Mortality Microblog

The past month or so has made me really take a look at life and its fragility.

Similarly, the worst part of being an adult, so far, has been the constant reminders of your own family's mortality. Its too present, too consistent, and too frequently a theme in my life.

Home for the Holidays

Welcome to West Haven, where Christmas is an ornament to be smashed... or to slowly crumble to dust in an attic.

This holiday is, following a growing trend, disappointing.

My Tickety Tack Trip Home (1 of 3)

It was supposed to be so simple.

I was going to wake up ready and rearing to go on Saturday, drive out to Danbury, attend my conference, get my network on, and then take the train up to Boston with Justine. This sounds simple. Oh, but the best laid plans of mice and men, as they say.

The problems started around 8:30 in the morning on Friday, when I woke up to a text that says “Oh, find me at NEACUHO today!” from a friend with whom I went to college. I roll off my phone, which is lodged between my abdomen and the couch, and realize that the conference is TODAY, not tomorrow. Which means that I should have been checking in about half an hour ago, instead of laying with my ass in the air on the couch. So my first logical move, after cursing a little, is fire up the laptop to get directions to Danbury. Of course, I can’t find the email with my registration information-- apparently it doesn’t contain the words “NEACUHO” or “WCSU” or ANYTHING ELSE that Thunderbird might pick up as relevant to the email. I get directions, then head up to grab some clothes.

Well, having come in from Boston the night before at about 11pm, my clothes were still rolled up in a ball in my book bag. Which is fine, I can just iron them out. So, I run to the linen closet to grab the iron.

Funny story about the iron-- my mother CLEARLY got it in the divorce, because the only thing we had in there was a small travel iron. Working with what I have, I run to plug it in and get started. No sooner do I take the thing out of its box than the handle falls off. FALLS OFF. So now I have a piece of iron that is going to get very hot and a handle that’s going to continue to be very useless. I give ironing without a handle a shot, but it turns out that maybe travel irons don’t get so hot. At all. Or maybe get colder.

So I throw my clothes in the dryer and head up to brush my teeth. Now, I consciously chose not to pack toothpaste when I left for home, since I knew that my father would have some. Hmm. I was correct in this assumption, but I was incorrect in assuming that it would be the kind of toothpaste that a normal , god fearing 60 year old man might use. No no… I find Spongebob Squarepants toothpaste.

Let that sink in for a moment. My assumption is that he has been brushing and singing the theme song.

After a fight with the dryer, my only recourse to unwrinkled my clothes, I run out to start my car, which hasn’t been driven in 3 months. No surprise, I turn the key and nothing happens. At all. Not even a glimmer of a vroom. So my father, in his way, offers me the boat (read: Buick), which has been running a little that morning. He offers to back it out of the driveway, since I haven’t driven in a while. Lets consider for a second that he will be having me drive an hour away in the car, but is distrustful about my ability to back out of the driveway. Logic, where you at?

Oh, did I mention that I had to stop to put gas in the car, and that the front tire might have been significantly under inflated? By 9:30, halfway through the keynote speaker, I’m finally on the road, hitting speeds close to 90 in a car demographically driven by ladies in their 70s, and which has a surprising amount of bass in its stereo system. I guess they can’t hear the radio otherwise, but can feel the vibrations. Its how Beethoven composed his symphonies towards the end, and I assume that the same holds here.

I eventually did get to the conference almost and hour late and had a blast, and had the best damn story in the place about the “tickety tack hot mess” my trip was.

Lazy Sunday

I love lazy Sundays! The humidity is hovering somewhere between "dish sponge" and "underwater", the dog is under the table splayed out on the cool tiles, and even the fan and iced tea can only do so much. Still though, today is exactly what I like about days off!

We were supposed to go to the bar and Spiritual Haze last night, but I was getting my man period, which usually means an impending migraine and general queasiness, sometimes grumpiness and other general displeasures. So, after Taryn's birthday dinner and a little cool down period at Maria and Dom's, I made way to the Blarney Stone, but knew that alcohol was only going to make me feel worse. Coupled with the loud music and attractive straight men, I knew I was only doing myself in. So I walked home, took two Tylenol Migraine pills and passed out. I'm great at being exciting.

I had also made plans with Jenn to go to Annie's this morning and then to the dog park. However, I have been living under a rock for 4 years and didn't realize that Annie's is not open on Sundays. Go figure. So when Jenn woke me up, I offered to make pancakes! I'm so generous when I'm half asleep!

Last time I tried to make pancakes I sort of forgot how to cook. Meaning, I tried to make one large, dense pancake the size of my frying pan. As you may have inferred, it did not work out as I planned. As an interesting aside, something that large is difficult to flip without spilling gooey hot batter all over your range top. It is subsequently harder to clean off when it starts to burn onto the stove. A hot range will also cook your sponge as you attempt to clean up the mess. Again, things I probably DO know, but forgot in the storm of "fuck fuck fuck" I was chanting.

This time, they came out pretty fine, except for the ones that accidentally came out wrinkly. So Jesse, Jenn, and I had delicious pancakes for breakfast. Afterwards, Jenn and I took Bean out to the dog park for the afternoon.

The dog park was probably the cutest place I've ever been. Its out in Boynton park, which is basically in Paxton. You walk down a little bit of a forest path, and then a big baseball field opens up, and there are 25 or so people out with their dogs. Bean, having recently earned the nickname "Paris Hilton", took a little while to warm up to the other dogs. Then she was off, running around, sniffing butts left and right. There were a million cute moments, but the cutest (aside from Oscar's owner, who was gorgeous and a little awkward) was this other Boston Terrier who was JUMPING up and down to lick the saliva and genitals of this giant Mastiff. I mean, really dog? Have some class and wait for the third date.

Now its time for some iced tea and a little more relaxation before smoothies and laundry. Such a well spent Sunday!
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On Eating Meat, June 16th 2008

For about 15 months, I was a practicing vegetarian.

Let me break down what I mean first, because I think there is a lot to say about my practicing.

When I say practicing, I don't mean how a doctor practices medicine. I mean in the way that I tried. I practiced. It was a way of living, but not a way of life. I generally did not buy or eat meat. If it was served at a family meal (which I attended mainly at special occasions), then I would eat it without remorse. Partially to keep peace with my family, but also as a result of my motives for 'practicing'. Of course, practice makes perfect, and we practice because we are not perfect. I slipped up from time to time, or made conscious decisions in times of stress. After finals my junior year, I planned on and deliberately went to KFC for some breaded chicken deliciousness-- the result of which was particularly disappointing. Who would have thought that KFC tastes like spicy death?

This weekend, I was home for Father's Day. As part of the festivities, we had steak and veggies. I obliged, eating a small serving of steak. On an unrelated aside, it was very close to smaller than the 4 oz. recommended meal sized serving. I didn't feel too badly about it at the time. Reduced usage still reduces the fiscal payback to large farms. I was still mainly vegetarian, and planned on resuming the practice when I came back to Worcester.

Two events occurred over the weekend, though, that reaffirmed my need to avoid meat. They were also potentially enough to help me shake off animal products in general, lest they are certifiably cruelty free. They are, in this order:

1)http://www.chooseveg.com/animal-cruelty.asp
This video is one of the many "factory farms are cruel to animals" films that are out there in the internet ether. I had seen some of the anti-foie gras sites and anti fur videos, but never had I realized the depth and scope of the cruelty involved in products that are relevant to almost everyone's daily life. Our dinners are served on bloody plates: tainted by the wanton cruelty towards animals for profit and our consumption. Even a glass of milk is suspect, and perhaps as terrible as veal. In fact, it enables veal. Pigs, which are intelligent creatures capable of the same kind of cognitive processes of three year olds (according to this site) are disemboweled alive.

I'm put in a tough moral place with this kind of knowledge. Obviously, meat is a part of a human's natural diet... but does engaging in that need at the cruel expense of the animals justify our place in the food chain?

Also, I am deathly allergic to soy milk and have heard rice milk contains known carcinogens. So my moral dilemma also encompasses the question of "what do I put in my coffee and cereal"?

2) Lobster
I was unable to make it home for Mother's day, so I decided to surprise my mother with her favorite meal: Boiled lobster.

Now, again, I try not to eat meat, but generally didn't feel guilty when I did partake. Perhaps that is because there is a distinct emotional disconnect between buying a shapeless slab of meat or piece of bacon, and actually killing your meal to eat. But, like a good son, I boiled the water, set the lobsters up, and dropped them in to their deaths. Unlike some, I did not deprive myself the responsibility of watching the result of my actions. They clearly knew that they were fucked, could feel it, and suffered. As they turned bright red, I felt so extremely guilty. So I put the cover on the top of the pot, and walked into the other room to pet my mother's cats. It struck me that what I had done was in some ways no different than stuffing my cat into the oven for dinner. The only difference was that people don't generally eat cats-- but they do eat crustaceans. Social norms made it okay to boil these bug-fish alive.

I felt terrible for the next eight minutes, then plated them up with what I thought of as a brave resolve. My mother had set the table outside, so we carried the carcasses outside with a side of mashed red potatoes (which I will serve at my wedding, when I find the guy). Rending the tail from the body, I looked inside and saw what appeared to be green sludge. My mother tells me that it meant that both of the lobsters were pregnant. It took a great emotional resolve to choke down the meal... but delicious emotional resolve smothered in real butter.

I'm still feeling a little queasy from the meal, probably from the emotions and not the lobster itself. What I have decided, though, from all this, is that I have a responsibility to reduce/remove animal products from my diet wholly and for better reasons than "it was something fun to try for 15 months".