How To Lose A Girl Everytime

I don’t think I’ve ever posted an audio file on my blog in lieu of a written entry, but right now I’m at a lost for words. Yes, me. Completely and utterly speechless. You’ll soon see why. But before you eagerly push play, let me tell you what you are about to listen to. Two girls were hanging outside a bar looking to catch a cab. While waiting, one of the girls catchs the eye of a man named Dimitri. The pair spoke for less than 2 minutes, but in that short period of time she hands him her business card and says, "Call me." They part and go their separate ways. Well not long after a Dimitri decides to give her a call. Harmless, right? Below is the actual voicemail message/s he left her. Now click play and prepare to be speechless yourself.

You see, our dear friend Dimitri has much to learn in this world. So very, very much. But what he is most ignorant about is women, especially how to talk to women. And how to STOP talking! What Dimitri lacks he attempts to make up by being an egotistical, condescending, arrogant asshole...among other things, but I’m at a lost for adjectives just like I’m at a lost for words. So I’ll let you fill in your own adjectives or explicatives as you see fit.

Is your jaw on the floor? Horrific, isn’t it? With each passing minute I cringed even more thinking it can’t possibly get any worse, then unbelievably, it does! Now just think how the poor girl feels who received those messages! I think she will be filing for a restraining order first thing in the morning. If not, I'll file for her.

Dimitri's ability to pick up chicks = FAIL!

***UPDATE***
For those that dare to dig a bit deeper into this Dimitri character...

• Dimitri’s Photo (He’s 45 years old! Try not to throwup, ladies.)
• Dimitri’s Wikipedia Page (Complete with criminal record!)
• Dimitri’s Website (NSFW)

Txting While Driving PSA - Too Graphic or A Must See?

Over the last couple years I’ve yelled at my friends who txt me while driving. I’m not trying to be a jerk or nag you like your mother. I’m simply doing it because I care about you and don’t want to see you hurt or kill someone...or hurt or kill yourself! Plus, I don’t think I could live with myself if something happened to you as a direct result of us exchanging txts while you were driving. I don’t want that mistake on my conscious, that I was on the other end of that phone and aided to the carnage. I want to go out with you on Friday night, not visit you in the hospital or attend your funeral. Let’s be honest, we have grown numb to Public Service Announcements (PSA) and numerous studies that throw statistics at us about the dangers of smoking, having unprotected sex, driving drunk, etc. We hear the numbers, but are we really getting it? Are we truly listening? Apparently not because these problems still exist and they are still killing people! And believe it or not, in today’s modern world the new killer is your cell phone! Talking on your cell phone while driving used to be the deadly killer, but now txting while driving has proven to be even more dangerous! Your risk of crashing increases 23x if you txt while driving! Twenty-three times! It’s actually more deadly than driving drunk! And despite the fact that 17 U.S. states ban txting while driving, you still see people doing it in nearly every car on the road. But perhaps this new PSA originating out of Gwent, Wales will change that.

***WARNING!***
This is a graphic video that is very bloody and violent. It may be disturbing to some viewers.

The over 4 minute long PSA depicts three teen girls giggling over a txt message they are sending while peacefully driving along a country road. Distracted, the driver smashes head-on into another car causing both cars to spin out of control. When the car carrying the teenagers finally comes to a stop, the shaken and bloodied girls exchange dazed glances while a third car careens into the passenger side. The driver’s cries quickly turn into hysterical screams when she finds her friend lying dead next to her, along with another dead friend in the backseat. Then the camera switches to another smashed vehicle and shows a young child inside, asking paramedics why her parents are not waking up. The camera pans once more, this time to a 6-month-old baby still in its car seat, blue eyes wide open and staring. The baby is dead.

The video continues with more police, paramedics and firefighters arriving on the scene. They are cutting through twisted metal to pull bodies from the wreckage - some dead, some barely alive. The teenage txting driver who caused the crash is life-flighted away by helicopter.

Produced by the Gwent Police Department, police locked arms with filmmaker Peter Watkins-Hughes to produce the PSA, titled "COW - The Film That Will Stop You Texting and Driving," named after the character Cassie Cowan, who unleashes the lethal chain of events by txting behind the wheel. While this PSA might be a dramatization, it’s VERY realistic! It sends out a horrible visual to illustrate the dangers of txting while driving. However, Americans can only view this video online because currently it has been deemed "too graphic" to air on U.S. television. In my opinion, that’s a giant mistake. This is EXACTLY what people everywhere in the world need to see! It’s like being scared straight. I was never one to txt (much) while driving, but after watching this video, there is no way I’m sending out a single txt behind the wheel. I’m a risk taker, but this is one risk I’m just not willing to take.

The message here is an obvious one, txting and driving can have tragic consequences. And the more this film is viewed, the better. So please ReTweet this post, Digg it, e-mail it to your friends, link it on Facebook, however you want to share the video would be great. The more people that see this PSA, the more lives that can be saved.

I’m Blunt And Brutally Honest. And I Will Not Change.

If there’s one thing I’m good at in life, it’s causing a controversy, or so it appears as evidence of my last blog post. And if there’s another thing I’m good at, it’s telling it like it is - sticking to my guns and not sugar coating my words or rephrasing what I say just to gladden the hypersensitive and easily offended. I will not tippy toe around my words and be politically correct just to please the public. If society says this is how one should properly live, then I say fuck society. Personally, I find it refreshing when I come across someone who is brave enough to speak their mind and doesn’t hold back. Now does this mean I’m some rude, inconsiderate prick that yearns to be insulting and obnoxious whenever given the chance? No, of course not. If you know me at all, you know that isn’t me. However, I will give my opinion (especially on MY blog) and I’ll stand behind every last bit of it and not apologize for any of it. My writing has been described as raw and I consider that a good thing. I’m blunt and brutally honest. It's not always what people WANT to hear, but often it's what they NEED to hear. I think if people would learn to accept hearing things that are blunt and brutally honest, rather than this sugar coated bullshit they pine after, they would be a lot better off - like doing it Dr. Phil style. People need the truth, but they can't always handle the truth which is sad. It's similar to "he's just not that into you." Girls may not want to hear it, but more often than not it's the cold hard truth and something they need to hear, as painful as it may be. And for some, as Jack Nicholson once said, "You can’t handle the truth!"

I’m so sick of people making a mountain out of a mole hill. I’m so sick of having my words picked apart, twisted around and misconstrued into something they aren’t. I’m so sick of my words falling on deaf ears and repeating myself. But most of all, I’m sick of the drama and the petty bullshit. Although it seems to many people that I’m just plain sick!

If you were offended by my last post in the least, then maybe instead of making me your whipping boy, perhaps you should take a good hard look at yourself in the mirror. Seriously, ask yourself why you felt so outraged. Why did this stranger’s blog tussle your feathers so? Perhaps there was something that has occurred in your life that has left you feeling bitter, some type of emotional issue you have yet to overcome that my words somehow stirred up in you? If that’s the case, then don’t take it out on me. Instead, go seek some consoling because I am not the source of your anger and exploding on me is not going to heal you. Because honestly, there is no way a post about a humorous Facebook hack should have got anyone’s panties in a bind. NONE! And quite frankly, I was rather shocked how many people flew off the handle about it. If you ask me, it was a bit ridiculous.

Now for those who left anonymous comments...isn’t it convenient to cast a quick judgment, say a bunch of ignorant crap and run away? Ah yes, that’s the beauty of the Internet and exactly what 99% of anonymous comments online are - cowards, virtually hiding behind a mask to conceal one’s identity so you don’t have to be held accountable for your words. They switch up online aliases and conjure up different personas whenever the mood strikes. Unfortunately for them, an admin with half a brain can easily decode their true identity. And for those that were once long time readers/followers of mine that after my last post vow to never read me again, so be it. I find it rather odd how for months you flooded me with compliments, praise and support, but suddenly you turned so fickle. Hey, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. If I was writing strictly to gain and maintain a large readership base, then I would point out how that last post had close to 3,000 hits in just the first 24 hours of it being published and that I actually gained more followers/readers than I had lost over it! So really, you aren’t hurting my feelings by declaring you hate me and storming off. A salty tear I do not shed.

When it comes right down to it, I don’t write for anyone but myself. Sure I put my words out there and you are welcome to read them, but I am not writing to please people. I am not writing for you. I write because I enjoy the process. Although lately this process has become a lot less enjoyable. It was actually exhausting to read the 80+ comments on the last post. Anyone would grow a bit weary weeding through countless personal insults and having to endure scolding after scolding like I was some bastard child in need of an earful.

I asked a friend last night why I even bother with blogging. She replied with..."You love writing, you hate the bullshit." No truer words have ever been spoken!

Play With Your Clothes - Sesame Street Couture

If clothes make the man*, do buttons make the clothes?

Valerie says:

Many years ago I bought a scrumptious red pinwale corduroy dress with a faux waistcoat front, a super A line skirt and generous pockets (hooray!). It closed down the front (fine) with small brown wooden buttons (not fine). What was the manufacturer thinking? Small brown wooden buttons on a brown suede jacket = fabulous, warm, organic; peanut butter and jelly (yummy). Small brown wooden buttons on a red corduroy dress = discordant, counterintuitive; fingernails on chalkboard; peanut butter and spaghetti (yucky). The dress said boutique, but the buttons said discount store. And the buttons won.

Think George Clooney with bad teeth. There's so much to the total George Clooney package (so to speak), but if he had even slightly irregular teeth, no one would notice his great face or his acting or his subtle expressions or his three hundred dollar haircut or the sophisticated cut of his tux. They'd all be moaning ad nauseum about his teeth. Buttons have the same power.

To save the dress, I took it to Tender Buttons, the eccentric grandmother of all button shops, where I found red square mother of pearl buttons. The red was sharp, like the red of the corduroy, and the angles of the buttons complemented the angular cut of the dress. I had to get twelve of them (eight for the button-down front, two for the cuffs and two spares), and they set me back about $25, but once I'd finished changing the buttons, that dress said BOUTIQUE in a saucy French accent.

The same applies that well loved favorite, the plain white button down shirt. Some of my favorite designers make a standard white cotton shirt with wonderful materials and beautiful lines, and then attach white plastic buttons as if people like me weren't closely inspecting the total package. I'll buy the shirt, but I'll definitely replace the buttons.

During the winter, I passed a street stall in Soho selling finger puppets. The ones I was most drawn to - electric blue with bits of black, white and orange - turned out to be Cookie Monster. It was love at first sight, but how does a woman of grandmotherly age buy finger puppets if she has no grandchildren? My friends, neighbors, relatives and coworkers would probably worry about me if I used them in their intended manner. So I bought seven and made button covers out of them - five for the shirt front, and two for cuff links. In New York, a serious town that dresses seriously, a wink and a nod to office apparel can be a good thing if you think you can get away with it. (In the photo above, Jean and I and the Cookie Monster quints celebrate the holiday season at Brigitte's - then on Crosby Street, now at that historic beauty, The Ansonia.)

Oh, and a shirt tip: when you buy your standard button down white shirt, put the collar up when you try it on, and see if you like the way it frames your face. If you do, your shirt can do double duty. Day look: collar down, top buttons open; evening look: collar up, all buttons closed.

Valerie's black wool and leather suit is by Eleanor P Brenner (a thrift shop find), white shirt by Josephine Chaus (Sym's), navy blue wool and velvet hat from the flea market. Cookie Monsters might be alpaca. Jean is wearing a Dutch-designed high-collared fleece jacket by Boris Industries from a boutique in Utrecht, an Issey Miyake skirt, Gucci glasses and a grey wool vintage hat from Mistress Mine in the East Village.


*(or woman)

Tracy's Facebook Fuck-Up Gets Her Screwed Twice

The top item on many social news sites this morning is a screenshot (click on photo below to enlarge) that purportedly shows an embarrassing message a woman posted to her public Facebook page. If real, it’s a mistake that might take some time to recover from. And if it’s fake, well it still might take some time to recover from...and a lot of convincing of one’s innocence! While it doesn’t appear to be Photoshopped, and the woman’s friends are definitely real Facebook members, it’s very possible the account was compromised by another person and it’s just a malicious prank. However, something tells me this is real. Why? Because it’s just more proof to me that older people shouldn’t be on Facebook. They aren’t ready for the digital information overload that is our lives. They have difficulty distinguishing between what is public and what is private when it comes to the Internet. So the information they throw out there often gets filtered incorrectly and they unknowingly make their private life too public. They’re unaware how to adjust privacy settings and gain control of what information is displayed and who gets privilege to that info. To them, nothing is black and white. It’s all gray and fuzzy. And that is where the problem lies! If you don’t know the ins and outs of Facebook and Twitter, DO NOT USE THEM! When it comes to social networking sites, what you don't know can hurt you.

It takes a lot to actually make me LOL on the Internet, but this gem did the trick!


I like Jeff. I too would reply with one word - "Nice." And I also would play dumb and not help her immediately. I would want to take in the sick giggle at her expense just a tiny bit longer. Maybe that’s mean, but something like this is too priceless not to bask in for awhile. However, the moral of the story here is a simple one. If you don’t know how to properly/fully use something, don’t use it. Now if you still want to use something, but don’t know how to properly/fully use it, LEARN. Or if you're Tracy, you'll eventually learn the hard way.

Call me a snob, but I liked it better when Facebook was only open to those who had a college or university e-mail address. Ah yes, those were the good old days when your Mom couldn’t friend you and stalk you on Facebook! The good old days when I wasn’t subjected to cougars and MILFs sending me messages on Facebook thinking this was the new Match.com or eHarmony. It’s Facebook. It’s a social networking site, NOT a dating site! There is nothing on my Facebook page that says I’m looking to bang chicks who are old enough to be my mother or that I’m searching for a woman whose kids I have more in common with than her. I’m sorry and I don’t mean to be a dick, but I’m just not interested. Now when it comes to Tracy, I'm willing to make an exception (insert evil laugh here).

If she hasn't been laid in months, something tells me this Michael she's conversing with (and pounding her like a lion) isn’t her fiance. Dirty girl! All we do know for sure is that she likes a strong and powerful mounting. Regardless, I’m thinking I should start a Facebook fan page: "Fans of Tracey’s OTHER Pussy." Or maybe I should send out a Facebook party invite: "You’re Permanently Invited to The Love Cave Between Tracey’s Legs."

By the way...Tracy, I sent you a friend request. Rrroar! ;)

***UPDATE***
Good news or sad news to report, depending on how you see it. The latest rumor is that a group of hackers/crackers from 4Chan have been targeting Christian users on Facebook and a few other sites (mostly online dating websites) and compromising their accounts. ANYONE, even without being listed as her friend, can view Tracy Turkish Brooks Facebook page at www.facebook.com/jesuslust

Again, Digg.com and others are reporting this as a fake. Apparently Tracy is a good girl afterall, or so we should assume. So I thought it's only fair that I should help clear her name. Sorry this happened to you Tracy and sorry so many of us got a sick laugh out of it. But comeon, it was hilarious! Even you have to admit that! And is it wrong that I wish this had been real? Damn it.

So now there is an added moral to the story - use stronger passwords, people!

Not Getting Published, But My Words Are Being Framed

"I am not a writer. You will never see my name embossed on a fine leather book. The dream of being published does not exist for me..." Blah, blah, blah. You know how it goes. Those are the words you read everytime you visit my blog. Those words are me declaring my acceptance of any future defeat I should suffer in life if my dream of being published fails to become a reality. And while the acceptance of failure is always a jagged pill to swallow, it is a healthy dose of reality. Having one's name embossed on a fine leather book may be all the proof the world needs in order to acknowledge you as a REAL writer, but sometimes all a wannabe writer like myself needs is the acknowledgement of those closest to him to recognize that he has a little writing talent. Until 2 weeks ago, my family was anything but supportive of my writing. That was mostly because they read little to nothing from me and had little to no expectations of me. Which brings us back to sibling roles and the fact that as the baby of the family, I believed I would forever be labeled as the clown and the jock. However, I've recently broke free of that image and I'm about to be framed in a new light!

My sister is not the sentimental type. She is not one to hold a keepsake box full of childhood memories and past loves. (Oddly enough though, I do.) So when she came back from her honeymoon and told me she wanted the folded piece of paper I wrote my wedding toast on, I was more than surprised. "I want to frame it," she told me. Really? I still hadn't gotten over the shock that on her wedding day the only tear/s she shed is when I gave the Best Man toast. That alone says something about my speech, but wanting to frame it? Seriously? People frame fine art and they frame precious photos. They do so to capture time, emotion and beauty. I could stare for hours at Georges-Pierre Seurat's "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" painting and get lost in the tiny dots of oily paint, but who would want to stare at my ink-filled chicken scratch on boring and bland vanilla paper?

She doesn't realize that by me giving her this old, folded piece of paper that she's actually the one giving me the gift...or so I feel. She's making my writing frame worthy! No one has ever made my words frame worthy! To me, that's one of the greatest compliments I could ever receive. Instead of being published and my book sitting on a dusty shelf, I'm being hung on a pristine wall. And anyone who ever steps foot in her house will see my writing on the wall. In an odd way, she's turning my words into a piece of art. My canvas was ordinary paper and my paintbrush was a simple pen. Crude tools of an artist, but tools that somehow magically created art without even knowing it. It just goes to show you that you never know how your words can affect someone, for good or bad. Words are a powerful thing. And no three words have greater power than "I Love You." Of course expanding on those three words in my roundabout, beat around the bush style seem to be quite endearing as well.

Have you ever framed a letter you received or some words once said to you? Or have you ever been frame worthy yourself? Share your tale. I'm anxious to hear!

Archaeological Geophysics Down Under

Just a quick note to let you all know that the "Introductory Archaeological Geophysics" subject offered through the Department of Archaeology at Flinders University, Adelaide, Australia from 21 September to 2 October 2009 is open to external students as a short course.

This course is intended for archaeologists who want to gain practical experience using geophysical techniques and is taught through a combination of lectures and extensive "hands on" data collection, processing, interpretation and reporting. Teaching staff include Ian Moffat and Lynley Wallis with specialist contributions from a range of industry partners.

For more information please visit the subject website or contact Ian via email (ian.moffat@flinders.edu.au).

The Rainwear Issue

Many people have been complaining about the long rainy summer, but not us. For us it's been an opportunity to dress for the occasion, and this year there have been plenty of great occasions to air out the rubber and the nylon.

When we came of age, everyone worshipped at the altar of natural fibers - cotton, linen, silk and wool - which is part of the reason that one iconic word in The Graduate - Plastics - was so howlingly funny then (and is probably unfathomable to anyone young enough to be our children or grandchildren now). It's difficult to break free of the natural fibers hard wiring, but for rainy weather there's nothing like good old plastics and their kissing cousins in the synthetics family.

When we were young, a raincoat was more or less guaranteed to be waterproof. It was plastic or rubber, or coated in plastic or rubber, and raindrops beaded up on those raincoats like little jewels - at least until the plastic cracked or the rubber crumbled. Now, for some reason, much that calls itself rainwear is water resistant rather than waterproof, as if responding to some call from consumers for moist skin on rainy days. As if modern consumers had expressed a yearning to have a stronger connection between their outer weather and their inner weather.

In the photo above at left is Jean in the lobby of The Donovan Hotel in Washington, DC. While appearing to be ready to dance in her fabulous flowing black ball gown, she is actually ready to engage in undercover Special Ops wearing her U.S. Army surplus SWAT Team hooded rain poncho from the Army-Navy store. The U.S. government designers made a coat that is not only waterproof, it can be snapped to another poncho to form a tent for fashionistas who disdain whipping out of buildings and into taxis, and want to prolong their communion with the elements. Jean's DKNY rainboots, unseen under her poncho, are perfect for the flash floods that often accompany East Coast rains. When clearing huge eddying puddles over storm drains is not an option, jumping into them can be a joyous occasion with the right boots.

Above right, Valerie wears black and white polka dotted rain boots and matching umbrella by ShedRain (found weeks and miles apart), black and white tee dress and matching leggings from H&M (97% cotton, and the all-important 5% Elastane), an extra large water resistant (just barely) men's white nylon jacket, black and white plastic target motif earrings from the late lamented outdoor flea market at West 26th Street, and smudgy black and gray canvas bag from H&M. By felicitous happenstance, colorful rainboots are very in just now, which means that those of us who are often compelled to wear flat shoes with wide toes (read: ugly sneakers) can find some small pleasure in patterned Wellies.

Note that both raincoats have ample room to go over our outfits without bulking us up or binding our arms, and allow for the passage of air. We're willing to suffer for our art, but looking ungainly would defeat the purpose. And looking uncomfortable - well, the whole point is to make it all look spontaneous and effortless...

A Small Scare

A Small Scare

I thought I had enough of the hospital a few weeks ago when I was hospitalized for atrial fibrillation and had received 18 shocks from my internal defibrillator (ICD). But, sitting in bed on Thursday night talking to my dad, I felt my heart beating faster than it had been lately and felt certain that I was about to receive a shock from my ICD. That never happened, but my heart continued to beat at an unusually rapid rate and so I made a decision to take a trip to the hospital emergency room and get things checked out. Instead of calling an ambulance, I relied on my dad's fast, but safe driving.

Upon arrival to the emergency room no one seemed in a particular rush as they filled out the necessary paperwork. Me, on the other hand, well, I was very anxious to see what was going on with my heart. Once I was hooked up to a heart monitor, it indicated that my heart rate was higher than it had been recently but not dangerously so. Next, the nurse put an IV into the back of my hand -- on the first try! Miraculous! Blood was taken and it showed a high white blood cell count and a higher than normal level of a particular heart enzyme that is typically elevated when your heart has suffered a trauma. Based on these findings I was admitted to the hospital, where I stayed until yesterday.

During my hospitalization there was nothing unusal about my heart and doctors were never able to explain the findings in the blood work. As my blood was retested the numbers seemed to come down and no signs of any infection were detected in me. At first there was some concern that I had already become toxic with the amiodarone that I had been taking since my last cardiac scare. Usually side effects take a while to appear, which is why it was surprising that I was starting to show some side effects. In the end, though, it was determined that my symptoms were most likely not due to the medication and I was put back on it.

By 11 am yesterday I was home again. I still think it was a good idea that I went to the hospital even though it seems that everything is fine. After my last scare I'm not taking any chances of getting shocked by my ICD, so if something doesn't feel right I'm heading to the nearest emergency room. I hope this doesn't happen for quite some time!

Special thanks to Lauren for typing this entry.

Gratitude Journal

We all have heard people say "I’m destined for greatness" or "I’m destined for failure." If you’re a Pessimistic Patty or a Pessimistic Pete, wouldn’t it be nice if you could change your destiny? You can! And it’s as simple as changing your outlook on life. If you want to start attracting positive things into your life, there is one small thing you should do every day - show your gratitude, appreciation and love for the people and things around you. As more of your thoughts and words become positive, you'll start attracting more positive people and circumstances. Decide today that you are going to reduce negativity in your life by getting rid of the 'don'ts,' 'nots' and 'no's' - the negative people, the negative thoughts. Basically, shed the toxicity in your life, including toxic relationships that weigh you down. The idea is to get in the habit of appreciating things. So how do you do that? Well the best way to do that is by keeping a Gratitude Journal.

It's not a new concept and one that you've probably heard about before. For years, numerous "spiritual teachers" have been recommending and encouraging the practice. But it wasn’t until Oprah (from the Cult of Oprah) endorsed the practice that it began to really take off. For those that don’t know, a Gratitude Journal is a way to consciously call attention to the things for which we are thankful each day. By focusing on gratitude, we become aware of those things and thus create a shift in our thinking to the positive. Starting a gratitude journal helps you rediscover life’s simple pleasures, the very things we all take for granted...and by showing appreciation for these simple things, it creates a whole new outlook on life. And in today’s dreadful economy and bleak job market, who couldn’t use a fresh outlook on life?

Starting and keeping a Gratitude Journal isn't rocket science. Look for things during the day for which you are grateful, making mental notes throughout the day. No matter how small or great, anything goes - a baby's smile, a flower in bloom, or the smell of a newly cut grass. Make the list personal. Be brief in your words and increase the length as time progresses. Begin looking everyday for the positive angle in all things. View obstacles as opportunities to appreciate. Focus on the wonderful things in life to attract similar encounters in the course of the day. Use positive energy as a magnet to draw even more positive energy. Note these attractions in the gratitude journal. And lastly, personalize the gratitude journal. Expand it with clippings, photos, quotes or verses from magazines or other sources.

You can make your Gratitude Journal as private or public as you want it to be. And as formal or informal as you like. All that is really required is that you set aside just 5 minutes at the end of each day to write 5 things you are grateful for on that given day. 1 minute per item. You can do that, right? Of course you can and so can I. My future Gratitude Journal entries will be private and kept in a leather journal, but for now, here are 5 things I am grateful for today...

1. Confirmation that there is a girl out there with the ability to make me deliriously happy.
2. My four-legged BFF, Diesel. He's simply the best part of my every day. As someone with insomnia, last night I found myself falling asleep to the sound of his snore. Oddly enough, his snoring didn't keep me up, but rather calmed me and sent me off into la-la land.
3. That my Grandmother is still with me and we will be celebrating her 90th birthday next month! As someone from a small family, I very much cherish our relationship and feel blessed for each day God has given me to spend with her. Time is short, but precious. A realization I am always mindful of.
4. That I don't carry the bald gene or the fat gene. By genetics, I'm naturally tall and thin. So while most people go to the gym to lose weight, I go to the gym to gain weight - bulk up, build muscle. (I accept the fact that many people hate me because of this.)
5. That I've rediscovered my childhood love of writing. Not even words can describe how sooo, sooo grateful I am for this. It has given me the creative outlet in which I so desperately craved. And in it, the ability express the things in my everyday life that are often too difficult for me to verbalize. To me, paper and pen are better than sliced bread.

So what are you grateful for?

***NOTE***
You can also see this post featured on the frontpage of BrazenCareerist.com

Save The Last Dance For Me

It’s only a 60 second walk down the isle, but on Saturday when my father took my sister by the arm and led her past the stained glass windows in the church, I could barely watch. My eyes were somewhat fixated on the floor, until that traditional wedding march began to play and everyone rose, along with my eyes. What people saw that day was perhaps one of the most beautiful visions ever to be had. Now every wedding I have attended, the guests always say the same thing..."You're the most beautiful bride ever." But on my sister's wedding day, I felt this was actually true. Seriously, she put the models in Bride magazine to shame! And while I’m not one to compliment my sister very often, on this day, her little brother was left in awe. While friends and family were busy living in the moment by soaking up the exquisite and simply stunning vision before them, my mind was elsewhere. When I lifted my head and my eyes gazed to the back of the church, I didn’t expect to see the image I immediately saw. It was my sister, but she was 7 again and playing dress up. Long, brown, curly locks and those intense, blue eyes in her First Communion dress. When I saw my Dad walking with her, my mind traveled back in time where a series of childhood memories flashed before me. Instead of seeing her in the crisp, white 5-inch stilettos she was actually wearing, I saw her in a pair of my Mom's high heeled shoes, three sizes too big, stumbling down our house steps. Instead of seeing my Dad walking my sister down the isle on her wedding day, I saw him with that same 7-year-old girl standing atop his feet so she could dance with him. She would fall off his toes and giggle in delight. To cover her slip up, he would take her small hands in his and twirl her to the music. Then back on his toes she would go. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Apparently you’re never too young to learn the waltz.

My breath shallow. My chest tight. My palms clammy to the touch. I was a nervous wreck and I wasn’t even the one getting married! I can’t even imagine what I’m going to be like one day as a groom. I’m going to be an f-ing mess! Well, hopefully a beautiful mess, but a mess nevertheless. A snowflake must have fallen in my eye in August because I could feel some type of foreign liquid trying to take shape just beneath my right, lower lid. There was no way I was crying infront of all these people! So I swallowed the lump in my throat and did the tried and true method/trick of "soaking up the liquid by performing excessive eyeball movement." I looked to the left, the right, up, down, and all around - hoping that my cornea would feel overworked, become thirsty and want to drink up a salty tear or two before the laws of gravity took over, forcing it to drop and roll down my face. Oh the horror! Somehow I managed to pull myself together and I’m glad I did. The night was young and there was plenty of time for all that sentimental crap later. Afterall, I still had the best man's toast to deliver!

After failing to compose a speech with my laptop, I threw in the towel and went with a different approach. I decided to go about it the old fashion way, with pen and paper in hand. I worked diligently on my speech for 3 hours on the flight to California. Then the night before the wedding, I sat down to edit and practice it some. Anyone who’s ever had to compose a formal toast will tell you it’s not an easy task. And perhaps I took too much time collecting my thoughts and putting them down on paper, but in the end, it was worth it.

I rode around in the limo for 4 hours between the ceremony and reception. Needless to say, I was waaay over the buzz limit. So when we sat for dinner, I used my meal to help sober me up before I had to give the toast. And then...I knocked it out of the park! Ok maybe that’s a bit cocky to say, but the toast actually went much better than I expected (or anyone expected for that matter)! I had my sister and all her bridesmaids crying, as well as my Mom, Grandma and most of the women in the place. But they were happy tears so it's all good. My sister said it was the best part of her wedding day, which has left me glowing for days.

So it's official. My sister is no longer a Miss and I now have a new brother-in-law. I'm happy, but can't help feeling a bit sad too. She’s all grownup now and no longer mine to protect. But I like to think, that as her little brother, I can always be useful for something. And while my feet are still sore from dancing so much, I consider that a good thing. It means we partied hard, had fun and sent her off into the married world with a bang. Honestly, most of the weekend was a blur, but I do recall my sister's final single girl words to me..."Try not to sleep with any of my bridesmaids." Rather fitting since the object of my affection for the past decade was there! (More on that some other day.)

Before the night had ended, I had just one request for my sister - to save the last dance for me. She graciously obliged.

Stalking the Wild Bill

One woman dressed against type is an eccentric; two or more women dressed against type make a trend.

Taking advantage of our constitutional right to freedom of expression, we and our like-minded friends went out on Easter day to strut our stuff; to see and be seen. Because we are women of a certain age, we still believe in Easter bonnets. We eschew the current tendency to Halloween-ize this one remaining day of the year when a woman can still creditably wear a real hat. It's a little like Christmas when, if the secret object of your affections stands under the mistletoe, you can kiss him or her with utter disregard for the usual social constraints.

We also (confidentially) went out looking for Bill Cunningham. We found him, and he (recognizing style when he sees it) found us. See Valerie and Shiho in picture 6 of the New York Times' slide show; Jean and Tziporah in picture 10:

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2009/04/18/fashion/20090418-street-feature/index.html

In the photo above, left to right: Tziporah, in a vintage white hat wound with a strip of black velvet; Elaine, in a NYC-themed straw hat she hand painted, as she does every year; Valerie, in a shibori'd pink hibiscus beret from Nafi de Luca, with green pipe cleaners added; Shiho, doing her very best Holly Golightly, and actually wearing a small lamp shade (yes, really) to which she strategically basted a swath of pink chiffon; and Jean, wearing a black bathing cap topped with a plastic champagne glass, from which spring bounding rabbits.

Valerie wears Japanese sunglasses spray painted pink with black spots, a vintage Ungaro white wool coat with black and white wool piping (bought at Alessandro Mitrotti's Transfer, when it was still on the upper east side), white wool and lace gloves (not seen) from Strawberry, a vintage pleated pink silk dress by Patricia Lester (known for her Fortuny look-alikes), and vintage Miguel Hernandez shoes, which look great, but are no match for neuromas or bunions. (More on the trials and tribulations suffered by old feet in another entry.)

Jean is wearing Missoni sunglasses, Norma Kamali '80s leopard jacket (purchased at the Manhattan Vintage Clothing Show at the Metropolitan Pavillion), Brigitte harem pants and Trippen boots (from A-Uno in Tribeca). For more photos of us (and others!) at the show, check out http://jenniferdrue.com/slideshow/mv.html. (Valerie appears in black, white and red Gaultier in the April 2009 intro, and we reappear in the 25th photo with our friend Bill.)

Back on the Horse

Back on the Horse

Nearly two weeks later, I'm still getting over my big cardiac scare. It has been difficult both physically and emotionally. But the way I figure, I'm still here and it's about time to get back to doing the things I love. Like going to Phillies games. Tickets to see the World Champions are hard to come by these days, but I was able to score a pair to today's game, featuring the debut of newly-acquired ace pitcher Cliff Lee.

The only thing hanging in the balance was the weather. But with Fox 29 chief meteorologist and my good friend John Bolaris in the house, I figured we were in good shape. And with Cliff Lee on the mound, the Phillies were in good shape, cruising to a 3-1 win over the visiting Colorado Rockies. It was the first time in five tries this season I witnessed a Phillies victory. I truly enjoyed myself and it was big step for me as I try to get back to normal.

Me? Blog Crush Worthy?

Tomorrow I will be jet-setting across the country (ok I’ll be riding coach on US Airways but jet setting sounds fancier) which has left me super busy tying up loose ends at work and just life in general. So I made a promise to myself (which you’ll see I already broke) that I wouldn’t piss away time by aimlessly surfing the web or even writing on my blog until I finished writing my toast for my sister’s wedding. A man must keep his priorities in check and on top of the David To-Do List is "write that f-ing toast!" I fear that anything else I do would be counterproductive and will suck out any remaining creativity left in my fingertips that would be better spent on speech writing. Which as you know, I need every last ounce of as I continue to experience an extreme case of writer's block! What’s funny is that while I’m putting myself and my writing down because I'm struggling to find the words for this toast, out of the blue comes a little confidence boost. To much of my surprise, I’ve been labeled as a blog crush! Me? Blog crush worthy? Really?

Over at Ophelia’s Webb, blogger Elisa Doucette has a Blog Crush Series in which every week she features a blogger she is crushes on, writing exactly why he/she is crush worthy. And apparently I’m this week’s crush! It’s sweet, cute and innocent. Sort of like a traditional school girl/boy crush, but without the butterflies and sweaty palms. Elisa describes it best...

What is a BlogCrush? Well, the urban dictionary describes it "to be attracted to someone you know only through their blog" or "the person that you're attracted to because of the things they write in their blog." With so many amazing writers out there, it's easy to develop a little crush on certain people. Now I'm not talking a drive 13 hours wearing adult diapers and carrying a black wig to abduct people stalker kinda crush, but you just want to learn more about them. You know who your BlogCrushes are. They are the folks you read immediately on your reader before getting to anyone else's. They are the posts that you ReTweet because they speak to you so much. They are the websites you comment on regularly. They are the folks you are hoping you'll see and talk to "IRL" at the next SXSW. They are the people you admire, and because of this you want to share their greatness with lots of other people.

That in essence is a blog crush.

Upon finding out, I was completely flattered! Then when I started reading what she wrote, my face began turning various shades of burgundy, darkening with each paragraph. I must thank Elisa for all her kind words about me, for making this boy’s day a bit brighter and for changing my skin hue! She may not have even realized it, but that little confidence boost is just the push I need to finally finish writing my toast! So thank you. Really, thank you!

Read Ophelia's Webb BlogCrush - David Stehle
Read her full Blog Crush Series

So who is your blog crush?

I Got Nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

Before I begin, let me first apologize to my high school composition teacher. I realize proper English is "I have nothing" not "I got nothing." But if you are going to circle that phrase in red ink, then you must also circle the made-up word "notta" that I used in the title as well. However, before your pen goes on a whirlwind of i-dotting, t-crossing, circling, underlining, crossing out and the insertion of those little condescending carrot marks that indicate that I'm a dumbass and I should have said this or that instead of what I originally wrote, let me stop you. Let me ask you to take a little pity on the grammatically incorrect and ignorant, rambling fool that I am. There will be plenty of time to rip me apart on my term paper, but for today and for just this one time, have a little heart. Spare me the wrath of your red ink and lend me your sympathetic ear. Today, as much as it pains you to hear, I care not about my spelling or poor grammar. Improper sentence structure, misplaced punctuation, and the confusion of past and present tense does not matter to me right now. Because unlike my usual obsessive compulsive editing and re-editing, striving for perfect but forever failing writing style...I'm just going to get it all out. Get it all down on paper so it's no longer inside of me, haunting me. I'm going to write like no one is reading, because it's much more freeing that way. If that is too much for you to bear and your hand begins to tremble and itch with red ink fever, then look away now.

You may recall this recent post, "Giving A Toast Isn’t Hard, It’s Composing It That’s Hard!" And now with my sister's big wedding day fast approaching, I am still speechless! There is only 5 short days left and I have yet to write a single word on paper! I'm starting to really freak out now. It's crunch time, the pressure is on and I'm failing miserably. Was that a figment of my imagination or did I used to be fairly decent with words? Where is the writer within me? He has vanished without notice and without a trace. In his midst, he has left this shell of a man. A man that lacks the flowery prose needed to compile a best man speech. Some best man he is!

Perhaps a freelance writer I could never be. I seem to crack under writing pressure. This is a true test with a deadline just around the corner and I got nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. Zero. My long standing love affair with pen and paper has ended. Yes, the honeymoon is officially over. The joy of writing has morphed into a deep, ugly hatred of mine for the written word. As of right now, our relationship is bitter and vile.

At this moment, all I am going on is hope and a prayer, literally. I'm hoping something will come to me and I'm praying it does! Although I've NEVER drawn such a blank like this before in my entire life. Without a doubt, this is the most extreme case of writer's block I have ever known. I wish it was a stranger or mine, but lately it's been like a best friend. Well, an enemy is more like it. It creeps up on me late at night when I lay my head down to sleep and it penetrates my mind everyday when someone asks me how the best man speech is coming along. It's NOT coming along. That's the problem! Ugh! The frustration overwhelms me. I want to scream and pound my forehead on the mahogany desk in front of me. Actually, I have smacked my head on the desk in hopes it would jar my brain into some aw-inspiring thought I could jot down in Shakespeare fashion.

Still, I got nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

May God have mercy on my soul.

Biddy Bodies

Greetings, kiddies, from two survivors of generations of trends like preppy, hippie, punk & power suits! Join us in our journey as we navigate the vast, fabulous wasteland of Planet Fashion in a recession/depression economy. Join us (Jean, above left, & Valerie, above right) as we sample everything from Japanese to vintage to French haute couture to H&M from each other's closets, flea markets, other friends & fellow fashion afficionadas. (We junkies need our "fixes" - hats, Bakelite, faux fur, Issey Miyake ...) Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night!

In this photo, taken May 24 at Fabulous Fanny's, we check out the fabulous selection of accessories, and model two pairs of FF's vintage designer shades. Note our flagrantly gray hair.

Valerie's wardrobe: anonymous straw hat in military cap shape (a thrift shop find), holly and ebony pin by Georges Larondelle, from the Philadelphia Museum of Art; Peter Lane ceramic necklace, H&M cotton and lycra long tee, Big Apple cotton pants with adjustable velcro closure, MOMA plastic digital watch ($8!).

Jean is wearing a black Tahari 3/4 sleeve T, a 70's black plastic neck ring, an armful of vintage Bakelite bangles and fingers full of black Bakelite and gold rings, a black Issey Miyake Pleats Please skirt and black Dansko clogs and is carrying a faux leopard tote.

A Real Shocker!

A Real Shocker!

"He said...he said it wasn't such a good day to die."

Kevin Bacon in "Flatliners" (1990)

Early last Saturday morning, I thought there was a distinct possibility that I would be blogging no more. In fact, as they say, I thought I had "bought the farm". You see, after spending Friday afternoon trying to control what I thought was a simple case of dehydration causing my heart to beat irregularly, the defibrillator in my chest decided to take action.

As I lay in bed late Friday night contemplating whether I should seek medical attention, I heard what sounded like a light bulb popping and saw a blue streak in front of my eyes. It took me a second to realize that "Oh my god, it went off!" I told my nurse to wake my parents up, and as he was exiting my room, the device shocked me again. It felt like being punched in the chest.

911 was called and within 5 minutes (although it seemed like an eternity), EMS arrived to transport me to the emergency room. Though I was really anxious of having my contracted legs injured while being transferred from my bed to the stretcher, the EMS personnel and my nurse were extremely careful. Throughout the 15-minute ride to the hospital, the defibrillator shocked me at least a dozen times. I was wondering why the device wasn't able to regulate my heart and was continuing to fire at will. I looked up at the white lights in the ambulance roof, hoping that wouldn't be the last thing I ever saw.

Upon arrival at the hospital, the first goal was to insert an IV so that medications could be given to me to bring my heart rate under control. Easier said than done with my hard-to-find veins. Meanwhile, my defibrillator was shocking me seemingly every few seconds. Just before a shock was delivered, I would feel a weird crawling sensation near my heart, which I figured was the device charging up to fire again, and the heart monitor above me would show a rate as high as 200 beats per minute. The only thing that seemed to help prevent a shock was when the nurse massaged my carotid artery.

Once an IV was finally inserted, doctors began a drip of a medication called amiodarone, an anti-arrhythmic, which began to regulate my heart. The shocks grew less and less until finally stopping. At this point, I was transferred to the ICU, where I began a weekend-long stay for observation. Later that morning, a technician from the manufacturer of my defibrillator arrived. He interrogated my defibrillator and determined that the device had been shocking me for atrial fibrillation, a serious condition typically treated by medication alone, but not nearly as life-threatening as ventricular tachycardia or ventricular fibrillation. Although devices such as mine are smart, once the heart rate reaches a certain speed, it is unable to distinguish between atrial fibrillation and ventricular tachycardia, and therefore delivers a shock. The technician adjusted the parameters of my device so that it will attempt to better distinguish between the two kinds of rhythms. A cardiologist at the hospital visited with me and my mother and explained the situation to us. They would start me on an oral version of amiodarone, see how I tolerated it, and if there were no problems I would be discharged within a day or so.

Staying in the hospital, of course, is no easy task when you have Duchenne's. To their credit, the nurses, nursing students, and respiratory therapists were extremely caring and kind. Even still, things like turning me are not the everyday situation for nurses who have never cared for someone with DMD. Although I ended up with a few aches and pains, there wasn't a whole lot that anyone could have done to prevent this. I wasn't completely comfortable with the hospital ventilator the respiratory therapists switched me to -- it was also overly sensitive and would alarm constantly -- but I made the best of the situation. Without my own air mattress I was unable to get extremely comfortable in bed, although the bed in which I lay was actually pretty state-of-the-art. Because I had no way of using a nurse's call bell (or a call bell into which I could blow), my mother spent the weekend with me, sleeping in a chair at my bedside at night. It was a good idea that she stayed with me to make sure that my complicated list of medicines was followed, and also to assist with transfers and positioning. I couldn't have gotten through this ordeal without her, as well as the other family members and friends who gave me their support at such a trying time.

By Sunday night, the anti-anxiety medication I had been taking round the clock had sufficiently constipated me. And really, no stay at the hospital would be complete without a delicious milk-and-molasses enema! Very effective, I'll tell you, but I could find a better way to spend a Sunday night.

Early Monday morning, I got the news that I was to be discharged within a few hours. After a sleepless night, I couldn't wait to get home in my own bed and sleep away my nightmarish weekend. The good news is that the medicine seems to be working and I am still here. The anxiety remains and it may take a while until I am not afraid. My life may never be the same, but like the quote above, "it wasn't such a good day to die." So I guess I'll stick around for a while!

Special thanks to Julie for helping me type out such a long entry!