Shokufeh is... home

Fantasy Island

Last night, I watched a woman on a game show win a trip to Hawaii. As the announcer gushed about the hotel, "only steps from Waikiki Beach," and the screen showed the ocean and trees and sunshine, I thought, I live there. People around the world strive to win trips to the place that, by luck, I presently call home.

And then I thought about my paternal grandparents watching The Price is Right every weekday morning. And how exciting it was when a trip was the prize. It made me wonder if, in living here, I'm carrying out a fantasy they entertained while sitting on the sofa each morning.

A correction

Dear Pop,

In all my excitement over Phoebe's last name, I mixed it up, with another word I like to use for an unfortunate fashion choice. Really, the last name she chose was BananaHammock. Sorry for the mix-up. But I guess now you have choices when you want to describe men who've made their fruit far too visible.

love,
shokufeh

One of the many reasons I love my father

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how thankful I am that my parents raised me in a house where family was important. Sometimes it makes me sad that we live in five different cities on three land masses, in time zones spanning 18 hours, but I appreciate the fact that we still communicate pretty regularly. It’s strange to go more that a few days without talking with my dad. He is a good man, who amuses me.

After talking about how busy the week has been so far, and my reminiscing about how I miss my friends on the Mainland, thinking about the good old days with those I grew up with, we start our goodbyes, with a brief* interruption…
S: So, are you going to watch Friends tonight?
P: I don’t really watch that.
S: Pop! You know, it’s the next-to-last episode.
P: I know. I read your entry about, what was it, grapesmuggler?
S: (Giggling) Yes. You know what that is, right?
P: I assume someone who smuggles grapes.
S: No, it’s a Speedo.
P: What?
S: You know a Speedo. Men’s swimsuit. Grapesmuggler. Get it?
P: Yeah.
S: Okay, talk to you later.
P: Bye.

As we hang up, I hear him laughing.

*Get it? I didn't until after I typed it. I seem to be channelling a 12-year-old.

Nice panties

Reading Suzanne's recent post, I was reminded of my favorite skirt-blowing experience. That sentence makes me sound like some kind of exhibitionist, which, Lord knows, I'm not. But there are just some things that happen that can only make you laugh. Things that enter the common knowledge of those that know you. Things that make your brother's best friend lean over and say "Nice panties," when the poster of Marilyn Monroe is first shown in Shawshank Redemption.

The summer of 1994, I was living in the East Village and working several jobs. My preferred mode of transportation was rollerblading.

One day, I wore a cute, short, flippy skirt. Because who doesn't love a cute, short, flippy skirt in the summertime? It was a skirt with a length and circumference that make it impossible to completely hold down. Like if a big gust of wind were to appear, you would have to choose between covering your flower or your bum. You know the kind of skirt I’m talking about. But, not a problem – it wasn’t a windy day, I rollerbladed in a fashion that wouldn’t whip it up in the air. All was good.

Until I took a detour. On a sidewalk. Over a subway grating. As a train was moving below. Yes, I became the short, brown, rollerblade-shod version of Marilyn Monroe. Except that my skirt was shorter, and there was no holding it down. Because this wasn’t a gust of wind that would allow me to choose between flower and bum. This was a gust from hell, at that time occupying the space below Union Square. All I could do was continue to roll across the grating, my skirt up in the air, my undergarments exposed for all to see, until I reached the other side. Where a man walking by said, “Nice panties.”

A funny forward

Usually, forwards do not amuse me. But I found this one quite entertaining:

IF A MAN COMES TO YOUR FRONT DOOR AND SAYS HE IS CONDUCTING A SURVEY AND ASKS YOU TO SHOW HIM YOUR BOOBS, DO NOT SHOW HIM YOUR BOOBS. THIS IS A SCAM!!! HE ONLY WANTS TO SEE YOUR BOOBS. I wish I'd gotten this yesterday. I feel so stupid.
Signed, Rhonda

Speaking of funny, Sam and I caught up on a couple of episodes of Friends last night. Super funny! In recent years, many of the episodes are funny only after a few times of watching them - like you know something amusing is going to happen so you laugh more due to the anticipation, rather than at the degree of humor involved. But the past couple of episodes - we laughed a lot. Phoebe adopted one of my favorite words as her last name - Grapesmuggler!

Now that I've revealed what an un-deep person I am, I'm going to stop typing.

Yes, I just made my big return to my blog, after 12 days, talking about fabric softener. But you've got to write about something.

Soft and fresh unscented

Marriage is usually a series of taking turns in getting what you want. I think that's different from a compromise, in which you meet a middle ground, neither of you getting all of what you want. The exception to this in our marriage is in the arena of fabric softener. I know, mundane. But it's the mundane that you deal with daily.

Before we got married, I always enjoyed the feel and scent of Sam's clothes. He attributed it to fabric softener, something that was an integral part of the laundry process in his house. Fabric softener was not a part of the laundry process in our house. Smelling him kind of made me want to use it, but I figured the scent would seem more special on him if I didn't use it myself.

But then we got married, and I tried to integrate fabric softener into the laundry process. I usually forgot to throw in a softner sheet. I got better at remembering, but then I discovered that, for me, sleeping on fabric softened sheets was tortuous. Don't get me wrong, they felt good. But the scent made my lungs constrict at night. And then there was the fabric softened towels snafu. I would smell fabric softener on my hands and wash them, and then dry them. Yes, on the scented towels. Talk about frustrating. So, we moved to the unscented fabric softener. Which was a lovely compromise - softness for Sam, without the inconvenience of tight lungs and runny eyes for me.

Until we ran out and the store shelf only had scented fabric softener. I thought that if we just didn't soften the towels or sheets, I'd be fine. I could handle scented, softened clothes. I was wrong. When it comes to fabric softener, compromise, not taking turns, is the way to go.

This morning, unthinking, I put on a shirt and pants that came out of the (scented softener) dryer last night. Sitting here at my desk, I find myself coughing and feeling a bit constricted in my breathing. I can't really do anything about it at this point. But I ran across the street and found unscented softener for the next loads. That scented stuff will have to freshen our garbage can.

I just read an interesting article from this past Sunday's NY Times Magazine. It discusses the huge impact of malaria on the world and the fewness of options for fighting the disease. Essentially, because the US and other rich nations once used DDT to excess and wiped out malaria within their borders but then discovered the enviromental damage of using so much DDT, other nations have, for all intents and purposes, lost the ability to use DDT, even in limited quantities, despite the hundreds of thousands of people who die from mosquito bites each year.

Conundrums like this are at the crux of many public health problems, I think. The "haves" are so focused on their way of life that they forget what their lives used to be like and inadvertantly use their power to dictate that the "have-nots" can never become "haves." In this situation, America and other like-minded and like-monied nations have forgotten what an impact malaria can have and what it might take to prevent it, and have pressured the rest of the world to follow their standards for mosquito control, the result being that many countries cannot ensure disease-free lives for their citizens.

It reminds me of a dinner I went to a few years ago - a fancy meal with infectious disease physicians, paid for by a drug company. The pharmaceutical rep made the mistake of saying that the company was trying to move away from things like malaria drugs, since no one gets malaria anymore, and moving more towards headache drugs. All of us were shocked by her closemindedness, her tiny view of the world. I was pleased when one of the physicians spoke up and told her that was not the thing to say in a room full of ID docs (with me doing her own thing).

Two unrelated tidbits about life here

1) When I buy something, a bag is sometimes offered, but it is not unusual for the salesperson to offer me a package.

2) Today, we went out of our way to go to a gas sale. This particular gas station has sales every Sunday and Tuesday. Today, we paid the relatively low price of $1.98/gallon.

Dragging

I don't know why, but it feels like the longest... day... in... the... world....
Just... half... an... hour... to... go, and a three-day weekend is mine.

Attempting to surf, studying, and cleaning are on the agenda. We just found out that Sam's parents are coming to visit in two weeks, and I'm not the tidiest person.

Nature

As might be expected, everything is a trade-off. For example, while floating in the vasty deep yesterday, I traded some of the color in my hair for more color in my skin.

Good thing I took a picture on Saturday.

I did not acquire any siblings for Babs. Just a cut on my foot. I may not be able to surf, but at least I can show the injuries for my time in the water. Babs is no longer very visible, but I find the healing process of the body fascinating - quick and in a ring pattern. Much like a good smallpox plan.

Lost in anticipation

Last night, I finally saw Lost in Translation.
I was disappointed.

I didn't get Charlotte. At the beginning, I thought I did - I could connect with her lounging around, her worry that she didn't feel anything at the temple, her feeling directionless. But then I couldn't figure out how she knew Charlie Brown, but didn't seem to want to know Tokyo. And her husband making the comment about not everyone having gone to Yale implied that Charlotte had gone to Yale. Except then she told Bob that she'd graduated in the spring, got married two years ago, moved to the west coast when she got married. So, she either never went to Yale, or transferred from Yale - which made me wonder about her husband's comment.

And Bob. His sleeping with the singer seemed incongruous. Not that humans should be totally predictable - off or on screen. But, I just didn't buy it - that he would get annoyed with his wife, and end up in bed with random woman, rather than Charlotte. Not that I wanted Charlotte and Bob to hook up, but it would have made more sense. Because Bob didn't seem like a turdneck, just unhappy.

And then, to top off my disappointment, instead of parting with the sexual tension totally intact, they had to kiss. I wanted their parting to be sad but platonic, with their feelings lingering below the surface, rather than connecting through their lips.

So, I guess, to sum it up - good thing I didn't make the movie, or it wouldn't have won so many awards.