What Brought You Here?

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Please Don't Donate for Christmas

Everybody wants to volunteer at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving or Christmas. These are the two times a year when everyone feels generous (perhaps to their own detriment) and larger-than-average donations of food, clothing, money, and household items come rolling in. *However*, it's important to note that U.S Thanksgiving and Christmas span scarcely one month each year. Poverty spans the entire twelve months.

Please don't get me wrong, we appreciate everything you give. (Okay, TBH I don't appreciate the ground turkey, the ubiquitous beef stew, and the 7,000 extra jars of peanut butter I've amassed. Or the canned beets)

But do you want to know on which days it's *really* cool to get some unexpected treat amongst the government commodities?

National Nothing Day (1/16)
Tuesday, the 14th.
Groundhog Day (2/2/)
Mardi Gras
International Women's Day (3/8)
Spring Equinox.
Gay Pride Day (6/29- additively, Nat'l Coming Out Day 10/11)
Bastilles Day (7/14)
Rat Catchers' Day (7/22)
Roseanne's Birthday (8/10)
Hobbit Day (9/22)
Rosh Hashanah
(the dubiously named Canadian) Persons Day (10/14)
Friday the 13th,
Saturdays in any month the letters "R" or "U"


I was filling out the application and noticed that each
adult membership included kids. They never specify on the application
itself whose kids they must be. The only information they ask of
potential members is name, sex, and DOB. So I went ahead and listed
my younger brother, figuring there might be a program here he'd enjoy
or he might like to come swimming sometime.

Of course *inside the program guide* in tiny tiny print they
elaborate on "kids included" tacking on "dependents as defined by the
IRS". On page 3 they give themselves of standing ovation, "In support
of the YMCA's goal to connect families in meaningful ways, dependent
children living in the same household are included at no charge on
all Adult or Two Adult memberships."

I guess another one of YMCA's goals is to separate non-traditional
families in alienating ways. The "household" rule definitely cements
the non-custodial parent the less invested (read: less loving) parent.
I have to wonder whether Heather would qualify under her 2nd mommy's
membership in the many states that don't allow for same-sex adoptions.

After that rant I realized that _the timeline fits_ for me to be
his mother.He was born in the interim between my first and second
years of college. Admittedly, my DOB doesn't reflect that, as I
was 17 at the time. But at this point in my life unwed knocked-up
teenage dropout is a helluva lot more believable than crumpled
ingenue. Furthermore, neither pleading no snooping on their
behalves will turn up any recent tax return forms for me. Among
the manifold benefits we folks living off the government
on SSI enjoy is government-sanctioned tax evasion. Er, that is to
say, we receive less per annum than a standard single deduction.

So, let's see.

In summary, the YMCA wants to

  • Alienate children from their non-custodial birth parents in the case of divorce

  • Foster hostility amongst steps and half siblings


  • Singlemindedly thwart my attempts to maintain a relationship with my brother

I never would have discoverd all this if I'd just filled out the
application without glancing at the flyer, as I ordinarily would.
I would have simply entered his information with mine and forgotten
about it.

I want to leave it.
But in that case, should I leave our mother as emergency contact?

N.B. Forgive the format, this is a tweaked-out rant on an e-mail copypasta sent to my mother, who is getting me GYM for exmass.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

I brushed my hair today

The is an event, because it was the first time I had done so this year. Well, in this year of my life, anyway. November was a month of neglect: I've been reduced to reusing the same serrated knife (for slicing cheese and bread, but also for smearing them in mustard and margarine), plastic Taco Hell spork, and pyrex one-quart liquid measuring cup for all of my domestic needs (not to mention my designated "bathroom" cups) as I ignored the mountains (and probably-by now- unique biosphere) that filled my sink by the beginning of the month. I just didn't care. Now? I sort of care- I'm sick of my binges being limited to generic boxed stuffing, day-old baked goods & Lil' Debbie knockoffs, and gigantic bags of store-brand potato chips. But now it's grown to more of task than simply washing dishes and finding adequate space/facilities to dry them. Now I fear it would involve an obligatory relocation program for the community that have surely hosts a variety of (hopefully not sentient) life-forms.

At any rate, I started with something (minimally) less daunting: brushing my white-girl-dredlock-prone nap. My hair is getting long. It's also almost back to a natural color. And here's the clincher: while using the Jaws of Life to clean out my brush after this act of self-inflicted violence, I came across an entire hank of abnormally light hair. I couldn't tell in the darkness of my cave whether it was totally devoid of pigment, or just one of those random *really* light blond streaks that decide to grow randomly out of my head to help me retain my status of blondness as my natural hair color has metamorophosed (and nearly fallen off the Map of Blond) with age. I realized that what I was looking at could actually be grey hair, sprouting in streaks.

That's when I decided to revoke my moratorium on dying my hair unnatural colors. Sure, I may looks silly as I progress through my 30s with _Vampire Red_, _Azure_, and the inevitable _Ultraviolet_ sticking out from under my hood, but at least I won't have to subject myself to the horrors of _dying my hair its own color_ in order to remain in denial. Of course, with flourescent hair the denial may be a bit more outwardly obvious, but it's easy for me to believe I'm still punkrock.

(I was never punkrock. I was a gothic hippie.)

In other news, I believe I have officially blown my one remaining median cubital vein. This sucks, but on the other hand- it means no more trainee phlebotomists when I get bloodwork done. Ever.