The Season for Giving

"You have a great vein for platelets."

She says this to me after I've told her about my horrible fear of needles and how hard it is for me to even walk into the Blood Donor Center without getting nauseous.

I hate the Blood Donor Center. Everywhere you look there is a poster with a cartoony drop of blood character who tells you all about donating blood, platelets or plasma! Every wall, every desk, every surface is covered with them. They even have "Droppy the Blood" (not his real name) featured on place mats in the post-donation snack area. Droppy reveals each intimate detail of the process in cute bubble letters and ends every step with an exclamation point.

Instead of donating a pint of whole blood, you can donate a particular component like platelets, plasma or red blood cells!

At all times during the platelet collection process, your blood is contained within a sterile tubing system!

Your blood 'takes a spin' in a centrifuge and is then returned to your body!

Obviously, we all now know why they have to beg for people to give blood. Who needs these gross details? Sit me in a chair, don't talk to me, let me look at a blank wall and tell me when I'm done. You may remember my last blood donation adventure when I got so sick that I almost passed out and had to spend an hour waiting in a reclined chair with a wet rag on my head. I warned the nurse this time and she did really well with me until the platelet comment.

"You know, you can give platelets as soon as three days from now."

God. Dammit. Are you kidding me?

As I mentioned in my last post about blood donation, I am blood type O Negative. Me and about 6% of the United State's population. (Thanks Droppy!) O Negative is the super blood. I'm a "Universal Donor" meaning my blood can save anyone's life and is the most sought after. So I have to donate. It kills me, I hate it, it completely freaks me out. It's been almost three hours since I finished up this morning and I'm still sick to my stomach. But. I have to do it. How could I not? And now thanks to that fucking nurse, I get to do it again.

And the weather doesn't help ...

I've been getting some comments like, "I miss the funny Susan." "Where are the happy posts?" "Why is everything so serious lately?"

My answer? It is what it is. I'm in a funk. So it's either not write, or fake some happy shit that will just come out, well, fake. I'm ignoring phone calls. I'm avoiding people. I'm stressing out almost to the point of panic attacks. I have the Klonopin, but I try to take it only when I start feeling the pain from clenching my jaw. You know, I know I need to feel the feelings I'm going through. It's the first holiday season without my family. No call on Thanksgiving. No call on my birthday.

Although I ultimately feel this is best thing for me, it sucks. And it makes me really sad. So lately, I'm just not in the mood. For anything.

Don't think I've become pessimistic, or that I've lost my belief that everything works out and all that new age hippie shit. I am still The Secret's biggest fan. But, the fact is, sometimes things suck. They just do.

That's where I am right now. And, I'm okay with it. It will pass, I will learn, all will work out. But until then ... leave a message and I'll get back to you later.

Axed. Day 47.

This is what I wrote on Day 42:

Good feeling's gone. I have been laid off, I'm back to bartending, I'm house poor and I can't afford weed. And of course, it's that time of year when every case of depression is exacerbated by the holiday season. Not to mention, I have run out of refills on my Zoloft and haven't had my man-made serotonin in over two weeks. (Note to self: Call Dr. Auerbach.)

People, let me tell you, unemployment is exhausting. What with all the fighting and screaming and crying ... where do you find the time to search for a job?

Arrgh. I want to write a post. It's been so long and I really love this blog but my head is such a mess right now. Yes, I'm out of Zoloft. Yes, I spent three days over Thanksgiving fighting and screaming with Erica. Yes, I am a bartender who is also picking up odd jobs just to keep the cash rolling in. (Sorting a dead Life Magazine photographer's old prints for his widow for $15 an hour, for one.)

It's now Day 47 and I still haven't posted. I have some good updates. Number one being, I'm back on Zoloft. Oh. Wait. That's a good story.

After writing that half-assed post that I didn't post (except I did now), I called Dr. Auerbach's office for an appointment. She was booked until January 15. I asked if I could just have her renew my prescriptions over the phone. The receptionist answered, "No, but let me see if the interns can write prescriptions." Turns out they could and I got an appointment.

I went to Beth Israel the next morning and met Dr. Feng, my GP's, partner's intern. She was a young Chinese woman who was very diligent and proficient at her job but hadn't come quite so far with her English. After asking me a barrage of medical history questions, she retrieved my file. A file which, incidentally, contained the answers to all of her previous questions. I suppose she was just practicing. Anyway, she finally gets around to asking why I've come in for the appointment.

"My prescriptions have run out. I need to get more Zoloft and Klonopin."

"Okay. I can give you Zoloft. But Klonopin is control drug. I don't think he give you Klonopin." He being Dr. Lau, my GP's partner.

"That's fine. I'll get an appointment with Dr. Auerbach. The most important one is the Zoloft."

I expected her to write the prescription for the Zoloft and send me on my way. But then she changed her mind. For reasons I don't quite understand, she decided that she didn't want to give me the Zoloft either.

Dr. Feng: Do you see a therapist?

Me: I used to but I don't anymore.

DF: Why not?

Me: I can't afford it.

DF: You have insurance.

Me: I know but they don't pay for therapy.

DF: Yes they do.

ME: Um. No. They don't. They pay after a $3000 deductible. So, at $150 per session, by the time you get to $3000, it's practically a new year and you have to start all over.

She was not satisfied with this answer. She went on about my being able to afford therapy for about five minutes. "You should have medicaid." "Your insurance is crap." "Are you sure you're reading the policy correctly?" (Read the policy? Seriously?) She just couldn't believe that someone in my obvious state of distress, could not get the proper mental healthcare she so desperately needed. (And this is before the breakdown.) She finally gave up with a succinct, "America ... ugh."

DF: Listen. Dr. Auerbach give you Klonopin before or after psychiatrist?

Me: I didn't get Klonopin from a psychiatrist.

DF: No. When you get Klonopin you were seeing psychiatrist?

Me: No. My therapist was a psychologist. She didn't give me Klonopin. Dr. Auerbach did.

She resorted to drawing a schematic showing that she wanted to know whether I was seeing my therapist when Dr. Auerbach wrote the prescription. This is when I started crying.

Dr. Feng had turned back to her computer screen to make some comments on my inappropriateness in getting my psych meds from my GP and not a psychiatrist, so she didn't know I was starting to break down. When she looked back up she was shocked. "Why you cry?"

"I don't know. I just cry sometimes. It isn't you. I'm just ... I don't know. Crying."

She nodded and said, "Yes. I cry sometimes too."

That's when the silent stream of tears upgraded into full-fledged sobs. I was crying like I was watching Steele Magnolias and it was the scene where M'Lynn started screaming, "I'm FINE. I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could!" Dr. Feng stood up and announced that she was going to get Dr. Lau.

Great. Now I can have my breakdown in front of two strangers. I tried in vain to pull it together before they got back. As I was reaching for another tissue, Dr. Lau sashayed in with a distinctly lavender aura. I loved him immediately. He plopped himself down in the chair at the desk and rolled over to face me directly. "So. What's going on?" he asked sweetly while visibly restraining the, "honey" that would have surely followed had we been at at bar in the West Village.

Me: [no longer holding back with my sobbing and gasping for air in order to whine my words out] I lost my job and I've been out of Zoloft for two weeks, it's the holidays, I'm estranged from my family, I can't sleep

... and the bawling took back over.

Dr. Lau: Ok. Don't worry (slight pause where, "honey" or "sweetie" or "sugar" should have been). We're going to give you the Klonopin. I'll write your prescription for Zoloft. You said you couldn't sleep, so I can offer you some Ambien.

Me: [instantly feeling my stability returning] I can accept that Ambien.

Dr. Lau: We're also going to refer you to a psychiatrist. I think you should get back into therapy.

Me: [looking over the tissue was still holding over my face after blowing my nose] Ya think?.

So, that was last Wednesday. I've been back on the Zoloft and have been throwing in a half Klonopin a day to keep it cool until the Zoloft levels off my system. Today I was clenching my jaw so much that I took a whole one. The sleeping isn't going so well. I took an Ambien the first night and slept super well. But the past three nights I've worked at the bar which means I was drinking and I don't want to mix the two. (Yes. I realize that I could just not drink at the bar, but really ...)

So that's my story. It ain't great, it's not sucking as much as it was. And, the fact that I'm posting this is a sign that things are looking up.

Best Funny or Die Ever!

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Baby Girl

Me: So, who is this?
Unknown Guy: You don't know me.
Me: Um. Okay. Well, she's not here.
Unknown Guy: A blue truck just drove past your house.
Me: (Seeing the truck outside the window.) How do you know that?
Unknown Guy: I'm watching you.

It was a random phone call from someone asking for my sister. I didn't know him so, of course, I ended up talking to him for about an hour. It's late 1990, I'm nineteen, living at home, unemployed and, unbeknownst to anyone except for myself, pregnant. What else do I have to do? Plus, it initially seemed harmless - I'm sure I'm not the only person who has ended up talking to a stranger on the phone. But as the conversation went on, Unknown Guy became increasingly nasty. He started saying things about my sister and when I defended her, he was pissed and said that he couldn't believe I took her side over his. I finally hung up on him.

Later that afternoon I got a call from my friend Randy.

I found out who that was who called you.

Randy had mentioned Unknown Guy to a friend of his who happened to know all about my phone conversation because he knew Unknown Guy and had heard all about it. (John Cougar, your small town ain't got shit on Fitzgerald.) Turns out, it was the kid who had just moved into a house behind ours. Randy knew of him from church and said the kid was just a punk.

Around 8:00 that night, Randy called back.

Unknown Guy overdosed. He's in the hospital.

Twenty minutes later, Randy and I were standing at the foot of Unknown Guy's bed in Dorminy Medical Center's ICU.

Me: What happened?
Unknown Guy: It's your fault. You made me do it.
Me: I just met you. I never knew you existed until YOU called ME today. How is this my fault?
Unknown Guy: Exactly. You didn't even know I existed.
Me: All right. I've had it. Good luck, dude.

I walked out and waited for Randy in the car. I didn't know this guy and there was no way I was going to take the blame for his trying to kill himself.

I felt so powerful when I walked out of there. The two years leading up to this incident had been really fucked up for me and I was emotionally drained. Not taking on the guilt of this latest fiasco was huge for me.

Since the end of my tenth grade year, over fifteen of my friends had committed suicide -- I lost count along the way. I think the final number was eighteen, though that might include the few friends who died in car wrecks during the same time period.

Note: Forgetting how small Fitzgerald really is, I tried googling death certificates in my hometown for those couple of years. Nothing. I emailed the Herald-Leader newspaper office asking if I could purchase back issues. The editor wrote back to say that they only keep copies for the past five years. The rest of them -- back to the 1800's, I was told -- are on microfilm in the library. I didn't ask, but I am pretty sure he meant the Ben Hill County Library exclusively.

A couple of weeks before Unknown Guy came into my life, I had attended my ex-boyfriend's funeral. He shot himself in the head after getting a bad grade on a test. The last conversation I had with him was a fight about his mother asking, "Is this Kim?" when I called him. He called me three times the week he shot himself and I wouldn't talk to him. I wanted to, but the aforementioned pregnancy was an issue. I was about six months along and I was afraid that he'd ask to see me.

Three nights in a row he called and three nights in a row I refused to pick up the phone. The fourth morning was when he went to his parents' garage with his rifle. When I saw his mom at the church service she came up to me. I was sobbing and trying to tell her how sorry I was.

He was talking about you right before. He was mad at me because I called you Kim. He said that I ruined your relationship.

And she walked away.

This funeral was about two weeks after (or before?) my best friend JW hung himself. He had been addicted to pain medication ever since the neighbor boy shot him with buckshot and put out one of his eyes. A couple of days before he killed himself, he borrowed my Dead Milkmen tape. I liked thinking that it had become one of "his things".

I think I ended up talking to Unknown Guy that day because answering the phone had become treacherous for me and I was just relieved that I finally got a call that wasn't about another death. When he tried to turn that into his own suicide show, I snapped. I had been in mourning for going on two years, I was about to have a baby that I still hadn't acknowledged to my family - or to myself for that matter, and I had reached my limit.

Note for those of you wondering how I could live at home and hide a pregnancy from my family for six months: I didn't get pregnant in that cute "beach ball under your shirt" way. I got pregnant everywhere so I just looked fat. Plus it was the late 80's and huge bulky sweaters were in.

While I was standing over this idiot who had taken pills and tried to blame me, something clicked inside of me. All of a sudden it was all just so ridiculous. How was it possible? All the death, all the blame, all the guilt .... It was just too fucking much. So I shut it down and in an instant all of it was gone and I felt serene. I now know this is what the shrinks refer to as "repression."

A few months later when I was in labor and telling the emergency room staff that I didn't want to see my baby, I didn't feel it. I had made my decision and I was sticking to it. Matter of fact. Period. As I was being rolled into the delivery room on the gurney I told the Ob-Gyn, "I'm giving it up for adoption. Please don't show it to me." The next day an attorney and his secretary came into my room with adoption papers and a Bic pen.

The undersigned consents to relinquish all parental rights to Baby Girl.

Baby Girl. Reading those two words fucked up my plans to not engage. For nine months I had managed to live as if it weren't happening. Even my mom didn't know until I woke her up that night and said that she needed to take me to the hospital. It was as if my mind and my body were completely separate so I had been able to distance myself from what was going on.

Then those words.

Baby Girl turns eighteen this December. When I signed the adoption papers, I decided that I would never search for her. I had my chance to be in her life, and I gave it up. Now it's up to her. When we decided to say that I didn't know who the father of the baby was so that I could make the decision to give her up on my own, I asked the doctor to keep my records open in case she ever wanted to find me.

Of course, she might not want to. She might hate me. She might feel that she is happy with the parents she has and not have a need to contact me. She may not even know that she's adopted.

But just in case, I'm calling the doctor to make sure he knows where I am.

By the way.

I am still working on switching over to my own domain. The holdup is that somehow I managed to get the entire design team over at Erica's company involved and now we're actually DESIGNING the site - not just picking a standard template and going with it. It's fantastic, but it's going to take a little longer than I expected.

Soon though. I promise.

Axed. Day 20.

In the past three weeks I have:

• Roasted two chickens.
  • Made chicken pot pie from roasted chicken leftovers.
  • Fed Erica roasted chicken of some sort three days in a row for lunch.
• Baked chocolate chip cookies.
• Baked pumpkin bread.
• Prepared dinner almost every night.
  • Set the table for dinner.
  • Used linen napkins for dinner.
  • Googled (and implemented) special napkin folds.
• Packed lunch for Erica almost every day.
• Bonded with the dog.
• Gone to the park with the dog.
• Bathed the dog.
• Cleaned out the fireplace.
• Reorganized the kitchen drawer.
• Washed every item of clothing we've worn.
• Washed and washed and washed dishes.
• Cleaned out the kitchen cabinets.
• Reorganized the bathroom cabinet.
• Listened to over twenty episodes of Oprah's Soul Series.

That's right. I am a housewife who is addicted to the Spirit Channel. (I am also a bartender at a nice little lesbian bar in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn. A story for another time.)

Know what else? I love it.

Truly. I am so happy these days. My relationship with Erica is healthier than it's ever been. My stress level is zero. (Erica's is only a 15. That alone is a Christmas miracle.) I just have this feeling that everything is exactly as it should be right now. And I've been given this amazing opportunity to make a change in my life and decide what direction I want to go in. It's pretty great.

The first thing I realized after being laid off from the event business (again) was that I have no interest in going back into the event business. It was always something that I had fallen into, not something that I had fallen in love with. What I have fallen in love with, is writing. So, here's the plan:

1. Stay at home and write. (Or go to the park and write. Or a cafe. The zoo. You get the point.)
2. Write the stuff I want to write the way I want to write it.
3. Have someone pay me to do it.

I am so excited.

Definition of Grateful

Occasionally I question my spelling ability. I know that Blogger usually catches my stuff, but there have been times ...

So. I was making sure that I had spelled "grateful" correctly and I came upon the definition.

Pleasing by reason of comfort supplied or discomfort alleviated.

Here's to the McCain/Palin ticket.

And an alleviated discomfort.

I am so excited about the future.

I Am Grateful.

One More For the Road

Receptionist: Hi, how can we help you?

My Friend PMR: Hi there. How are you? What we've got going on here is that my wife and I were having a party tonight.

Erica: Yeah. It was fun. So, they have this cat.

PMR: Yeah. We've got a cat.

Erica: Yeah, she's allergic to them and, uh ...

Me (thinking): God dammit. Why isn't there any panic? Why the FUCK isn't anyone panicking? Here I am dying and she's chatting?

From my keeled over position I wheezed in as much air as I could and screamed.

Me: "ASTHMA ATTACK!"

I know I said I wouldn't write again until I switched domains, but that was before I knew I was going to face death and spend an evening in the Catskills Regional Medical Center with a pothead jaywalker, an escaped convict and one of the younger members of NAMBLA. I had gone into an attack at a Halloween party and thank god the escapee quit drinking after the second round of Beer Pong or we would have been fucked and I would have found myself in the back of a CRMC ambulance as the adult half of the NAMBLA couple.

Note: For those not familiar with Beer Pong, here is a list of what you need to play the game: A table, ping-pong balls, plastic cups, beer, and at least two people who are willing to drink a cup of beer with a dirty ping-pong ball floating in it.

The truth of what happened at the emergency room reception desk was we all went in and Erica, indicating me, calmly said to the nurses, "She's having an asthma attack." The nurses blankly stared back for what felt like eons. I was freaking out because I had dropped down to about 10% lung capacity at this point, and it seemed like everyone was so fucking calm that I might collapse before anyone could decide what to do for me.

After I screamed, I was quickly dropped into a bed and strapped down with an oxygen mask containing a steroid breathing treatment. Within seconds I could breathe again and fell into immediate exhaustion from increasingly struggling for breath for the prior three hours. I was soothed in and out of sleep to the tune of the old man on the other side of the curtain. "Pee pee. Pee pee. Pee pee." The nurse looked at me, "Sorry. It's the only bed we have left," and she turned to give Pee Pee Man a urinal for the third time in about 10 minutes.

I hate being the person who has to be taken to the emergency room. It's embarrassing and I feel guilty for being the buzz-kill. When I was shivering on the back porch, Erica and PMR were with me. "I'm fine. -wheeeeze.- Just let me stay out here for a -wheeeze- while. You guys go back inside." I knew I needed to go to the emergency room, but I just didn't know how to break it to them. I felt like Sookie Stackhouse, the mindreader in True Blood. All I could hear was their thoughts

Oh, please be okay. We don't want to spend the night in the emergency room. Please. She's okay, right? Man. We just started "The Shining." Am I really going to have to go to the hospital with her?

Honey, do you need to go to the hospital?

Yeah. I do.

Crap.

My three costumed companions and I got in the car and headed out. As I sat in the back seat trying to concentrate on getting air into my inflamed bronchial tubes, I could hear them talking about my and PMR's run to try to find a store that had Primatene Mist earlier in the evening.

PMR (the pothead jaywalker): Well, we went to Wal-Mart and Shop Rite and they were both out. Or Wal-Mart was out, Shop Rite's pharmacy was closed and we couldn't get to it. The only other place was another 20 minutes away.

S (the ex-con): Yeah. Taking her to the emergency room is way better than that.

The worst part about being the patient in the ER scenario, is missing out on all of the drama at the hospital. My experience was limited to Pee Pee Man and a rotten-toothed nurse who attempted to start an IV line on me. Being needle-phobic, just the thought of getting an IV was bad enough. But then the stick that should have stung for no more than three seconds hurt like I was being shot up by a fellow heroin junkie in a rush to get his own hit. A doctor who was passing by saw me writhing in pain and asked the nurse what was going on. "The vein is blown," then accusingly, "She jumped." Mercifully the doctor said, "Please stop torturing her and just give her the pills."

There are pills? You bitch.

Meanwhile, outside my room:

S is pacing because he is so freaked out by the filth.
PMR has passed out on a gurney in the hallway and is unfazed when a nurse passes and drops a pile of sheets at his head as if he's not there.
Erica is registering me with a nurse who notices the clock when daylight savings time kicks in. "Great. It's 1 o'clock again. The last thing I need is to re-live that."

Occasionally I'd get a quick report from Erica on what was happening outside my door.

These two nurses were just out there talking and one of them said, "Well, we can't release the body to them tonight." Eek.

And then she'd be off to watch the rest of the show. The most exciting reports were about the crackhead. She'd duck her head in with snippets of the action.

He's detoxing in the "Quiet Room." He isn't very quiet.

Now he's mumbling something about people contaminating ketchup bottles with AIDS.

Ooh! They just strapped him down. He is not pleased.

After about two hours, three breathing treatments and a dose of Prednisone (in pill form, thank you very much), the staff told Erica I was released.

Relieved to finally be freed from the ER, she came in with PMR and S. "Honey? We can go now."

"Okay. Can I just lie here for five more minutes?"

Erica and PMR's faces dropped.

S, done with the filth and drama said, "I'm getting the car."

Incubating.

I've been trying to sit down and write all week. You'd think with all the free time I have on my hands, I'd be writing non-stop. But I just can't get it down. I'm processing a lot of stuff with being laid off and the exciting prospect of where this is going to take me next. I write every day, but nothing really post-worthy. Or nothing I really care to post. But I want to be a dependable and responsible blogger. I don't want my millions of fans to be put on hold for my emotional well-being.

Today, realizing that it had been a week since my last post, I tried to force it and was writing some bullshit about some stuff I've been thinking about. It's good stuff to write about, it's just that I haven't taken the time to let everything soak in so my brain is kind of firing off in a billion different directions. So I decide to try to find this link I want to include in it and I come across the Follow Your Bliss Compass. Naturally I spun it.

refresh your spirit with some creative incubation

Thank you, Follow Your Bliss Compass. Don't mind if I do.

In the meantime, I'm re-designing and moving the blog to my own domain. So, just hold tight. The next post will be a link to my new home.

Love you!

You know how sometimes you see a stranger and you fall in love with them a little bit? And not in a sexual way, but in a, "You're so adorable!" way. Or maybe you feel a kinship with them for something you observe -- a button or a pair of sneakers they're wearing, something you hear them say, whatever. But you love them for that moment in a special little way for whatever it is and I think we should start telling them.

I once got an email from my friend The Universe.

Ever have one of those days, Susan, when you're feeling so good, crossing a street, driving your car, shopping at the mall, when, from a distance you see a complete stranger, with a kindly face, and you simply can't help yourself from whispering a silent "I love you..."?
Oh, cool, because there has been many a time, in many a place, when some unknown face whispered the same to you....

Love you,
The Universe

And the thought of someone on a train or in a theater or crossing the street seeing me and feeling that "stranger love" for me made me happy. And sometimes when I'm going into work (When I had a job, that is.), or I'm out walking Chulo, I remember that email and get a little tingly thinking that maybe right that second someone in my vicinity is sending me stranger love. I think people would like to know when they're receiving stranger love.

So why don't we tell them?

Because it would be creepy.

The thing is, I think it could be a good thing -- like a pass it forward/random act of kindness thing. We've just got to figure out how to do it without sounding skeevy or lecherous. Like, you can't just say, "I so totally love you," to the little rocker who looks just like all of your ex-boyfriends from 1986. Either he'd make fun of you (the absolute worst) or he'd think, "Why's this old lady saying this to me?" (Takes place of "absolute worst" if he says this out loud.), or people around you would think you're a pervert (Not the first time ...). And all you were saying was that seeing him in those skinny jeans with a black t-shirt and hair-band hair reminded you of a super fun time in your life when all you wanted was to see the Ratt-Poison tour. (Twice!)

So. You see our problem. To tell the person the entire background of why you are having a little moment about them is cumbersome. Saying, "You are so adorable to me, I totally love you," doesn't explain enough. Maybe I'll make buttons to hand out. Or those wooden nickel things. With some sort of catch phrase printed on it. Like, "Just wanted to say I love you, but not in a creepy way," on one side and, "Have a nice day!" or a smiley face on the other.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Susan. We need to have a talk neither of us wants to have.

My boss sat down in front of me and proceeded to tell me that because of our country's garbage economy, the event production company could no longer afford my salary. Our company (their company) has only employed three full-time employees and even that was too much of a burden at this point. He said he didn't want to let me go, but three of our yearly events had already cancelled and the rest of our clients were all scaling way back on the remaining events we had booked.

Awesome.

You can have the rest of the afternoon off.

I packed my stuff and went home. And that's how I got laid off. Again. "Again?" you ask.

To that I reply, "Yep."

I have been laid off twice by the same company. Hell. By the same guy. The last time we had an audience. We were all in his office -- him, co-worker one and two, part-time lighting guy, and me. It was right after 9/11 and we were having champagne. This time it was one on one. And it wasn't nearly as dramatic. I'm not sure if it's set in yet. I'm kind of still processing and, to be honest, enjoying having a day off. Plus, I got off early yesterday! I picked up cream on the way home because I thought, "I'm gonna want coffee in the morning and I'm not going to be putting on real clothes tomorrow."

When I got in, I decided to take a look to see what jobs were on Craig's List. When I clicked on the "food/bev/hosp" link I was hoping to find something in the event management arena. I started reading the ads and I realized. I don't want to be an event planner anymore. The last time I was laid off I worked every crap job I could find to stay afloat until I could convince the event company to hire me back. It was the first job I had ever had that was rewarding and exciting. There was a challenge to it and the perks were glamorous. Working there was the first time that I realized that I could aspire to something better than Receptionist or Executive Assistant. Now, this is my chance to figure out what I really wanted to do. So I clicked on the "Writing Jobs" link.

I think it's been hardest on Erica. She tends to panic. I've been laid off for about 26 hours at this point. Erica has known about it since 11:00 last night (she worked late). We went to bed by midnight. She got up at 8, left by 9, and was at work at 9:45.

By noon she sent me three different email contacts as well as job ideas. Before 3 PM I had a voicemail from her mother and an email from Erica explaining why she had her mother.

She's in PR. She can help you sell yourself. She can work on your resume. Have you written anything for that job you saw? Is your resume up to date?

I know she's trying to help and isn't intentionally pressuring me, but I'm still trying to understand that I don't have a job anymore. In her mind, (and out loud more than once) Erica already has us losing the house. I think that the biggest issue with us in regard to my current lack of employment is that Erica thinks because I didn't stay up all last night writing a resume and that I didn't spend all morning setting up interviews with crappy temp agencies, it means that I'm apathetic about my careerlessness. I'm not. I just know that I need to take a step back, evaluate the situation and make the right decision about what move to make. As I mentioned, I've been here before. And I needed money just as badly then. It wasn't a mortgage, but it was a payment that I had to make in order to keep my home. And I worked it out.

And I'll work it out again.

The thing for me is that it doesn't make sense to just start throwing fishing lines out willy-nilly hoping to catch something - anything - with no concern about the size or quality of what I might be getting. Doing that just crowds the water with so many hooks and lines that only the smallest and crappiest fish can get through.

Now, if I take that energy and effort and decide what I'm looking for. Then I can choose the proper bait, the perfect lure, the exact line I need. I could find out where the fish I want is known for hanging out when it gets hungry. And I could drop my hook there. Because, I'm not going to be happy with a small crappy fish. Getting a small crappy fish is only going to make me sad that I didn't try harder to get the good fish. I've had small crappy fish. I'm done with small crappy fish.

Obviously, I am not going to starve myself waiting for that perfect bite. I can totally drop a couple of hooks off the back of the boat and snack on whatever I get. I'm not above it. However, my main focus is going to be getting that ideal fish.

Ok. Dead horse. I know. I'm just working it out. And trying to verbalize what I know inside. This is a good thing. And honestly, it's exciting for me. This is going to bring something fantastic. Something I've been wanting and waiting for and when it shows up, I'll wonder why I spent so many years doing anything else.

Get OUT!

Read on CNN.com

PEABODY, Massachusetts (AP) -- Police in Peabody, Massachusetts, could be getting holiday pay on the anniversary of the September 11, 2001, terror attacks in what may be a first-of-its-kind contract provision.

A proposed new contract between the city and the police union would make the anniversary a paid holiday. The proposed contract still needs budgetary approval from the city council.

Officers would receive an extra 25 percent pay for working September 11.

Representatives of the International Brotherhood of Police Officers and the International Union of Police Associations told The Salem News they knew of no similar contract provisions in any other city.

The New York Police Department, which lost 23 officers at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, does not recognize the day as a paid holiday.

A union representing 24,000 NYPD officers has tried during contract discussions to get extra pay for anti-terrorism work in the years since the September 11 attack but has been unsuccessful. Patrolmen's Benevolent Association spokesman Al O'Leary said the pay would be more appropriate than extra pay for one day.

No members of the Peabody force were killed on September 11, but some went to New York after the terror attacks to help the city recover.

I am infuriated and disgusted and outraged.

Or at least I feel like I should be. I'm not really mad, but I did roll my eyes after reading this. Can you believe the nerve of these people? This is like teachers in Topeka asking for a vacation day on April 20 or if mailmen in Austin requested that August 20th be a paid holiday.

Who do they think they are? New York cops should be disgusted. Even more, New York Firemen. They were the ones at the towers in droves and droves and they were the ones who lost the most men that day and I've never heard of them trying to make 9/11 a holiday -- and they're the ones who should.

(Shakes Head in Disgust)

Can you believe this? Already available at Cafe Press:

Can't we just vote already?

This is why I don't retain anything of the debates. Within the first ten minutes, I'm irritated about something and that's all I can think about.

Tonight it was McCain's insistence that Obama was out to get that poor plumber who wanted to buy his business and wouldn't be able to if Obama's tax plan went into action. It was from the first question. Our next president was talking about how he wanted to cut taxes for the majority of people - 95%, ish. And Blinky McCain kept interrupting.

Yeah. But what about Joe the plumber?

And the better Obama's plan sounded, the more agitated he became.

Yeah, but you're not helping Joe the plumber? Don't you like Joe the plumber? Just because Joe the plumber makes more than $250,000 a year doesn't mean he couldn't use a tax break just like those men trying to support a wife, three kids, an ex-wife, two other kids and feed a dog on $30,000.

It became so ridiculous that even Joe the plumber was saying, "Oh. Please just give it a rest. I'll pay more taxes."

And now, here we are on question five or something, and all I know is that McCain blinks about 137 times a minute, and Obama's tax plan means I get a tax break. But, really, what more do I need to know?Obama '08!

Blog Action Day 2008: What we can do about poverty. Starting today.

A couple of years ago, I received a generous year-end bonus from my employer and was so thankful that I wanted to share it in some way. I found Kiva. Through Kiva, via established microfinance organizations in countries around the globe, I loaned several businesses $25 each (as per Kiva's suggestion to spread your money out so to minimize your risk with defaults.) But, instead of taking the money back from the account once the loans were repaid (and all of them were), I found new businesses in need and re-loaned it all. Since I began I've put about $500 into Kiva and through re-loaning, I have turned that into over $1300 in loans that have gone to people in Togo, Azerbaijan, Bulgaria, Ghana, Ecuador, Tanzania, Samoa, and more. Here are a couple of screenshots from my account to give you an idea:


Kiva is an amazing organization and although I'm not wealthy enough to give tons of money to charities every year, I can make a difference with what money I can afford by loaning it over and over. It's a great feeling. It's a great endeavor. It's truly making a difference to real people who are making strides to change their lives.

The thing is, people who are poverty stricken often don't have collateral or friends in the banking industry. So, although they may have a great idea for a poultry market or a seamstress business, they have no access to funds they'd need to make those ideas reality. In most cases, no one loans money to people who don't have money. Kiva does.

And they do it with my money. (And yours if you want to help.)

Feliz Cumpleaños a Mi!

Happy birthday Southern Discomforts nee With Love, The Princess nee HRH & The Princess.

One year.
180 posts.
Fairly regular entries.

Yeah, I'm proud.

Thanks for reading! Keep coming back!

Love,
Susan nee The Princess

You have to sign up for this ...

I know I've told you guys before about my emails from The Universe, but really. You need to sign up for them. My email from this morning:

Super-incredibly FAST is the general order of the Universe, Susan, often with a splash of lemon, a dash of salt, and a shot of tomato juice.
And just knowing this about the "general order" makes stuff happen super-incredibly FAST. And puckers one's lips.

One writing career with abunant wealth is on its way,
The Universe

Not only am I going to be a big time writer (Oh Oprah ... get ready!), it's coming with abundant wealth and apparently a Bloody Mary.

Calling all Jews

I wonder if it's because we don't have a decent bagel spot in the South Slope. I know there are temples in the area. Maybe it's just because the Jews in my neighborhood are all reformed or just non-practicing.

It's Yom Kippur here in New York (and other places) and one of the great parts about Jewish holidays is mass transit. On days like Rosh Hashanah, the city quiets down around 4pm as the faithful make their way home before sunset, and the train crowds at rush hour resemble a Saturday afternoon rather than a busy work day. It's perfect. Everyone gets a seat.

This is what kept me from scowling this morning at Erica who, although increasingly cranky from fasting, is having a day at home to "atone for her sins" -many of which were committed last Yom Kippur in a hunger-induced rage - or as I call it, watch CNN and play with the dog. So this morning as I told her that if she needed any help coming up with her atonement list, to let me know, I headed out, looking forward to a lovely, relaxing, seated commute into the city.

But no. Either everyone on my train line is a gentile or all of the Jews in my neighborhood are forsaking the highest and holiest of the High Holy days. The train was so packed that I didn't get on the first one that came into the station. That rarely happens to me on non-Jewish holiday days. So this is my official shout out to all Jews to reclaim their heritage, embrace the High Holy days. Mama wants a seat on the train!

Mr. Clicky is Albanian & Other Fun Stuff

I have officially completed seven weeks of the Drinking Drivers Program. Seven weeks of videos.

Father Martin
My Name is Bill W.
Drunk and Deadly and,
I'll Quit Tomorrow, A powerful three part drama about the progressive of alcoholism. I'll Quit Tomorrow tells the story of Steve Miller, his family, friends and employer and their continuing struggles with his progressing alcoholism.

Seven weeks of Mr. Clicky

Clickety-click. [Pause.] Clickety-click. [Pause.] Clickety-click.

Seven weeks of The Mouth.

Why don't you get up and let us see you walk?
You know you the only female in here, right? You should get up and let us see you walk.
You should come in last and leave first so we can all see you walk.

All for this:Then.

Four Drinking Drivers Program graduates walk into a bar ...Yep. That's them. Top - Pop Star. Bottom, Left to Right - Mr. Clicky and The Mouth. Not shown, Me - Seated between Pop Star and The Mouth. Not since the days when I lived with Duck have I found myself in an Old Man's bar at 11:30 in the morning. But, let me tell you, it didn't take me long to get reacquainted. As a matter of fact, I was the one who sniffed the bar out.

We had wandered around Brooklyn Heights for almost half an hour following Pop Star. "Really. I know there's tons of them right around this corner." Finally I offered to go into a liquor store to find out where the bars were that were open to degenerates like me and my DDP pals. Three people were working the counter (a good sign that booze was a big hit in the area and that we were sure to find a spot). I asked the old guy who looked like he had been living hard and sure enough ...

The diner across the street has booze. There's one down at Henry. Those two spots down the block serve mimosas on Saturday. Montague there's about 5 or 6 regular bars. That's where I'd go.

And that's where we went.We opened the door and found three people already seated at the bar. God love the Irish. We all "bellied up" and the orders began.

Shot of Hennessy and espresso - Mr. Clicky
Shot of Hennessy and a beer - The Mouth
Shot of Patron and a beer - Pop Star

I ordered a vodka-tonic because I rationalized that if I were at brunch I could have ordered a Screwdriver and it would have been okay. I got enough shit as it was.

Aww! You weak! What's that shit you're drinking?
(To the bartender) Yo! Get this girl a shot!

I explained to them that what I was drinking was, in fact, alcohol -- liquor even -- and that I only had my chaser in the same glass. Before I could get through half of my drink, the boys were already ordering the second round.

You may be wondering at this point something to the effect of, "Susan. What the fuck is wrong with you?" I answer, "I don't know. It's a problem." I've been making foolish choices for my whole entire life. Mainly in the interest of excitement -- or hoping to get a good story. For example, one night, my old blog partner, HRH and I went to the ballet. We dressed and played fancy pants and thought we were spectacular. As I remember, we didn't enjoy it very much, or we enjoyed it enough but were disappointed in the long lines at the bar. The point is, we left. And somehow we found ourselves caught in the rain in Times Square. We hid out under some scaffolding to smoke and wait for the deluge to ease up. That's when Apache showed up.

Apache was an actual Apache-American who was an electrician on the construction site we were standing under. We chatted for a second and then he asked, "Hey. You wanna go up?" Well, of course we did. Next thing you know, we find ourselves in a construction hoist with Apache, heading to the 37th floor of a building that had no walls. It was incredible. I stood on the edge of the floor looking over the new Madame Tussaud's on 42nd Street thinking, "Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me? I'm standing here, on the 37th floor after riding up in an elevator clinging to the side of a building by aircraft cable (which I incidentally also have to use in order to get down). There are no walls. I'm wearing heels. I hope this guy isn't a killer." He wasn't. And it was a rare chance to ride up the side of a building in a construction hoist in the middle of Times Square. And I'm glad I did it. So there. How many of you have done it?

Alright then.

Still, I know it's stupid. But I guess I keep doing these stupid, risky things because I keep getting away with it. Which is why I ended up inviting Pop Star and Mr. Clicky back to our house. (I would have invited The Mouth, but after I told the boys I was gay, he waited for me to go to the bathroom and then he left.) Our impromptu party happened because after his third or fourth shot, Pop Star insisted that we were going to find weed and then we were going back to my house to smoke it. I thought, "Ooh! An adventure!" and said that I thought it was a fantastic idea. After stopping in at a Fort Greene pizza joint to buy pot, the three of us ended up in my backyard with Erica.

And we had a good time. I wish I had something more outrageous to tell you about the evening (which lasted until 10PM) but it was just a fun night. We all chatted and joked and laughed and it was cool. Pop Star took a nap on the sofa, we ordered pizza, Mr. Chatty informed us that he hates Russians. He is Albanian, dammit, and Russians, apparently, suck.

Me:OOH! I know what matz means!
Mr. Clicky:Matz? You mean cat?
Me:Yeah! Cat! Isn't that cool? I know the word for cat in Albanian!
Mr. Clicky:Yes. Matz. Cat. Very good.

Eventually the night grew to a close, we woke up Pop Star and the boys made their ways home.

In Mr. Clicky's car.

Play Them Off, Tom!

What is wrong with Barack Obama & John McCain? Don't they have manners? They're trying to appeal to the common people (me and you, dear reader) but they find that they are above Tom Brokaw's traffic light? I say it's bullshit.I think as soon as the red light hits, Tom should be able to hit his IR and have rap music blast over the system. If our candidates want to relate to middle America, we should start with treating them like middle America. People, celebrities are our most important people ever and the Oscars play them off all the time. What makes Obama and John McCain any better than Jack Nicholson or Jessica Lange?

It's making me crazier than my inability to keep my eyes off of the audience response graph at the bottom of the screen.

Hey You Bloggers!

October 15 is Blog Action Day. Are you ready?What is Blog Action Day, you ask? That's the day that bloggers all over the world will be participating in a discussion on this year's topic - Poverty. Here's a blurb from the official website:

Global issues like poverty are extremely complex. There is no simple, clear answer. By asking thousands of different people to give their viewpoints and opinions, Blog Action Day creates an extraordinary lens through which to view these issues. Each blogger brings their own perspective and ideas. Each blogger posts relating to their own blog topic. And each blogger engages their audience differently.

I found out about Blog Action Day through my participation in a microfinance organization known as Kiva. (Swahili for 'unity'). Kiva is a non-profit organization that allows normal schmoes like me and you to become benevolent lending institutions for needy people in countries such as Kenya or Tajikistan.

I intend to participate in Blog Action Day and hope you will too. Consider this your official invitation to join in a world-wide chat about poverty and what we can do to get rid of it. Mark your calendars. Start thinking. Start writing.

And drop by here on the 15th for my sure-to-be-brilliant musings.

The Mouth, Pop Star & Me

Characters

The Mouth - A tall, heavy set, middle-aged African American man who dresses in urban gear and sleeps in class. (But when he's awake, he has a comment about everything.) He has a lot of fun flirting with Me.

Pop Star - Attractive, well-dressed, 30-something man who has the same name as a famous alleged child abuser/confirmed plastic surgery addict/pop star.

Me - The only female in class. She is constantly being hit on by The Mouth. Because he's non-threatening, she finds him humorous.

Mr. Clicky - 50-something Russian immigrant with a thick accent and the world's most annoying habit of constantly clicking his pen.

Fat Albert - Fat Albert is a Puerto Rican male who strongly resembles the cartoon character except he has those jailhouse scars on one side of his face. Although he is very sweet and gentle in class, he's probably the kind of guy who would cut you.

Above It All - A 25 year old guy of undetermined Slavic heritage who is condescending and frequently informs his fellow students that he can't get anything from the class videos because they're from the 70's.

The Teacher - The instructor of the Drinking Driving Program for New York State (DDP).

The Counselor - The counselor who is in charge of sending students in for psychiatric evaluations and assigns makeup classes for the DDP.

SCENE: New York State Drinking Driver Program classroom. The teacher has just announced that session 6 is over and that he will see all of the students on the following Saturday for their last class.

THE MOUTH
Indicating Pop Star and Me.
Yo. Lemme see you after class.
Exasperated because Pop Star and Me wait in the room.
Not here. Outside.

ME
He could have been more clear about that.

POP STAR
Yeah.


Pop Star and Me walk into the hallway and wait for The Mouth.


THE MOUTH
Yo. Not in front of everybody.


After the class has entered the elevator, The Mouth motions for Pop Star and Me to join them for the ride down.


ME
Shrugs and follows The Mouth, but wonders why he said, "Not in front of everybody," then wanted to continue the conversation in the elevator with everybody.

THE MOUTH
Under his breath.
Y'all go see dis guy about the makeup class?

ME
Yeah. I told The Teacher that I needed to make up a class and he gave me a form to fill out. Next week after we're finished with this class I have to stay an extra two hours. Just ask him.

POP STAR
Don't say anything, man. They won't know.

THE MOUTH
Louder as everyone exits the elevator.
I didn't talk to The Teacher. I talked to the other dude. (meaning The Counselor) Yo. Dis nigga gave me an envelope and tell me to "buy him lunch" and we be straight.

ME
Shocked.
What?

POP STAR
He did the same to me. I put a twenty in the envelope and gave it back to him. He said we're cool.

ME
Shocked.
What?

THE MOUTH
Yup.


Fat Albert and Mr. Clicky walk faster to catch up with The Mouth, Pop Star and Me.


FAT ALBERT
Y'all talking 'bout that counselor dude?

THE MOUTH
Yup.

FAT ALBERT
He give you an envelope when you ask about the makeup class, right?

MR. CLICKY
He do same with me. He say, "Don't tell teacher. Buy lunch and you me okay." I give him twenty dollar.

FAT ALBERT
That's what I gave him.

ME
Shocked.
What?

THE MOUTH
Louder than ever. This mutha fucka be milking these bastards twenty bucks at a time lettin' them out of makeup classes. Know what else? When he give me mines, he say, "Don't come back here with no twenty, neither."

ME
Shocked.
Get out!


Above It All, overhearing the conversation, catches up to the group.


ABOVE IT ALL
Really? He said not to give him a twenty? I went in there today and told him I needed to make up two classes and he said to just give him a twenty and we'd be good.

THE MOUTH
Get the fuck out of here. Are you serious? When you go in?

ABOVE IT ALL
During the break.

THE MOUTH
Mutha fucka! I went in after you. I ain't givin' him no fifty bucks for no fuckin' makeup class. You give him twenty for two classes? Fuck that. I'm givin' him ten bucks.
Now thoroughly pissed off. Dis mutha fucka! I knew he done talked to one of y'all. And he talk to all of y'all? "Don't gimme no twenty dollars." Fuck that nigga! I sat in the rest of the class 'bout to blow up. Naw, naw, mutha fucka! Dat shit got me burnin' up. I ain't givin' him twenty dollars. He gettin' ten bucks.

ME
What an asshole! We should report him!

POP STAR
See? That's why he didn't give you no envelope.

Happy Debate!

The winner of Miss Congeniality:

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling.

Yesterday I had my second wheelchair ride of the year. Number one, as you may remember, was after I injured my coccyx ice skating. Number two happened yesterday after I donated blood.

Yes, I know I was supposed to have donated my precious O-negative blood last Thursday, but I chickened out. Okay? Sue me. I worked out my fears, mostly, and made it in to the blood center yesterday afternoon for a 5:40 PM appointment. I got there early, filled out all of the paperwork -- No, I have not shared needles recently. No, I am not a man who has had sex with another man in the past thirty years. No, I have not spent an extended amount of time in Nigeria. -- and the party started.

Let me start by saying that during this entire episode (starting with getting on the train to travel to the blood center) I was sweating profusely and could not stop my hands from shaking.

So, for those of you who have never been through a blood donation process, here's how it goes.

Step one. Paperwork. Here you fill out an extensive sheet of questions to prove that you are neither a intravenous drug user nor a sexual deviant. You also have to promise that you're not donating blood just to get an HIV test. I think I had to promise that about three times. "Question 1. Are you donating blood today to have an HIV test?" No. "Question 8. Is this donation of blood in order for you to find out your HIV status?" No. "Question 24. Are you concerned about having HIV and using this test to find out?" No. "Question 30. Do you have syphilis or gonorrhea?" No. "Question 52. Are you donating blood to make sure you don't have syphilis or gonorrhea?" Jesus Christ. Step two. The initial assault. After you fill out the paperwork, you take it into a little room where you hand it over to a nurse. "Okay. I see that you have answered no to questions 1, 8, 24, 30 and 52. Are you aware that blood donation is not a method for being tested for sexually transmitted diseases?" Arrgh. Yes lady. Can we please get on with this? "Great. Gimme your finger." This is when Nurse Rita prepares a little bed of alcohol swabs and gauze and then takes one of those plastic frames they use at TGIFriday's to advertise the Mug-o-rita flavor of the day on the tables to use as a shield from any blood splatter that may occur. She grabs my middle finger and slashes it with a tiny razor and sucks the blood into a little glass shard that she puts into a machine. Handing me the form again, Nurse Rita says, "Here you go, honey. Go on over to the second hall on the left."Step three. The second hall on the left. When you turn into this hallway you are faced with row after row of what appear to be dentist chairs with little TV's hanging over each one. Here I'm strapped into a chair by chatty Nurse Linda. Nurse Linda is in school studying English and doesn't like to spend a lot of money on her clothes. She feels that two pairs of jeans are sufficient and only wears about three of the 20 or so uniform tops she owns. She liked the book "1984" but feels that poetry is kinda crappy. Except for Walt Whitman who wrote about crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. She can relate to that. She had a long day yesterday and was considering paying the $80 cab fare to get home to New Jersey. She doesn't understand why when she was younger she was able to write a ten page essay in one sitting but now is having problems completing a three-page assignment. But she's paid for $1000 for this English class and by god she is going to pass it. Although, she'd like an A she'd settle for a B right about now. The entire time Nurse Linda is chatting, she is tying up my arm, smacking my veins to get them to pop up, shoving the world's largest needle in my arm (the picture above is not my arm. I couldn't handle watching my own blood come out.) and collecting little vials of my blood. I heard everything she said, but with a background track of my own voice, "Dear Smoking Baby, do not let me pass out. Am I pale? I feel like I'm going to faint. Why won't she just shut up? I don't want to have to pay attention to her because she's over there with my punctured arm and the river of blood coursing through the tubes into the seemingly enormous bag and it's totally freaking me out. Jesus, please shut up. Stop talking to me. God I hope I don't throw up. Don't people understand how traumatic this is?" Sweat, sweat, sweat, shake, shake, shake. "Please god don't let me vomit."

"Honey," Nurse Linda says holding the collection bag up to my face, "do you think you could squeeze a little more? You should be finished by now, and we need to fill this bag up." Groan.

Finally we're done and she asks if I'm okay. Anxious to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible, I say yes and head off to apple juice and Oreo cookies. As soon as I reach the snack table another nurse appears and asks if I'm okay. "No. I don't think so."

Next thing I know I'm surrounded and people are shoving my head between my legs and instructing me to cough.

"Cough."
"Honey. You've gotta cough harder than that."
"COUGH. (God. I'm going to throw up.)"
"There you go. Now, why did you say you were okay? Do you think you can walk really fast?"
"No," I mumble from between my knees."
"Alright then. Sit over here." And it's the wheelchair. Back to the second hall on the left.I sat and waited for my blood pressure to come back for almost an hour. As I left Nurse Linda says, "Okay honey. See you in November!"

The Protect Our Children Act

The most horrific episode of Oprah ever aired last week. Internet predators have organized and developed handbooks and guidelines for molesting children. And by children, I mean infants. Seriously. Infants.

They have come up with, and are publishing, ideas like new uses for pacifiers. These are horrible, evil people and there is actually something we can do about it.

The police have the technology to find and track these guys, but they don't have the financial resources. Congress is voting on the Protect our Children bill this week. This bill will: Authorize over $320 million over the next five years in desperately needed funding for law enforcement to investigate child exploitation, mandate that child rescue be a top priority for law enforcement receiving federal funding, and allocate funds for high-tech computer software that can track down Internet predators. Take the time, go to Oprah.com, write your senators. You can even just cut and paste her letter. It takes no time and it has the potential to help so many people.

Thanks.

Yo ho ho!

Hey! Have you guys heard about the new pirate movie?

It's rated ARRRRRRRRR!
(Pause for uproarious laughter.)That's right. It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day. No kidding. I didn't even realize it existed until my friend LJ told me that she likes to call her dad on International Pirate Day (usually after imbibing, of course).

Hi Dad! YARRRRRR! It's International Pirate's Day, Yarrrrr! I gots me a pegleg and a bottle of rum, yo ho ho! Yarrrrrr!

Apparently these two guys were playing racquetball one day, started taunting each other with pirate phrases, and decided to create their own holiday. Not too long after they recruited Dave Barry and now all across the world people celebrate every September 19th with their best, "Ahoy mateys!" and "Shiver me timbers!" and whatnot.

Why, I'm wearing an eye patch right now. Arrr.

Damn You, Jenni.

People. There is a drug out there that is taking the lives and spare time of bloggers everywhere (besides blogging). Seriously. It's worse than crank. This is a screenshot of my Google Analytics page. I visit this page at least eight times daily. "How many people have read the blog so far today?" (two, at my last check) Bastards. Not the readers -- the developers of Google Analytics.

It's actually a great program. I can see, not only how many readers I've had, but also things like a map of the world to show me where they're all from. (I am pretty big in Canada. I'm not quite sure how that happened, but G.A. does not lie.) Recently on one of my more obsessive visits to G.A., I was looking around and stumbled onto a page that tells me how my readers get to me -- direct traffic, search engines, or referring sites.

One referring site I found was A One Cylinder Love Riot. Turns out this girl, Jenni lurves my blog. Her word, not mine. In fact, my blog is listed on her site under the heading, "Some of the Blogs I Lurve." (Here I come O! Not only do I receive hate mail, I have a fan. A real fan. Someone I don't know. Amazing!) I check out the blog and the homepage is, "overcoming fears." It's a story of how Jenni is afraid of needles but worked through it to become a blood donor. (She lurves my blog AND she's a do-gooder.)

Here's the thing. I have type O-negative blood -- the rare and extremely valuable type known for being the "universal" blood type. I can only receive type O-negative blood, but my blood can be used for anyone, no matter what type they are. I have known this for years. So, you'd think I'd be a fervent blood donor. However. I am terrified of needles. So terrified that when I went into Dr. Luckie's office for my booster vaccination when I was a sophomore in high school, I ended up in a foot race around the office with his nurse. (Dr. Luckie later blindsided me when I was screaming at the nurse that there was no way I was getting a shot.)

Then Jenni. I read her post and thought, "Jesus Christ, Susan. You are 37 years old. There has been devastation in Texas. People all over need blood and you have super blood. What is wrong with you?" So I posted on Jenni's blog and told her that I was going to donate. Then she wrote me back.

Hi Susan

Needles freak me out, too! It was pretty scary, but I'm really glad I did it. I can understand being O-negative you'd want to try even harder. I'm A- so I'm not all that in-demand *lol*.

Good luck & let me know how it goes!

So, now I have to follow through.

Pray for me.

Better yet. Pray for the nurses at the New York Blood Center.