You probably know that I love me a bargain. Some times, I just can’t resist. Cheap stuff. Buy one get one for 50% off! Two for the price of one! Seventy-two rolls of Charmin!
So when I heard that former Senator Jim DeMint (R-Shouldda Never Let Him Into Guv-ment-SC) talking about free ultrasounds on the TeeVee, well, I decided right then and there that a bargain is a bargain.
I want me an ultrasound. A vaginal ultrasound.
The fact that I believe in keeping government out of my lady-parts should not get in the way of me getting free stuff.
The fact that I am not pregnant should not stand in the way of me getting free stuff.
The fact that I am post-menopausal should not stand in the way of me getting free stuff.
When something is free, well then I want one. Because it’s a bargain, right? For everybody. Especially those folks who want to look in my vagina. I imagine there is quite a line.
What’s everybody complaining about?
Photo courtesy of “FreakoutNation.com” courtesy of Google
Would you behave yourself better if you knew that when you didn’t you’d be found out and there’d be no mistaking that it was you who perpetrated the “crime”? That someone could actually finger you in the misdeed? If the crime had your face all over it?
Just about 30 years ago when I was so very sick with colitis-that-was-really-Crohn’s, I was also very poor. I had some big bills that had materialized as the result of the fact that I would buy stereo equipment and televisions when I got depressed. Oh, and there were hospital and doctor bills. And rent and food. Maybe you’ve had your share?
It was the last day of the month, and I had to go across the street to the bank to check my bank balance to see if my rent check would clear. On occasion it, ummmm, didn’t. (It was my landlady’s fault though – the money was always in the bank when I wrote the check. She should have cashed it right away, right? You’re with me on that one, right?)
Anyway, when I got to the bank machine, it looked like this:
Would You Like To Make Another Transaction?
The previous customer, whom I didn’t see, had left their card behind. Their pin number was still registered with the machine. All I had to do was press “Yes” and I could have made another transaction. Helped myself to some bonus bucks.
Now I am basically an honest person. I have in my lifetime told a few lies – OK, so some were whoppers. But I don’t do that anymore.
And when I was a kid I did steal a troll doll. I still don’t know how I didn’t get caught – I stuck it under my shirt and was the only pregnant 8-year-old in the store. I haven’t stolen a troll since. I haven’t been pregnant either, but that’s a different story.
I will not, however, fess up to having maimed or murdered anyone, unless you count doing so with my razor-sharp wit. Still, I am not perfect.
Anyway, when I saw that screen in the bank, when I actually knew that my rent check was likely to bounce, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to buy food, well, I was tempted. I stood and stared at it for the longest time. I felt my heart race. I felt sweat on the back of my neck. I heard that damn devil on my left shoulder talking to me.
What’s a poor girl like me to do?
I reached towards the buttons and pressed:
Return Card
And I walked into the bank and handed the person’s ATM card to the nearest teller.
Of course it was the right thing to do. And, frankly, I was especially proud of myself because I really was broke. I could have used a windfall at that moment.
It would have been great!
Of course, had I succumbed to temptation, I would have gotten an altogether different card.
The way my luck was goin’ anyway.
That was when they were just starting to put cameras at ATMs, and the branch I was at had one. I didn’t know that, though. So I felt honest, sanctimonious and lucky all at the same time. And when you’re broke and sick, well, honest, sanctimonious and lucky are as good as life gets.
I don’t think stealing money is something that people (even me) should be able to get away with. But there are many lesser crimes that, well, maybe aren’t so bad. That maybe, we should let slide. That perhaps, the faces of the perpetrators of these lesser crimes are ones we don’t really need to see.
One of the little crimes that drives me crazy is people who throw chewed chewing gum on the ground. It’s unsanitary. It’s sticky. Worst of all, it’s gonna end up on my shoe.
I don’t want to know whose mouth that wad came from. Because it would be hard to not slap them for being so gross. And Mom taught me not to hit.
But now, thanks to modern DNA technology, we can now see the faces of the culprits who transformed that gum from a dry, powdery stick into a piece of ABC gum, spit it out and let me step on it. (For those of you without siblings, that’s ‘Already Been Chewed’ gum.)
Huh?
Yes, courtesy of the New York Times, I have this minty morsel to share with you:
While staring at the wall of her therapist’s office, the artist Heather Dewey-Hagborg noticed a strand of hair stuck in a hanging print. Walking home, she noticed that the subways and sidewalks were littered with genetic material on things like chewing gum and cigarette butts, some still moist with saliva. Curious about what she could learn, Ms. Dewey-Hagborg began to extract and sequence DNA from these discarded materials. Then — and here it gets a little eerie — she began to make computer models of their owners’ faces, using genetic clues to print 3-D masks that she concedes “might look more like a possible cousin than a spitting image.” Hanging these portraits along with the original samples, she says, is “a provocation designed to spur a cultural dialogue about genetic surveillance.”
Ewwww. Click on the links, it gets ewwww-ier. Here’s one perp:
Now this is just speculation on my part, but perhaps picking up wet ABC gum and cigarette butts is what Ms. Dewey-Hagborg should be talking to her therapist about. Personally, I would make it a priority.
I was tempted to skip posting about this, but then I try not to give in to temptation.
These are all Google images. Except the last one. That’s the artist’s rendition from her website, Stranger Visions.
In the summer of 2011, my friend Carol, a nurse, joined a mercy mission to Haiti to treat people still suffering from the January 2010 earthquake. A last minute volunteer, she hadn’t had time to fundraise, but was expected to buy and bring all kinds of medical supplies – bandages, Tylenol, alcohol wipes, rubber gloves. Everything.
To help defray the cost, Carol sent emails to some friends, and we donated to help defray her costs.
A week after she got back, Carol invited me and three women I had never met over for a glass of wine to thank us, celebrate her return and hear about her trip.
One of the women, Mary Grace, rubbed me wrong immediately. The middle-aged bleached blond wore a tight sparkly dress that screamed “I’m still 20!” with gold glitter-encrusted flip flops.
Before we were even introduced, I heard her say,
“Now they’re going after Michelle Bachmann because she has migraines!” I had just the day before posted this blog piece about Michelle’s migraines. Mary Grace and I were clearly not destined to be BFFs.
(Newsweek cover photo)
A minute later, she continued her political commentary:
“I’d push Nancy Pelosi under a truck. I just wish I could keep her clothes …”
“Carol,” I said, looking at the enormous glass of Pinot Grigio she gave me and trying to lighten the mood Mary Grace had struck, “shouldn’t you just pass out the bottles and save hand-washing these glasses?”
Everybody chuckled and we made some small talk. Drinks became dinner; Carol told us all about her trip.
Everybody but me had a few large glasses of wine, I was driving.
“Even after all the attention following the earthquake,” explained Carol, over grilled shrimp salad, “not much has been rebuilt. People still live in tents, with cholera, typhoid, other nasty diseases that poverty and no clean water bring.”
Mary Grace didn’t seem to be at all interested; she kept trying to change the subject. I was getting irritated because we were there, after all, to hear Carol’s story. I certainly was.
Carol described the terrible plight of the Haitians, especially children, and how difficult it is for them. Then Carol said the thing that set Mary Grace — and at least three large glasses of wine — off.
“The most wonderful thing about my trip,” said Carol, “was Sean Penn. He’s my new hero.”
“Ugh!” said Mary Grace with disgust. “No!”
(Thanks, Google)
Carol continued. “Right after the earthquake, he raised millions of dollars to build a hospital. A few months later, though, his money was still in the US. They couldn’t get it to Haiti.”
“Didn’t he have some crap Hollywood movie to make?” slurred Mary Grace. The rest of us rolled our eyes.
“Well,” Carol continued. “Sean managed to get the money, architects and skilled workmen there – he brought them over. They designed a hospital, hired a whole lot of previously unskilled unemployed Haitians, and taught them the skills to build it. They did it! They built the hospital! It’s not done, but I treated patients there!”
Mary Grace rudely burst out “Sean Penn is scum,” she said. “What good’s he ever done? He just trades on his Hollywood connections. Hero, my ass.”
Now I am not a huge Sean Penn fan. But we weren’t talking about that; we were talking about Haiti. We were talking about someone who’d helped over there. We were talking about Carol and her incredible experience. And we were doing it inCarol’shouse.
“He’s an alcoholic, drug abuser,” she said, holding up her enormous glass for a fourth refill.
“Drink up,” I said to her to stifled laughter from everybody else at the table.
I couldn’t believe her rudeness. Still, I was thinking I am a guest here, so I clenched my teeth, bit my tongue. But my heart raced and my blood pressure skyrocketed. I didn’t want to offend Carol, but I did want to throttle Mary Grace. Clearly, she didn’t care about offending Carol.
Kelly, one of the other women, said “Ooh, Carol, where did you get that sculpture?” in a transparent effort to change the subject.
But Mary Grace wouldn’t drop it.
“He just trades on his celebrity. Those liberals in Hollywood, they just trade on their names. What does he really do? People like Carol do the real work.”
“Carol did a great job. As a nurse, she has a skill that she can use to help people. It is great.” I said with more reserve than I felt. “But other people have different skills, abilities. If Sean Penn can manage to build a hospital, why are you putting him down? What’s wrong with using what you can to help people?”
“He does nothing good. Sean Penn hasn’t done anything good. Other people do good things.”
“Well,” I said, “you’re a person. What good things have you done lately?”
Without hesitation she told me:
She held up one finger. “I am a nice person. I don’t flip people off in traffic. I am always polite when I drive.”
She had me there. I have been known to raise a finger now and then.
Holding up her middle finger, she went on, “When somebody asks me how they look, I always tell them that they look nice. Even if they don’t.”
The rest of us sat in stunned silence, mouths gaping.
She held up a third finger: “And I was in Chipotle yesterday. Behind me in line were three soldiers. And I said to the cashier ‘their dinner is on me.‘”
For a minute, I expected her to continue. But she didn’t.
“Let me see,” I said, holding out my hands. I held up my right hand, palm up, weighing things: “On the right: Lunch at Chipotle.” I held up my left: “On the left: building a hospital for the poor people of Haiti. Yes, Mary Grace, you’re by far the better person.”
The table was silent. Everybody, including me, was watching Mary Grace to see what she would say.
She said nothing.
“Carol,” I said, rising from the table and fearing I’d just lost a friend, “I think it’s time for me to leave.” I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. Carol was mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” I told her as she walked me out to my car. “I tried to not be rude, but it was your trip and your hero!”
“You know,” Carol said in her lovely British accent, “Mary Grace wasn’t even invited tonight. She’s always crashing along with Kelly and Kate.” She grabbed my arm to make sure I heard the next part. “When I sent that email asking for donations? I got an email back from Mary Grace telling me ‘no’ and saying ‘Charity begins at home.’”
I was relieved that I wasn’t the only one to think Mary Grace a rude bore.
“Mary Grace has been rude to me every time I’ve seen her. She’s not my friend, yet she always just shows up.” she said, laughing. “But until tonight, nobody has ever managed to shut her up.”
Carol told me the next day that Mary Grace was insulting Bono along with Penn when she got back in.
“Apparently,” Mary Grace sneered as Carol sat back down, “your friend just couldn’t take it.”-.
Carol closed her eyes. “Mary Grace, please leave. You’re no longer welcome here.”
* * *
This piece is from my memoir class. I had to recount a memorable argument. I thought I’d post it tonight to celebrate two things:
Michelle Bachmann’s Retirement!
My 2nd Blogging Anniversary! Thanks, everybody. It’s been a blast!
This is long but it is taken from just about the view I have from my office!
As someone who once worked for a United Nations organization (The World Health Organization), I’ve often been frustrated at the lack of respect that the U.N. receives, especially here in the U.S. I mean the U.N.’s mission, as stated in the organization’s Preamble is truly inspiring:
PREAMBLE
WE THE PEOPLES OF THE UNITED NATIONS DETERMINED
to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war, which twice in our lifetime has brought untold sorrow to mankind, and
to reaffirm faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person, in the equal rights of men and women and of nations large and small, and
to establish conditions under which justice and respect for the obligations arising from treaties and other sources of international law can be maintained, and
to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom,
AND FOR THESE ENDS
to practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and
to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security, and
to ensure, by the acceptance of principles and the institution of methods, that armed force shall not be used, save in the common interest, and
to employ international machinery for the promotion of the economic and social advancement of all peoples,
HAVE RESOLVED TO COMBINE OUR EFFORTS TO ACCOMPLISH THESE AIMS
Accordingly, our respective Governments, through representatives assembled in the city of San Francisco, who have exhibited their full powers found to be in good and due form, have agreed to the present Charter of the United Nations and do hereby establish an international organization to be known as the United Nations.
* * *
Now in spite of its noble mission, there are whole swaths of folks in America who have a phobia about the U.N. Really! They are stockpiling weapons because they fear the black helicopters of the U.N. that will invade the U.S. any minute now. They are sure that they will need to fight those nasty aggressors who might force Peace on them. Or Love. Or Brotherhood. These are not considered the sanest people in the U.S. of A., I might add.
So you will understand my concern when I read that the U.N. has figured out how to fight obesity. I’m sure that the folks who are currently stockpiling guns and ammo will soon be hoarding bacon, Spam and scraple, too. And I’m not sure I can blame them.
Because I just read in Reuters that on Monday the U.N. released a report that says that “the health benefits of consuming nutritious insects could help fight obesity.”
Ewwwwwwwwww.
Dinner! Who’s Hungry? Reuters – Photograph by Catherine Hornby
If you’re looking for me, I’ll be at the grocery store. Buying Spam.
You’ll have to forgive the ironic setting of this story, given the topic. But it happened just this way. Really. Would I lie to you? I mean if no money was involved?
* * *
Today I was by myself in the Ladies Room, minding my own business in my little gray stall. OK, so I was doing my own business in my little gray stall, when the door opened and another woman walked in. I couldn’t see her. In fact, thankfully, I never saw her.
She hadn’t taken two steps into the bathroom when her cell phone rang.
Sometimes, you really should just let it go to voice mail.
This is what I heard from my, ummm, perch.
“Hello?”
…
“Speaking.”
…
“What were the results?”
Now I’ve had enough calls like this to know that she was talking with someone from her doctor’s office. I cleared my throat to let her know that someone else was in the house. Loudly. I tapped my feet. (I did not, however, cop a wide stance as I wasn’t in Minneapolis.)
… … …
“Oh, do I have to take anything for that?”
…. … … …
“You mean I have to go back and tell my partners?”
I coughed. Loudly. I thought about starting to sing.
… … … …
“How many do you think I need to tell?”
…
“Can you figure out who I got it from?”
At this point, I DID start to sing, loudly:
And with that sound, finally, the tone-deaf woman realized that there was someone else in the bathroom, and perhaps this wasn’t the best place to discuss her newly diagnosed Sexually Transmitted Disease.
But you know this whole thing made me realize that folks just don’t understand true cell phone etiquette:
If you let me listen to the start of the call, I get to hear the finale.
FiftyFourandAHalf 