>Firsts in 2010:

First kiss: Steph laid a wet one on my cheek.

First song I sang: "Don't Stop Believin'"

First thing Husband did to piss me off: Skipped the songs I programmed
into the karaoke machine.

See? New year, but nothing new.

–
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>Usually I am not too keen about New Year's Eve. In recent years, I
realized there is no reason to be giddy. The stroke of midnight does
not really change anything. Tomorrow will just be the same old shit.

After I wrote a post for BlogHer on feminism and gender in the aughts,
it struck me how exceptionally crappy the past decade was for women.
I don't expect things to miraculously improve soon, but I'm relieved
to leave those bad old days behind.

Onward.

–
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>Every day I wake up and think, "What can I do today that's morally
wrong?" Usually I fail spectacularly at committing moral outrages, but
this morning, I made good on my goal.

Planned Parenthood sought extra volunteers for one of their clinics
this morning. Last week, about a dozen people showed up to harass and
intimidate people going to the clinic, so they asked for more help
just in case those guardians of morality and saviors of the pure
unborn showed up again. It's been over 10 years since I've served as
a clinic escort, so I signed up for the 8:30 – 10 shift.

It is frigid in NYC these days, but I figured I'd be fine since I have
the fires of hell to keep me toasty. Alas, despite my moral failures
(and this is how one of the protesters described it to the cops when
they pulled her aside for following people to the door), I could
barely feel my feet at the end of my shift. I guess the protesters
are made of ice, as they were there before I got there and after I
left.

What really fascinated me, though, is that these protesters used signs
that I remember from my days doing clinic defense as a junior in high
school. I always liked the way a bowl of meat lasagna was crudely
altered to resemble a tiny head, which the sign proclaimed to be a
baby. It used to make me hungry. Turns out it still does. I guess
killing babies really works up my appetite.

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>I'm not changing careers for the zillionth time since 2006. However,
I realized that I should change the way that I talk about my career.

I've always been a little confused about how to describe what I do.
I've worked at and with nonprofit organizations for over ten years.
Some of that work was program development and management, some was
policy analysis, some was grant making and fundraising, and some was
advocacy. A bit of it was finance lite. No matter what, it was
always in the field of social justice.

From now on, I will proudly tell people that I work on social justice
issues. And I'm a writere. Yay.

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>Ah, foolish first impressions! I sweltered at my desk when I started
my job. My hideous office cardigan (the one that is too ugly to wear
in public, so it is no problem to leave it on my chair at work because
there is no other situation in which I would possibly want to wear it)
would go unused, I believed.

Now that I'm in my fourth week (damn, time goes by fast), I understand
better. When I noticed that the office had no air circulation, that
meant that heat doesn't travel far. All of the heat comes through the
perimeter of the space, which is where people's offices are. It
doesn't flow to the worker bees in the cubicleland. I love great
building design.

Space heaters, anyone? Perhaps I shall take up this issue with HOUR…

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>It was unseasonably warm in New York City in November. There were a
few days when I ran outside because it was in the 60s or 70s. That is
gone now.

It is unseasonably cold in New York City in December. When I venture
outside, bundled in my coat, a scarf, and scary bear hat, the wind
slaps my face red. On my way to the subway, I passed a stream of
frozen dog piss on the sidewalk (how awful would it be to slip and
fall on frozen piss…), and a few blocks later, a puddle in the
street with litter frozen in it. Ah, the holiday sights!

Everyone at work has the flu. In my department, five out of six
people are sick. They all have the flu, except half of them insist it
is just a cold with a high fever and body aches. Uh huh. Somehow,
although I am exhausted and feel run down in general and did not get a
flu shot, I am not sick at all. Hmmm…

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>I blog from a gorgeous banquet hall that used to be a bank back in the
day when banks occupied buildings that resembled Renaissance palazzos.
Husband's company bought a table for a fundraiser, so he brought me
(and my two lovely lady friends). We were excited to go to a fancy
schmancy dinner event.

Upon arrival, I marveled at the sushi bar, the pasta bar, the moo shu
station, the lox station, and the passed hors d'oevres. If the
reception was so delux, I could only imagine what was in store for
dinner! I stuffed myself silly anyway.

Good fucking thing I was so damn greedy. As we approached our table,
I remarked how close the tables were to one another. "I don't know
how the staff is going to manuver around to serve good," I said to no
one in particular. Our table was decked out with a floral
centerpiece, bread basket, dessert trays, milk and sugar, coffee cups
and saucers, water and wine glasses, two bottle of wine, forks (three
per setting, knives, and spoons. But no plates.

A waiter approached us. "Would you like tea?" he asked. That's when
it hit me: there was no dinner. I thought I should ask to verify my
suspicion. "Uh, is there dinner?" The waiter stared at me. "No,
that was before."

That would have been nice to know, as my friend didn't eat anything
during what was billed as the "reception." She ran off to scavenge
whatever was left and bring a plate back to the table.

I guess $25,000 doesn't buy much these days. Yeesh!

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>Steph is back in NYC this weekend to attend a wedding. When she
arrived at my apartment after the event, she launched into a diatribre
against the maid of honor, who boasted that she was born and raised in
Beverly Hills.

"I wanted to tell her that if she thought she was such hot shit, she
should put herself together a little better and get some good hair."

I asked her how the food was. "Well, it was OK. They served
something called Hong Kong lobster, which was lobster with fruit
chunks in mayonaise."

"Damn, that sounds like some sort of Chinese Jell-O mold!" Husband
said and made a face. He is horrified by Jell-O molds and Jell-O
salads. While we visited my family in the Chicago area last weekend,
he watched in disgust as my sister and I snarfed down my mom's special
Jell-O mold; frozen strawberries, Cool Whip, and strawberry Jell-O
mixed together. The final product is the prettiest pink, and the
frothy Jell-O melts in my mouth like a sweet cloud. It was my
favorite special treat as a kid.

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>Other than the fact that I can't sleep,* I've been extra competent
lately. My last two stories were well received at school, although
everyone agreed that they need a bit of revising. I'm on top of my
game at work. It feels good. Now if I just were less exhausted and
able to see clearly out of my left eye, things would be great. But
I'm not really complaining. It could be a lot worse.

*Damn Maurice! He's been jogging along on the wheel that powers my
brain every day, but then instead of napping at night, he decides to
run 5 miles. Even at full speed, it takes a hamster a fucking long
time to run five miles. My brain is on overdrive the whole fucking
time.

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>Husband and I drove my grandmother home after dinner last night.
Before we left, we bid goodbye to my sister and brother-in-law, and to
our sleeping nephew. They planned to depart on Sunday at 5 am, as
Ryan had to work.

The streets were quiet as the car headed south to Grandma's house. We
made small talk, but I was thinking about when I would see everyone
next and not concentrating on the chatter.

After we glided into Grandma's driveway, Husband waited in the car
while I helped her up the concrete stairs to her dark house. I
grabbed the mail from the slot while she struggled with the lock.

She finally spotted the keyhole (she needs cataract surgery), and we
stepped into her warm home. The living room looked like Ms.
Havisham's house in "Great Expectations," dusty and frozen in time,
sans the moldy food. I put the mail on a metal table next to a
recliner that no one uses any more.

When I turned back to say goodbye to Granny, she was cradling a large
face digital clock.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but do you think you can set the
clock back an hour? I know I shouldn't ask, but your mom tried and
she didn't know how to, and… Oh, I shouldn't have asked."

I took the clock. "Of course you should ask! It's no problem!" I
fiddled with it for a few minutes before I figured out how it worked.
Grandma apologized over and over for bothering me, and I smiled at her
and said it was no bother.

Finally, I set the clock back an hour. When I embraced Grandma's
shrinking frame in my arms as I said goodbye, she told me to come home
again soon. I promised I would try. If only I could turn the clock
back for real, we could have a little more time.

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