away with pre-existing conditions and the fact that when you lose your job they give you the comfort of COBRA with which to strangle yourself and your children for $700 a month.  Even the acronym is frightening.

So, yes, let’s get this thing working.  But we’re doing a half-assed or quarter-assed reform (Europe thinks our attempt is cute), and all this could just result in an overall decline in care except for the rich who will get extra coverage anyway (hello, two-tier system), cause that’s what rich people do, and they will be the only ones getting pacemakers at Stanford, unlike now when some Medicaid patients actually end up at Stanford, which I like, by the way.

I am a bit worried about those of us who can’t afford health insurance, but have it anyway, whose costs will be raised and/or benefits reduced or WAGES REDUCED by the employers who will be saddled with increased costs.  Yes, employers are evil and unlovable, but they FEED US.  TAKE THE SPAGHETTIOS OUT OF MY KIDS MOUTHS ALREADY, OKAY?  (They don’t like them anyway.)  We are barely middle class and enjoy a decent plan for which my husband provides his literal ass (he’s lost weight since taking on this job) and any increases in costs or, more likely, halts in salary increases will further stress our already laughable budget.  And all this would subsidize those in their 20s who chose to buy Seven jeans over springing for some basic coverage. (If you’re income is low enough, you have access to free coverage.  Free.  At some of the best hospitals in the country.  I know this.  I know people who have received this benefit and nary a invoice was sent to them.  Good.)  But for those of us who make $1.87 a year above what is considered disadvantaged enough, this puts us in a scary position.  And when the people pushing the law through all make well over $174,000 a year, it’s not necessarily a no-brainer for us have-not-so-muches to want to totally revamp the health care system in order to help the haves achieve their idealogical hopes and dreams.

So as soon as someone can show me what this means for my family and for my Citibank Visa, I will rejoice or whine appropriately.  And if you think I’m selfish in thinking about my family first, then I would like to challenge you to give half your paycheck to someone in need.   We will spend it wisely, and not all in one place.

For more information on how much this bill is going to cost you, not going to cost you, might cost you or might totally be the greatest thing to happen to the country since since the Washoe Indians inhabited Western North America NINE THOUSAND YEARS AGO (Yes, they did, and aren’t they cute?  My husband is a Washoe Indian), click to read what my unofficial, unwitting associates at the New York Times said.

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