Weapons of Math Instruction

I won't even try Sudoku, that game that is replacing the crossword puzzle in some newspapers. I know that it's not really about numbers or math; we could put letters or colored dots or the faces of pop stars in there, but the numbers intimidate me. The whole thing reminds me of a seventh-grade extra credit problem, and I find it to be entirely too taxing.

Numbers scare the shit out of me. I'm one of those people who has to distract others from noticing that I'm having trouble with a simple subtraction or claim that I am having an unusual "brain freeze" that is preventing me from quickly adding two numbers that don't end in zero or five. Or I'll say, "I know this is easy, but I just have to punch it into the calculator so I don't make a careless mistake." The other day I was getting change back, and I was almost sure it wasn't the right amount, but I have embarrassed myself in the past by saying something when it turns out they were right. So I studied the cashier's face, and when her hesitation suggested that she thought she might be wrong, I said, "I think I should be getting some more back." I coulda been shorted almost ten bucks.

Curiously, I am pretty good at statistics, I think because the nature of it gives me a concept to hang the numbers on. I did almost fail a stats class in grad school, but that was related to a series of anaphylactic shock episodes and sexual harassment by the teaching assistant, not my inability to create degrees-of-freedom equations for SBF p-q split-plot factorial experimental designs. Well, maybe a little of that. Regardless, I'm not on the level of a professional statistican by any means, but in college, I was one of five people in a class of 600 that got an A+ in Stats 402. The professor invited the five of us to dinner; unfortunately, it is not just math that I have a problem with. I transpose numbers constantly, and I wrote down her phone number incorrectly. Transposition means that I must be vigilant in work situations. It is not that I work particularly slowly, as I have been accused; I am triple-checking to conceal my learning disability, dammit. Please pity and patronize me by pretending not to notice, okay?

My algebra teacher had very sensitively informed me that I would not get anywhere in life because I couldn't do algebra. So I had an algebra tutor my freshman year of high school. His name was Rudy and he was a college sophomore at Michigan Tech, an engineering school where people go to get fat. There is nothing to do in Houghton, MI except eat, drink, and pass out drunk in snowbanks. Anyway, Rudy was pretty cute, for a guy named Rudy. My mom was the secretary at the university's Catholic church, which has the coolest name: St. Albert the Great. They called it St. Al's for short, which always made me feel like I was going to church at that diner from Happy Days. He (Rudy, not St. Al) attended services there, and he offered to tutor me when my mom told him about my algebra woes. We had our tutoring sessions in the church basement, and I think that perhaps my mother chose this environment in hopes of divine intervention. After all, Jesus was pretty good at multiplication, at least when you put it in the context of loaves and fishes.

Unfortunately for Rudy, I was a spaz when I was 14, and he had no idea just what he was getting into. I interrupted him a lot because I get giddy when I'm anxious. I would stubbornly claim that an equation would remain unbalanced until the numbers on the left took their lithium. It was an affront to his Catholic sensibilties when I made jokes about polynomials being much more sexually open than binomials, and he hated it when I informed him that radical numbers were adherents to the philosophy of Che Guevara. What he found particularly irksome was when I called him "Rudy-Toot-Tutor."

I think he was exceedingly relieved when I determined that the math part of my brain was broken, and I quit attending sessions in favor of watching "Tiny Toons" after school. However, I found the rich brat character Montana Max intimidating because I figured he must be really good at balancing a check book. Fortunately, Hamton Pig, the "tiny" version of Porky Pig, was a stutterer, and that made me feel better about my own developmental difficulties. I managed, somehow, to pass algebra, but the verdict is still out on whether or not I am doing something with my life. And geometry was a-whole-nuther story. Part of my difficulty in that, though, was that the geometry teacher whistled his "esses," and the entire week we covered the "Side-Side-Side Symmetry Theorem," I had an excruciating headache.

Incidentally, whenever I hear the phrase "Axis of Evil" in relation to world politics, I immediately remember that I found it impossible to calculate simple slopes on an x,y graph. But I don't feel very bad, because it probably reminds President Bush of that, too. It's probably the only issue on which we can find common understanding.

Weather Report: 100% Chance of Baby Showers

Baby showers are intolerable, especially ones that take place at work. At-work baby showers are nothing but a form of extortion in which you are forced to give up at least ten dollars to "pitch in" for a gift, as well as forgo your lunch hour. If you are a woman, you are essentially obligated to attend, because the idea is to pack as many ovaries into a room as the fire department will allow. A woman who does not attend is considered a traitor to the sex and a Fallopian fink. She is shunned until her pheromones put her in sync with everyone else's menstrual cycle (woe to the woman who has had a hysterectomy). Men are fortunate enough to receive a reprieve, because the fire department criterion for male attendance at baby showers is based on sperm count and not gonad multiplicatives. This means that the only man who can attend is that guy who always uses his Powerbook on his lap.

For those of you who have been fortunate enough not to attend one of these estrogen exercises, the at-work baby shower usually follows this pattern: Everyone gathers in the conference room, and at the hour of the guest-of-honor's expected arrival, everyone is excitedly shushed by the woman who organized it, who is still feeling somewhat resentful that you forgot to bring the paper cups. At this point, all of the attendees squirm in excitement and resemble seven-year-olds who have to pee. Meanwhile, a co-conspirator enjoins the pregnant woman to take place in a lunchtime "emergency meeting," and escorts her to the room. When she opens the door, everyone shouts "surprise!" and the mother-to-be clutches her hand to her chest and pretends to be astonished, when really she was accidentally included on the mass e-mail that announced the surprise shower. After this, a group of otherwise intelligent women are reduced to cooing over little fleece jumpers and dissolving into girlish giggles as the mother unwraps a breast pump. Then they make her wear a funny hat and everyone eats cake.

The thing is, a major reason I don't like attending these things is that I hate newborn babies. They are nothing to celebrate. Neonates are inevitably repulsive creatures of indeterminate sex. However, one is expected to fuss admiringly over it while thinking of an excuse to escape to the next grocery store aisle. Besides smelling of sour milk and latrine, babies are sticky. Even if there is none within a five-mile radius, the child always seems to be covered in jam. All babies should be loaded into cannons and shot into the sea. I would definitely pitch in ten bucks to see that.

Ordinary People

As a pre-emptive misanthrope, I often feel disconnected from the world around me. I generally focus on my differences in comparison to the Average American. The other day, however, I inadvertently played the role of Average American, and from that perspective, saw a thin, slimy veneer of weirdness on the people I encountered. This foray into averageness took place when I ran errands to the bank, post office, and library. I don't know what fairy sprinkled June Cleaver dust on me when I was taking my afternoon nap, but there I was, performing duties as quintessentially American as a hate crime.

I stopped at the post office, feeling somewhat despondent that, in my new role as average American, I could not despairingly revel in my anomie. My despondency was exacerbated by the contents of my parcel, a black leather bustier. This naughty little spark could have made me feel better about my dry and typical duties, but in the end, it only felt like fodder for a Penthouse letter. I finally reached the front of the post office queue, which was very sensibly being serviced by only two employees at the peak of Christmas mailing season. The clerk, a man of about 65 named Marshall, asked me if I wanted to send my package priority mail, but I declined and stated that regular first-class shipment would be fine. He shook his head a little and raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, as though he was implying that the recipient would know that I was cheap. This didn't really bother me, as the recipient, who wanted the black leather bustier, is cheap in her own special way. Marshall's overall countenance convinced me that I shouldn't take his disapprobation personally, as he also seemed a little upset that I did not want to buy stamps, phone cards, or a commemorative Veterans of Foreign Wars special-edition-stamp keychain. Either he was falling short of an upselling quota or he was disappointed that he couldn't get anyone to purchase that something special for the family philatelist.

Package mailed, funds deposited at ATM just in time not to become overdrawn, and library book dropped off several days past due, I began to trudge home in the bluster and snow. At a busy intersection, a professional-looking man of about 50, who was holding a briefcase, exited the bus. We waited for a brief time for the light to change. We had not acknowledged each other, as strangers at crosswalks rarely do. But when the "walk" light started to flash, he looked at me and ordered in a commanding voice, "Okay, honey, let's go." I looked around to see if he had a daughter or some other companion with him who he would refer to in an affectionate diminutive, but I was the only other person there. As he gestured towards the intersection with a jerk of his head, I scurried across to get away from him as fast as I could. He headed into the Eckerd drugstore across the way.

I have been the target of many schizophrenic and otherwise freaky musings, including a speech that began with faux-poetry about raindrop-bearing teeth and ended in a fevered listing of prominent U.S. colleges and universities. When someone says odd things to me, I generally could have expected it in the first place, just because of their appearance, odor, or general vibe. Odd people do not startle me, and I sort of regard them as sociological kin. This incident was unexpected, however, as I am usually not ordered around by well-groomed men at the bus stop. Well, I was once, but that was only because I had worn a misguidedly skimpy outfit to a dance club. The "honey" guy looked like the father of an honor roll student, not someone who makes unexpected commands, and I began to wonder if perhaps pieces of her were contained in that briefcase. I imagined that he planned to stop in the drugstore for chloroform and razor blades and wanted me to come along so he could try them out. I am glad that I thwarted his plans. I am also glad that I occupied the position of Average American for a little while, as my demeanor of normalcy forced the otherwise hidden weirdness of others to stand out in startling relief. It was a good little lesson.

We now return to our scheduled misanthropy.

*special thanks to Patti Ecker for being a source and an object of humor*

Grandma and Grandpa

GRANDPA

My grandfather used to live in Chicago, back in the day. He was a virtuoso accordion player, and he used to play at clubs for Johnny Dillinger and the other Chicago gangsters. When I was a child, oh, the stories he'd tell, late nights over his whiskey. He was quite an alcoholic, but a lovable and festive one. We'd sing "Roll Out The Barrel" as he pushed the keys, squeezed the bellows, and regaled us with tales of Al Capone and Tommy guns. That only lasted til the day my mother came running down the street in a panic after having confiscated Grandpa's gun rack. He was drunk and pissed off and threatening to shoot everyone in the neighborhood with his deer rifles.

After that, my grandmother mono-Prohibitioned him to non-alcoholic beer, the only one available back then in the early 80s being "Zing." We'd go to the grocery store, and my grandpa would dutifully and penitentially place a six-pack of Zing in the cart. When my grandma turned her back later to examine the crusty breads, my grandfather, with a conspiratorial wink in my direction, would whisk the Zing out of the cart and hide it behind the English muffins, quickly replacing it with the six-pack of Old Milwaukee he had been secreting behind his back. My grandma didn't notice and I never told (who can resist the power of Grandpa's wink?), but all of the cashiers at Jim's had been warned--Grandma knew he was a tricky fellow--and would alert her as they were ringing up the pulpy orange juice and Rice Krispies I would have later for my breakfast after church. He never got away with it, but he tried every time. I always admired him for his persistence in achieving his goals.

GRANDMA

Every time I talk to my grandmother, she asks me what I want of hers "because I won't be around too much longer." Then she goes around her house putting sticky notes on stuff so that when she dies, we'll know who it goes to.

Generally, I change the subject and start asking about her drinking problem, which doesn't really exist. "Grandma, are you drunk again?" I ask. Then she gets mad at me and says, "Oh, you! You know I don't drink!" And I say, "Granny, you know I'm just kidding!" But let me tell you, I have seen that woman guzzle down some brandy & cokes. When we are visiting my aunt she is always the first to suggest a cocktail while we chat in the bright afternoon sunlight.

I dedicated my dissertation to my grandma. She quit school when she was 16 to marry my grandpa and run away from home, but got her GED when she was in her 60s. She's so much fun. She called and told me about this vase she bought at a rummage sale that had holes and protrusions of various shapes and sizes. She said, "I thought it was just the neatest thing, and I was thinking of how the flowers would stick out in all sorts of directions. . .Then I realized that it isn't a vase, it's a sculpture of a penis and a vagina!"

I am not making this up. I called up the stairs to my boyfriend after she said this and said, "Ed, my grandma just said penis and vagina! What the hell am I supposed to do here?" She laughed and told me she'd put a sticky note on it for me.

Cell Phone Etiquette: A Guide for Everyone But You

Society currently suffers from an onslaught of diatribes about cell phone etiquette. These oratories are soapboxed by sanctimonious individuals who believe that they have never, in their lives, annoyed or angered anyone with their own cell-related idiosyncracies and peccadillos. We shall refer to such persons as cell-imonious. These pious people admonish the cell-phone behavior they witness in a variety of settings. Restaurants, subway cars, elevators, cars, sidewalks, coffee houses and offices are the most popular environments, but complaints about use in classrooms and at concerts are gaining steam. Some of these complaints are, of course, justified. One should not to shout to one's daughter into a Nokia that she should have given her husband more sex because then he wouldn't have left her and you would have a grandbaby by now. It is unseemly, because the rest of us would like to hear the other side of that conversation.

The larger problem, however, is that cellimonious people are guilty of virtually every breach of cell phone etiquette about which they complain. With little insight into their hypocrisy, they believe that they, Cingularly, properly use cell phones around others. Their T-mobility in thinking makes them Sprint to judgment. To my knowledge, no one has thus far described the characteristics of those who complain about cell phone users. The purpose of this essay is to provide ways to identify the cellimonious so that we may, quite by accident and ohmigosh I'm so sorry, spill our coffee onto their Motorola Razr Phones.

THE CELLIMONIOUS POLEMIC

The most marked feature of the Cellimonious Polemic is a decided lack of originality. Many of the cellimonious believe that they are uniquely annoyed by breaches of cell phone etiquette and feel the need not only to vent, but to impress others with their caustic cynicism. Generally, the complaints follow a simple "I Know An Old Woman Who Swallowed A Fly" rubric:

1) People talk on their cellphones in inappropriate settings.

2) People talk about inappropriate topics on their cellphones in inappropriate settings.

3) People talk too loudly about inappropriate topics on their cellphones in inappropriate settings.

4) People talk too long and too loudly about inappropriate topics on their cellphones in inappropriate settings.

5) People ignore me and I feel I lack personhood when they are talking too long and too loudly about inappropriate topics on their cellphones in inappropriate settings.

6) I hope they die.

It is unclear why this repetition of premises is necessary in the cellimonious argument. It is ironic, however, that it allows the cellimonious person to talk too long and too loudly about people talking too long and too loudly. I witnessed this occurence the other day while enjoying a coffee at a Starbucks, and I did a spit-take in their general direction at the irony of it all. Then I called my friend to complain about them complaining about people like me. It was very "meta." I felt like the third iteration of the guy on the Cream of Wheat box.

CELL PHONE ETIQUETTE: A GUIDE FOR EVERYONE BUT YOU

Motivated by the truism that the exception proves the rule, this section will explicate the rules of cell phone etiquette and how they can be used to identify the cellimonious, who consider themselves immune to those rules.

1) Do not hold a cell phone conversation that is more than moderate in length when in close proximity to others. "Moderate" is defined on fiat by surrounding cellimonious people depending on their mood, activity, and degree of envy they have that nobody is calling them. These factors will vary from minute to minute. When they receive a call, however, they will turn away from you and converse for as long as they see fit while the waitress attempts to take your drink order.

2) Refrain from speaking loudly into the mouthpiece. No matter how loud others in the vicinity are speaking, your decibel level should mimic that of a golf announcer. The cellimonious insist that they never exceed this criterion, even though you observed them shouting into their cell not five minutes ago that they were heading to happy hour to drink off an argument they had with that asshole in Accounting.

3) Do not discuss any personal matters on a cell phone while in public. This encompasses everything. Cellimonious individuals, however, believe that any topic they choose to discuss is important enough to warrant a public conversation, including which block they are currently walking down and do you know how long they had to stand in line at the fucking DMV?

4) Holding a cell phone conversation for any reason in an elevator is unacceptable. The cellimonious feel disparaged and annoyed that you would dare not pay attention to them, even though if you were not on your phone, they would not pay attention to you either. However, just yesterday, they called their co-worker on their way up to the 25th floor to ask them to distract the boss while they walked in half an hour late.

5) You must always remember, when in a movie theater or other venue in which others might be distracted by noise, to turn off your cell phone ringer. The cellimonious are not subject to this rule, as their best friend is trying to get tickets to U2 and they need to know the second he gets them. If you forget to turn off your ringer, you are irresponsible and rude. If they forget to turn off their ringer, they just forgot, they're human beings, what's the big deal, man?

AM I CELLIMONIOUS?

I believe that most people, at some time in their cell phone-using careers, have committed one or more of the above-listed transgressions. At the same time, however, they do not seem to recognize these faults in themselves. Thus, as a service to the readers of The Harmonica Chronicle, I have done extensive research to determine which readers would benefit from recognizing the signs of cellimoniousness in themselves. To find out if you are cellimonious, read this FAQ:

Q: Am I cellimonious?
A: Yes.

Q: How do you know this? You've never met me.
A: Your mother told me.

CASE EXAMPLES

This discussion so far has highlighted the speech patterns and etiquette breaches of the cellimonious. Now we turn to several specific real-life case examples to further illustrate these patterns.

1. A 28-year-old female in a blue Saturn was speaking on her cell phone as she drove, as it seemed like a good time to discuss the various and sundry events of the day with her husband and to tell him that she needed to go to the mall later for the end-of-season sales. Ten minutes later, a car in the oncoming lane stopped short and caused a fender-bender. The Saturn driver noticed that the other driver was on a cell phone and disgustedly snorted, "Of course he was on a cell phone when he caused that accident. Idiot."

2. A 35-year-old male was standing in a long line at the video store. The woman in front of him suddenly gasped, "Oh, crap!" and dialed on her cell phone. She had a very brief conversation with the person on the other end regarding whether she was supposed to get DVDs of the second or third season of "The Sopranos." Satisfied that she picked the correct season, she hung up her phone. Later, he sneeringly remarked to his friend that the woman should have gone outside to ask that question and that she was being unbelievably rude to talk on a cell phone in line. Although the friend pointed out that the conversation had to have been less than a minute and it would be stupid to get out of a long line in case she was correct, the man rolled his eyes and disagreed. Later, he called his girlfriend from the grocery store checkout line to ask whether he should have gotten smooth or crunchy peanut butter.

3. This case example illustrates the behavior of a rare type of cellimonious: the "non-users," who smugly report that they will never get a cell phone. They often spout off the Cellimonious Polemic to defend their decision.

The case is of a 36-year-old woman who has never had a cell phone for the above-referenced reasons. She often tells stories about rude cell phone users she has encountered on the bus and in stores. However, whenever she needs to make a phone call in a public setting, she asks if she can use her companion's cell phone. She is unapologetic about the nature of her hypocrisy, and proceeds to have a loud conversation on the cell as she weaves down the sidewalk and into passers-by. She speaks so loudly, in fact, it appears that she doesn't care if the whole world knows that she is trying to score some weed.

CONCLUSION

This essay has detailed the various features of the cellimonious, who believe that they are well above-average in their adherence to cell phone etiquette. The sad fact is that most cell phone users qualify for the descriptor of cellimonious. How can we attempt to curtail this attitude, which causes only tension among strangers, negativity between friends, and peppy "ringer off" reminders during theater previews? It is my hope that this essay is a good first step in bringing awareness to the problem of cell phone hypocrisy. With additional investigation and an honest assessment of our own behaviors, hope is on the Verizon.

Department of Bladder Adjudication

Urination is a topic not normally discussed in polite society. However, I have serious doubts that those of you who read The Harmonica Chronicle comprise any part of polite society. And anyway, birds do it, bees do it, let's all do it, let's talk about pee.

The reason that this topic is so frequent and urgent, and sometimes burning and painful, is that, as a woman, I experience urinary emergencies on nearly a daily basis. No matter my fluid intake; I can consume a bottle cap's worth of Fresca on a road trip and, an hour later, will be squirming in the car begging the driver to find the nearest Sheetz, at which point I will dash from the car into the store, not even stopping to admire the lovely and full-stocked displays of Doritos and other roadside snacks. I save that for after going, when I very sensibly purchase a Diet Coke or a bottle of water to accompany me until we reach our destination two hours away. Naturally, the cycle begins anew, but, like after giving birth, the experience of urination after a near breakdown in the urethral seal releases a feel-good hormone that makes you forget the whole anxiety-provoking, whimpering, and crotch-holding experience ever occurred. It almost makes you want to have to desperately pee again. It's like Bladder Heroin, Horse for the soul.

This is probably why, on a two-and-a-half hour trip to Philadelphia to negotiate several parking and towing tickets, I chased the dragon and consumed at least a thimbleful of soda, not thinking about the likely consequences. Somewhere in space and time, a urinary Cassandra shook her head in prescient fear and bewilderment.

The Department of Parking Adjudication is a dirty and non-descript room with plastic chairs and a series of tiny, dingy offices. As I sat there in the main room, I could feel that telltale pinch and tingle in the general vicinity of my bladder, telling me that I would soon have to urinate. Given that my appointment was at 11:00, and the Department of Parking Adjudication notice very strictly admonished that one must make one's appointment on time or have it cancelled until further notice, I very reasonably assumed that the Department would keep up its end of the bargain and honor its appointment time with me (one of my foibles is thinking the best of both people and large bureaucracies). I decided I could wait until after my appointment to pee.

However, as the clock neared 11:30, I realized that the situation was now urgent. I got up from my seat and asked one of the "workers" if I could use their restroom. "No," the employee said very sternly. "We have no public restroom." I decided to reason with her. "But I really have to go to the bathroom," I said. "If I go somewhere else, there is a chance that I will miss my appointment." "That's too bad," she said, her sternness morphing into a certain degree of schadenfreudous glee. "We have NO PUBLIC RESTROOM." My reason turned to utter desperation in the blink of an eye. "Pleeeeassse," I whined. "I REALLY HAVE TO GO." "This," I declared, "IS AN EMERGENCY!" "NO!" she nearly shouted. "Okay, then," I pouted, "I'll just soil myself right over there on that chair." The evil woman shrugged. "That's your choice."

Another employee, who seemed to possess an amount of sympathy equivalent to that which one could float in a contact lens, reported to me flatly that I could use the restroom at the mall next door. "But," she warned, "If you're not back in time for your appoinment, we'll have to reschedule." I had made my appointment in June, after the "system" hanging up on me several times after 10 minutes on hold and a series of certified letters. It was now the middle of September, and we had taken a two-and-a-half hour trip up from DC for me to reduce my (in my opinion, fraudulent) fees from over $200 to a more reasonable sum (I *honestly* did not get those tickets. Really). However, I had to pee so bad that I decided to chance it. My gait encumbered because I had to keep my legs close together in order not to burst, I hobbled over to the security guard to ask him where the mall restroom could be located. "It's just through that door," he pointed, "But I 'm about to lock the doors for lunch, and once the doors are locked, you can't get back in until 1:00." "Not let me back in until 1:00!" I practically shouted. "But I have to PEE! This is a HUMAN FUNCTION, and you're telling me that even though you will be standing in this very spot when I return, you will refuse to let me back in, as though I committed a voluntary default on my appointment." "Yep," he confirmed. This was getting surreal. I momentarily forgot my bladder as I briefly considered that perhaps I was getting Punk'd. I looked for cameras, but the only ones that were spying on me were the standard issue security cameras mounted on the wall in the Lair of Evil, or as they called it, the Check-In Desk. "You can't get back in," he repeated stubbornly.

I seriously, honestly, very nearly started crying. My eyes filled with tears as I considered the trials of trying to get this appointment in the first place and how we made this trip specifically to come here. I limped back to my seat and tried not to sob, my legs crossed and my hands as politely located as they could be near my crotch, given the circumstances. The Evil Bitch (and I do not use that term often or lightly) behind the counter nudged her co-"worker" and seriously, I am not making this up, pointed at me and laughed. If there hadn't been a complicated series of locks on the door leading to the office niches, I would have gone back there and peed right on her Payless shoe.

I had planned a cogent, almost lawyer-like argument to make with the Parking Adjudicator (aka Satan's Minion) that I thought would reduce my fines to zero; however, I knew that I now would be reduced to a shaking and stammering puddle of (oh! don't say that word puddle! Anything having to do with water will make me pee!), okay, a blob of (oh! a blob is a liquid! A viscous liquid, but a liquid nonetheless!), alright then, a tree stump of defeat and anxiety. When I was finally called for my appointment at noon, I followed "Rafael" (I doubted they used their real names for fear of retribution) with my papers to his dank office-like hole and fairly whimpered through my now pathetic explanation. "Okay, then," Rafael opined, "We'll reduce your fine to $60; you can pay in the next office." I didn't want to delay my escape any further and agreed to the punishment.

The fee-paying portion of this hellish journey occurred, thankfully, rather quickly, and, with receipt in hand, I made a beeline for the restroom in the mall across the street, veering through oncoming traffic in a Frogger-like manner. However, the security guard had, I am sure purposely, misguided me about where the bathroom was, and I tore through the place looking for a department store that would have a restroom. In Strawbridge's, I found my rapture, but I first had to make my way through a labyrinthine series of swimwear and petite separates. I found the restroom. I peed, and it was good.

This is not the first time that I had a remarkable urinary emergency. One Independence Day, we, as a group of utter imbeciles, decided that it would be a good idea to take in the fireworks on the National Mall. I had laughed heartily at my roommate because she had taken a backpack, in which she had stuffed emergency provisions, including a towel and toilet paper. "Toilet paper!" I guffawed. "What, are we going to TP the Washington Monument?" "You'll see," she snapped, "and you'll thank me for it." After the fireworks, I of course realized that it had been a mistake to smuggle a vodka tonic to the festivities in my opaque Brita bottle. Struggling through the massive crowd, I needed to find a restroom immediately. However, all of the businesses on the routes that fireworks-attendees would be likely to take had signs in their windows warning that there was no public restroom. Figuring that I could just purchase something at Starbucks and win access to the toilet, I decided (again, very sensibly) to get a beverage. When we got there, I discovered that everyone had the same idea, and the line snaked down the sidewalk. I suddenly understood what the towel was for as I dashed into an alley, dropped trou, and squatted behind a dumpster. As my flow reached the point of no return, I was startled by the skittering and screeching of rats running between my legs and over my shoes. I screamed. This, of course, attracted my male roommate, who came running around the corner to see if I was okay. He viewed me there, vulnerable and exposed, squatting with vermin congregating in my midst and nearly up my keister.

We never spoke of it again.

Of course, there are other stories too, like the time I was 13 and an emergency propelled me and my parents to seek a toilet in Times Square when it was still full of porn. I urinated in a toilet that was sunk into the floor, surrounded by posters of naked women in compromising poses and substances of unknown provenance on the floor. And then there was the scary time I begged to be let into the back room of a 7-11, with my emergence from the restroom prompting an employee to block my exit from the back and leer at me menacingly. As short as I am, I can be forceful, and I got him to move out of my way; however, I learned that my small bladder could get me raped or killed.

I am at home now, safe and sound, with a bathroom paces away and a water-filled Nalgene bottle at my side. It is one of the most comforting feelings in the world, to take in a beverage and know that you will be safe from the vicissitudes of restroom policies and generally mean people. As you can probably guess, you'll have to excuse me now. I gotta pee.

The Gift That Keeps Not Giving

About 10 years ago, I quit Christmas. Just quit. I didn't even give it two weeks' notice, just walked on out, and as I left, Christmas said, "Oh yeah? Well, make sure the stress, sense of obligation, and forced merriment don't hit you in the ass on the way out!" To this lame rejoinder, I flipped Christmas a bird, and let me tell you, it wasn't the kind that you'll find on your Doves of Peace Blown Glass Holiday Keepsake Ornament that you can get for just $3.99 with your purchase of two Hallmark cards.

Since opting out of Christmas, my life during the month of December has improved in myriad ways. For instance, I have a much lower probability of dying in a car accident because I am not forced to travel to a multitude of Christmas parties in bad weather. I weigh less because my ego is not pumped full of multiple party invitations, which comes with it the sense of resentment you have towards the hosts because you just want to stay home tonight, with it never occuring to you that they will not deem their party a failure due to your absence. You probably didn't get an invitation to their "real" party, anyway, just that one they throw for people they don't want to completely exclude or they won't get to borrow their time-share credits next year. Also, the soles of my feet are completely devoid of the little puncture wounds you get from Christmas tree needles when you walk across the living room barefoot. And best of all, I get to skip out on the insanity of holiday shopping.

Gift-giving, to me, is the most distasteful thing about the Christmas season. Nobody acknowledges that gift-giving, while seemingly an act of graciousness and generosity, is actually pretty self-important. Every year, people thrust piles of stuff upon other people. Stuff. Every gift comes with an implicit card that reads, "Here. Take this. I am giving you stuff in order to assuage the feelings of guilt I would have if I didn't give you anything, and this trumps the fact your house is already so packed with crap you can never find your anti-depressants. Take it. Take it!" I hate stuff. If you have moved as many times as I have, you may understand the sense of dread I feel when someone hands me a wrapped package, unless it contains something that is quickly consumable, such as a bottle of wine (no cheese logs, please), which you wouldn't wait until Christmas to give me if you really liked me. Christmas is the time we say, "You know what? I know just what to give people for Christmas--stuff! Let's go out and get everyone some stuff, and we'll all feel merry and bright, just like in that song. You'll have stuff, and I'll have stuff, and the nieces will leave here with a pile of stuff, and it will be so cool. Stuff. It's brilliant. Why didn't we think of this last year?"

The "gift sets" provided for our consumption this time of year underscore the concept of gift-giving as stuff-giving. They allow you to quickly purchase, without much thought, some stuff to foist upon someone. Gift sets, whether they be a pair of Isotoners with a bonus scarf or a Ghirardelli cocoa sampler, are wrapped in the non-recycleable plastic of a sense of obligation, and don't fool yourself, your recipient knows this. If you find yourself in a Bath-And-Bodyworks contemplating the purchase of a Six-Scent Lotion, Shampoo, and Hand Sanitizer Travel Kit for your co-worker, roommate, or carpool partner, put the box down. Your intended target can easily live without a mini-bottle of Night-Blooming Jasmine Elbow Butter, and likely will not notice if you don't thrust a cellophane-wrapped package in her arms as she welcomes you to her cookie-and-nog afternoon holiday gathering (the real party, my dear, the one with the good liquor, is Saturday night).

Some people, knowing my opinions about gift-giving and receiving, seem to believe that I am just prematurely crusty and curmudgeonly, and that if someone simply showed me a little love, I would be full of holiday cheer. Many of them, thinking they are being original, try to cleverly step around my wishes by giving me gifts on December 9th, 15th, or 18th, triumphantly claiming that, "It's not Christmas, so this isn't a Christmas gift! It's just an early birthday present." I appreciate neither the pity nor the ruse, Cindy Lou-Who. If you're going to shove holiday cheer down my throat, at least invite me to your good party and mix it with some vodka.

On Mauls

I rarely visit malls. I visited one recently for anthropological purposes, and remembered why I do not frequent them. I get confused in malls. At malls, you get "gift cards" from clothing stores that give you $25 off your next purchase of $50 or more if you make a $75 purchase today (they capitalize on Americans' general discomfiture about math), but they must be redeemed in the weeks that the next season's full-price offerings become available. I always think that this is a good deal and spend the required $75, even if I have to throw in a costume jewelry brooch to get there. Then I forget that I have to go by a certain date, and I'm stuck with wallet-insert gift card detritus and a hideous brooch.

Mall developers are tricky folks. No such thing as side-by-side up and down escalators. To get to the escalator to go up to the next level, you are forced to traverse around the area of the entire floor so that you may be tempted to investigate the retail offerings of stores you would not previously have considered visiting. They also name the mall something clever like "Montgomery Village Shopping Towne at Roosevelt Center" to give the aura of a quaint outdoor community shopping district instead of a windowless box filled with stale air and artificial palm trees. And we fall for it.

Malls have entire stores dedicated to expensive pens that come with manuals and auto-balancing gyroscopes, as well as kiosks filled with baseball caps with flashing neon logos, for the discerning Sox fan who figures he can save a buck on airfare to Sin City by just wearing Vegas on his head. The most alarming thing about malls is that I don't know how the average person can afford to shop there. Even the generic stores like Gap and Express have dress pants with a base price of $60. I coveted a knit scarf until I realized it was $75. There are $400 toasters, department store sections dedicated to "resort wear" (which consists of tacky windbreakers priced at $150), $250 Juicy Couture t-shirts (t-shirts!) and the mythical $150 Seven jeans, which I thought everyone was just making up until I saw them in Nordstrom. If malls are for average folks, I can't even afford to be hoi polloi.

Story: When I go out during the day, I do not make any effort to impress anyone and my first priority is comfort. The only time I pay attention to what I'm wearing when I go to the mall is when I know I'll be trying on clothes, in which case I do not wear a button-down shirt as they prove to be inefficient in the changing process. This is especially true when you have to put your clothes back on and pad out of the dressing room in your socks to get another size of the item you are trying on. This is because "Vanessa," who is helping you today and wants you to let her know if you need anything, has suddenly disappeared, and your plaintive and tentative calls of "Vanessa?" from behind the door go unacknowledged. Yet when you are at the register and they ask you who was helping you for the purpose of entering the commission code, you obseqiously and squeakily report that Vanessa assisted you today, because she is shooting you a menacing glare from the hosiery section. And you don't want to mess with a woman who knows socks.

So on this visit to the mall I was wearing jeans, a zip-up hoodie, and a t-shirt that prominently displayed the word "Amsterdam." Naturally, the security guard in the overpriced kitchen store was suspicious, and asked me if I needed any help. I responded, "No, I'm just exploring your amazing selection of kitchen accessories." I thought that perhaps my articulate verbiage would disarm him. Apparently this was not effective, as he proceeded to "surreptitiously" follow me around the store as I examined Le Creuset enameled cookware and dedicated chestnut roasting pans. When I left without the security gates beeping, he looked slightly disappointed that his profiling did not yield an accurate result. However, I saw him brighten as he realized that he had likely thwarted a theft with his clever surveillance.

Malls are not for people like me, but neither are thrift stores. One time at a thrift store, a drunk woman burned me with a cigarette (I have the scar to prove it). But if I have to shop at Target, with the ill-fit of the clothes being a trade-off for the bargain price, at least I can hide out from Vanessa.

Hurricane Prevention Tips from God

Pat Robertson blamed September 11 on feminists and pagans. He also claimed that Hurricane Katrina was God's way of expressing his anger that Ellen DeGeneres was chosen to host the Emmys. If I were Pat Robertson and I had as great of a relationship with the Original Godsta as he claims he does, I would be like, "Yo, God. You gotta minute? Okay, about this whole hurricane thing. Like, cyclones, yeah, they're bad as hell--I mean, as bad as your Holy Wrath--but I'm thinkin' that maybe for this Ellen DeGeneres thing, the beat-down could be more along the lines of, you know, a shortage of blood for transfusions, or like, a new bird flu or something."

Yeah, Ellen's Patented Style of Frisky Quirk gets to me sometimes too, but that Emmy deal was a one-time thing, not worthy of the decimation of the entire Gulf Coast. Well, I'm sure he's attributing it to her homosexuality and not her hosting prowess, but whatever. Anyway, rather than blaming Ellen DeGeneres, I think that Mr. Robertson, a Biblical literalist, could look to that text for some more likely explanations for our recent run on natural disasters.

Exodus 20:24 specifies that God shalt bless thee if thee sacrifices thine sheep and oxen in a burnt offering upon an altar of earth. I think there's a tacit warning that thou shalt not be blessed if thee dost not offerest these gifts. So as a Biblical literalist, why hasn't Pat Robertson considered that God might just be really pissed that nobody has been burning oxen as a sacrifice unto the Lord for, I don't know, it must be centuries now? Day after day of a lack of burnt offerings can get to a guy, especially when he's feeling peckish (he makes sheep burgers--what do you think he does with that stuff?), so it's not surprising that his wrath is going to be unleashed. Of course, the sacrifice probably doesn't have to be oxen if that's not feasible. For smaller issues, like tropical depressions, burnt ferret works well. For preventing larger disasters, it could be something like, I don't know, an assortment of chipmunks or weasels, or maybe even some alpacas.

Crap. Now that I've said this, not only is PETA going to be after me, there's going to be a huge run on earth altars and strike-anywheres.

Harmonica 101: Introduction to Terminology

Although I have decided to start a blog, I must state my strong repudiation of the word "blog." It sounds murky, malevolent, and somehow, sweaty. It is altogether an unpleasant word.

I hate it especially when used in conjunction with the word "political." "Political Blog" sounds like a Creature, such as one from the Black Lagoon, who is also a pundit. He doesn't vote a straight ticket in his opinions, so you never know what he'll have to say to James Carville or Tucker Carlson. In this way, the Political Blog always contributes to a lively Sunday morning on the talk shows. However, he is roundly criticized for his frequent oozing.

So this is not a Blog. It is a Chronicle. A Repository of Ramble, A Cauldron of Commentary, and A Daily Dish of Desultory Delight. Sometimes, it is an Almanac of Alliteration. But it is never a Blog, and it is always. . .The Harmonica Chronicle.

Welcome to The Harmonica Chronicle

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