Roberta Gale NOISE

a snack before end of the world

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-03-01T00:03:00Z

Gee, I wonder if my split pea soup will be done before the world ends. I hope so, because it's a pretty good one, made with the requisite carrots, onion, garlic and four giant cubos de Knorr Caldo Con Sabor de Pollo. Mexican bouillon cubes can make anything taste great because they contain genuine FAT. Knorr is so proud of that fact they even list it twice as an ingredient: chicken fat AND hydrogenated beef fat. For hydrogen-riffic flavor!

Of course that didn't make up for the big ol ham hock I was dying to toss in, but didn't have. A couple of shakes of Bac-Os will do in a pinch.

And plenty of pinches are coming our way.

Quakes, tsunamis, blizzards, floods, droughts, record highs, record lows- they came, they're coming again, and most of us are going to die, even women who use Strivectin.

Luckily for you, I'm going to share a secret that may one day SAVE YOUR LIFE-considering you want it saved while everyone else melts, freezes or expires in some way involving shrieking and a tectonic or man made catastrophe.

OK-here it is: Split pea soup doesn't have to simmer for hours! Twenty to thirty minutes, tops, toss it in a blender, it's ready to go as fuel to outrun the sun's unfiltered death rays or for a picnic in an underground bunker.

Yep, the very same people who will soon vanish during Deathfest 2010 lied to you. "Honesty is the best policy." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Generic ketchup is just as good as Heinz." "Soup has to simmer for hours."

Sometimes just knowing that you'll be the only one to survive is enough to make you look really, really, cool.

Desert Bloom

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-02-21T17:51:00Z

I've decided to stop letting fear run my life-burst open the cocoon, let the larva out and the butterfly fly-wait-if I let the larva out it'll die unless I put it in a box and feed it lettuce like I did years ago when I opened the Mexican jumping bean and the green worm thing came out. Even that guy died after a week despite my best efforts at mothering . I think I got him to pupa and was terminal. Or chrysalis. Wait-that's for butterflys. Damn it, I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of the Class Insecta. Forget it. We'll start again.

So as part of this "live like you're dying" thing I adopted a few weeks ago I'm trying things I never have before. Like mid-grade gasoline and cheap bologna. Although you can't do a lot of stuff if you're really dying and feel like crap and can't get out of bed, but I'll ignore that digression for the moment.

Which leads me to my recent trip with friends on their Ranger. The Ranger is this cool four-wheel drive thing that's like a miniature Jeep Wrangler, only without windshields. You strap yourself in as if you're going on one of those roller coasters that costs a fortune to insure, and toss the entire package into the desert. For hours. I was lucky enough to be in the front seat or I would have thrown up, but it would have been the kind of vomiting that's worth it.

The best part was when I thought we were going to tip over, slamming the entire weight of the Ranger and four other people into my guts. It was then I had my epiphany. Near death=fun! Actually dying=drag! This is the way reckless people live and I wanted to be a part of it. If only my DNA wasn't programmed to steer myself away from danger. That's the Jewish thing. Everyone wants to kill us so get the hell out.

Well from now on, I'm livin' my life like a Gentile!

Oh yeah, and the border shared by Arizona and Mexico (now trendily called "The Borderlands" which sounds like somewhere you'd go to check out books and sip latte) sucks. It's full of garbage and drug runners and people runners and you'd have to be nuts to go into the middle of nowhere without a large group of people and/or a gun. We found this designer duffel just off the trail. Cell phones, walkie-talkies, extra batteries, chargers, and a toothbrush. Nice to know that dental hygiene is a priority for smugglers.

Yep, the places I used to peacefully hike by myself many years ago are the front lines of a clusterf**k. But you haven't lived until you've seen an empty Mexican Gatorade Bottle up close.

I wonder what flavor this is.

Join me as I take my next death-defying trip. Next up:Trader Joes the day the Fearless Flyer comes out.

My body, someone else's self

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-02-12T17:47:00Z

Who the hell is this old broken old fart that's taken over my body? The one that slips on those hand crutch things before I type or smooths Tiger Balm patches on the base of her spine after she runs or can't drink coffee after
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?

I mutter to myself white I'm doing things, I need to "go" before I go out for the day, and I have to eat with my supplements so they don't upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.

I thought this crap wasn't supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.

I find myself saying " when I was a kid" or "back in the day" and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I've survived a bunch of things and survived. I'm old enough to remember when people used "back in the old days" for back in the day." I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with "horseless carriage."

I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I'm aware that I'm probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I've had since I was born.

This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-'server' lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn't read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!

During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term "age spots." Now I know what they are.

I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don't believe me. I wouldn't either at their age.

Don't kill the piano player, aim for the singer

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-02-08T16:07:00Z

I've probably sung karaoke three times in my life. I prefer to get my humiliation on a more regular basis, as often happens just by being myself. But I do understand the attraction-for a few minutes, a nobody can become somebody in front of verbally abusive and/or vomiting people in a badly lit bar.

And, amateur sociologist that I am, you can tell a lot about people by the songs they choose.

1. Aging rock chicks like to sing "Crazy on Me" or any other Heart song in which Ann Wilson sounds Robert Plant-ish.

2. Broads who still own crystals sing Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" or any song that involves Stevie Nicks twirling around in a black cloak.

3. Number-crunching guys who have yet to be promoted to a cubicle love Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" or any song that sounds ballsy no matter the group or lyrics.

4. Suburban boys on the edge of puberty love anything that makes them sound urban-songs with rhythmic lyrics that drop vowels and contain colorful euphemisms for sex or the organs involved (see Ludacris, Weezy, Timbaland,Fabolous, et al.)

5.Girls are up for grabs. They're hot for any ephemeral Top 40 hit sung by a woman-be it Ke$ha, Beyonce, Fergie, Lady Gaga, or Rhianna feat. whoever-the -hell: any chick act du hour with no last name will do.

Who am I kidding? I've sung along to every one of these songs in the car. But I just needed some kind of an intro to this article about Filipinos killing people during karaoke renditions of Sinatra's "My Way"

Have a nice day. And remember, public renditions of Ol' Blue Eyes signature tune may be hazardous to your health.

A Threesome: Patrick Swayze, Jung and Me.

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-02-07T18:41:00Z

Patrick Swayze and I were sitting in nearby booths at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sort of like a Golden Corral but a bit more upscale (i.e. sauces were reduced rather than thickened with flour or cornstarch, vegetables weren't overcooked.) I'm not saying I like one better than the other- give me a chicken-fried steak made with fat n' flour white gravy any day-I'm just being descriptive.

We were attracted to each other, but Patrick was with another woman who just so happened to the be married-with-child daughter of a good friend. She was all over him. but he kept looking at me. Meanwhile the servers kept bringing out more food-so much that they ran out of room and were putting roasts on chairs and casseroles on the floor. I was attempting to balance my eye-lock with Patrick (can I call him Pat at this point? No? OK. Not a big deal.) with trying to grab some of whatever new food item was being put out.

I started pigging out on macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes with big chunks of ham, braised short ribs-all the stuff I wish I had waiting in the oven for me every evening but only have the time and patience to cook once a month. But even stuffing myself, didn't diminish my ardor for Patrick, nor his for me. As dreams often do, jump cut to P. and me, wrapped in each others' body, fulled clothed and surrounded by all that food.

What the hell did this dream mean? I liked Dirty Dancing, I admired the fact that he was still married to the same woman from his pre-fame days, I was sad when he died, but he didn't register that high on my Richter scale of personalities.

If everyone in my dream is a manifestation of something in my personality, which Jung believes fits into of a limited number of archetypes, what part of me is a guy who danced well and never got to the top tier of fame?

Or as my husband Dave would say, are dreams just mind excretions, no more meaningful than taking a dump?

If he's right, then dreams are even more important to me. Nothing is more vital than taking a healthy shit every day. You young punks can laugh, but Karma says you'll be there in a few decades.

Hipness is...what I say it is

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-01-24T18:05:00Z

Last night I went to an art opening. I had no idea who the artist was, but hey, it was an "art opening." You know, as in cool, downtown, black clothing, free food. Dave was recovering from a root canal, so I went solo. Which actually added to the hipness as long as I could keep my "I'm alone but I choose to be alone" vibe going.

There's two kinds of openings. First is the downscale, casual, fun, low rent (literally-as it the place isn't too expensive to rent) bashes attended mostly by the artists' friends. These attract a younger, causally -yet -creatively- dressed crowd (think second-hand store.) The art is priced under $100 and nothing sells. The music is a few people playing in public for the first time. The wine is served from jugs, and the food is brought from home-usually a tray of crudities featuring whatever vegetable was on sale. Cheese, if available, is a small wedge of Brie that disappears within the first half hour.

In contrast, the upscale art opening is an event, planned as carefully as a wedding. The people? Wealthy and trying not to look it or poor and trying not to look it. The art? Overpriced, with the smallest pieces just under a grand. The wine? Cost commiserate with the art. Glasses may be used if minimum cost of a piece is five figures and up. The food? The more costly the art, the more expensive the meats and cheeses. The more expensive the meats and cheeses, the thinner they're sliced. Not because the gallery owners are trying to save money, but because it confirms the cognoscentis' assertion that it's the only way to truly appreciate gourmet deli. Of course, they would never use the word deli, but I love the juxtaposition of the two words/worlds.

I'll go to any art opening, be it upscale, downscale or no-scale. My uniform is always the same half-assed attempt at unintentional cool.

No makeup, hair carefully mussed, no jewelry (save for my engagement and wedding rings) a pair of straight-leg jeans, cuffed not for fashion but because I don't want to fall on my ass-which would be massively uncool even if I tried to finesse it off- old scuffed black boots (worn under, not over the jeans) a non-descript, causal top, and a motorcycle jacket bought when I was going out with a guy in Ohio who had a band, a motorcycle and no money.

Oh, the art opening I attended? Art: The mandatory well-lit, oversized monochrome canvases that people spent a long time studying as if that piece of crap meant anything. People: see above. Food: hidden in a back room- paper thin slices of Stilton and some imported salami that looked like the stuff I by at Trader Joes only with a larger circumference, half-moon cookies that tasted like they were made with Smart Choice light instead of butter (I am occasionally guilty of this crime) and girls who looked like they were plucked out of the downscale art opening walking around in retro Cigarette Girl outfits, their boxes filled with Hershey kisses, Baby Ruths, Werther's Originals, Kit Kats and Chiclets for the taking-tips mandatory. (They were the best part of the entire evening.)

I think I'm going to have an art opening and cut out the meaningless part. That leaves the food. And the people. It's called a party and no, you can't come because you're not hip enough.

And if that offended you, watch and listen to this for the antidote.

Always a Bride

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-01-18T05:59:00Z

When I grow up, I want to crash Bridal Expos.

Three-course Emotion

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-01-12T16:02:00Z

I like my emotions like I like my dinner-each item separate and far away from the other stuff. Happy, sad, scared, shocked: I want enough distance between each so that I can savor or grieve as my psyche directs.

Unfortunately, that's not the way life is served.

Yesterday I received a call from the son of a friend I lost contact with years ago. The delightful news: he was alive, healthy, and engaged to be marred. The devastating news: my friend was dead.

What the hell was I supposed to feel? My governor wasn't kicking in. As someone who's ridden the roller coaster of emotions for decades, my survival mechanism for crisis has become think first - emote later. The event planner didn't show up and I was left with a bunch of empty chairs and no one to put them in the correct place.

After playing out this narcissistic tirade, the universal shock and disbelief set in. Yes, I say universal because I've never trusted my emotions and end up thinking what I think others would feel in this situation.

But I really felt nothing. Empty, numb, hollow, shot with so many shells I was unrecognizable to myself. How do you grieve someone you haven't seen in years? Someone who died years ago when you assumed all this time they were just doing normal things that people do every day and keeping their demons at bay with therapy and proper amounts of prescribed medication? Someone who was as energetic and humorous and quirky as you are?

So I switched the emote-o-meter to 'gratitude.' After all, her kid-who I've wondered about for years-was alive and gratitude is a good thing, right? The post-it note on my computer has been telling me so for six months now so it must be true.

The mashed potatoes got mixed in with the green beans and I have no choice but to eat them if I want to survive.

Life: 1
Death: 1

I'm waiting for the tie-breaker.

App me once, app me twice, app me 1000+ times

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-01-07T00:18:00Z

Come take tour with me of the less-than-thrilling worldof my Yahoo home page. Discover for yourself the correlation betweenn the amount of added content and the loss of IQ.

Joy of Duct Tape

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2010-01-03T16:19:00Z

Inspired by watching Julie and Julia last night on DVD, I decided to repair my copy of Joy of Cooking with duct tape. My husband and I were given the 1997 edition from my brother and sister-in-law for a wedding gift. And in the 14 years since, my passion and lack of archival sense took its toll. Broken spine, ripped, stained, dog-eared and missing pages, segmentation (at page 110; I'll never how to make New England Clam Chowder past scrubbing the "5 pounds quahogs or other hand-shelled clams.")

The book looks like total crap but it's still functional. I broke every bindery rule in the book, so to speak, but I was able to attach the filthy front and back covers. I did sacrifice part of the 'W' and 'Z' pages in the index, but who really cares since I'll never make Whelk Fritters or Kouglof. I thought I was missing the 'X' and 'Z' section, but that's because the book never bothers to cover any foods that begin with those letters. I guess I'm out of luck if I want to prepare xigua or zabaglione.

So of course after watching the movie, I had fantasies of the world discovering my blog, becoming famous, and publishing a book based on my disparate rants. But that only works for Julie Powell and Diablo Cody. The rest of us toil for nothing more than a few pats on the head, never even getting the chance to bite the gold coin like Underdog.

Besides, I'll never have millions hanging on to my every word, because my every word changes with each word. I dart from medium to medium and message to message, never staying in one long enough to build a following.

"So what is your blog about?"

I get asked this a lot by friends who understand analytics and search engine optimization and throw around the word 'monetize" a lot.

"It's about stuff I think about," I reply, coming off like a surly 15-year-old.

So in a half-assed attempt to keep my sanity, I've decided to just write, speak, or video whatever I want to. Maybe it will take some kind of form, maybe it will pick its own "lane." (I just looked this up: "Pick a Lane: How to Focus Your Expertise to Increase Your Bottom Line" The info made me want to do neither.)

So: The topic is Roberta, the focus is Roberta, the tags are Roberta. As for a lane, I've always weaved in and out of them while driving.

Make a left- NOW!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-27T17:32:00Z

When my mom began school, her teacher tied her left hand behind her back to stop her from using it. Fortunately, I was born in a more tolerant time and grabbing things with the 'wrong' hand was no longer punishable by binding.

However, the tendency to be 'left' anything still has the same negative connotations it did in my mother's time.

Handedness is an inherited trait, according to the most recent study, just like sexual preference, but prejudice against left-handers is so rampant that everything out of whack is named after us.

Chief among these is political preference, carried on no gene but treated with the same kind of ignorance.

It's not "right," it's not correct, it's different, it's chaotic, it's not what most people think, it would mean restructuring everything in our lives (of course, in the case of doorknobs and scissors I would welcome this.)

It's time to take back the word 'left' from people who use it as a slur. Just as gays took back the word queer, lefties can do the same by using the word ad infinitum. Problem is, they're too pussy to do so. They've caved in to those on the 'right' who've co-opted the word 'left' to define something dark and evil that will somehow affect 'the children.'

'Progressive' just doesn't have the same history and gravitas. It says "we're moving forward but we don't know where and by the way, thanks for the ceramic composting crock from Plow and Hearth.

It's also time to be thankful for what we've got. When Bush was in office, his right-wing minions (they're not afraid to call themselves 'right' whether or not they actually are) supported him to the hilt, no matter what insipid or dangerous crap he pulled.

But the left's support for Obama (a left-hander, BTW) continues to be in free-fall with each decision he makes that isn't exactly to their liking. So they're going to abandon Obama in 2012 and nominate another overly-intellectual ball-less wimp like John Kerry who has a snowball's chance in hell of being nominated because he's too scared to slay the dragon. Then we're back where we started- with a total dipshit for president.

So whatever the hell you call yourselves, be it liberal, left, or radical, say it and be it proudly. But don't kill the goose that laid the golden egg, the messenger, or anyone else on the side of some kind of reform with an IQ over 100. Or I'm going to call you idiot.

Let's get the band back together

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-24T19:41:00Z

A message to my old NJ 101.5 radio partner Brooke Daniels to see if she wanted to record a podcast with me for old times' sake. She wasn't home, so I did the next best thing- a solo mini-show after being inspired by her somewhat witty voice mail message. (Does anyone else even bother to inject wit, intelligence or anything other than abject indifference into their answering machine message these days?

De-friended and it (doesn't) feel so good

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-20T04:47:00Z

Yep. I fell into the "Every One of my Facebook Friends Means Something to Me." trap. I'm warning you, you do not want to follow me into this particularly painful virtual hell.

Ignore this kids, it's for a Podcast Alley Feed Thingie

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-19T05:05:00Z

<a href="http://www.podcastalley.com/"> My Podcast Alley feed!</a> {pca-1af7b7f32b7b3a37fa644367813ffbfb}

It's Christmas at the (former) Commune!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-15T17:15:00Z

A just-for-fun video made with a very old video cam, no polarizing filter, and no thought of what I was going to do. It's as funky as the community it portrays.

Help me, I'm saving tons of money!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-04T23:05:00Z

How could anyone not find something that's right in front of their face? Especially if it's a bag of coffee the size of Costa Rica.

Of Fake Claps and Kings

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-12-02T04:40:00Z

Obama takes on sleepy West Pointers, possible bad lighting and disingenuous military men during tonight's speech on Afghanistan. And I'm fixated on those frankensteinian veins on his forehead.

Who needs Oral A?

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-10-18T00:11:00Z

I woke up at 6 a.m. just to brush my teeth. But he adrenaline started pumping way before a hint of light reached my eyelids; I barely slept during the night.

I ran to the bathroom where my new OralB Professional Care SmartSeries 4750 toothbrush with Dentist-Inspired Cupping Action, plus FlossAction and Oscillating-Pulsating Technology was sitting in its Innovative Base Station plugged into its Portable SmartPlug Charger. The In-handle Smart Display let me know it was full and ready.

Why did it make me wait ten hours for a charge? That's just cruel. OK, I did sneak in a quick sweep of my mouth a half hour after I put the base in the charger, but that doesn't count, because the experience didn't last long enough to be satisfying.

So, as the birds started singing and the other desert creatures made whatever threatening noises they could, I popped on the Floss Action brush head, added a schmear of toothpaste, and was ready to go.

I picked it up, ready to brush, but I had to stop. An ergonomically designed handle is a beautiful thing to hold. I rolled it in my hand, admiring it; its heft and tang as fine as a Wusthof. The brush head felt as if it had always been part of the handle, hand-forged in a foreign workshop by some guy who's been making them for hundreds of years.

How handsome it was-in hues of blue and summer white, highlighted by silver wings that were waiting to take the inside of my mouth to ecstasy and beyond. Beyond could be to the toilet for all I cared-If my Oral B it was taking me there, I wanted to go. My mouth tingled with anticipation, nervous as a virginal schoolgirl.

I put into my mouth; gingerly at first, letting the pulsations and oscillations buzz me away. Daily Clean mode felt so good, but I had to back off, the sensation was too much to bear. Pushing the brushing mode button to Sensitive seemed like my only choice at this point.

It cleaned each quadrant slowly, giving each one its pre-allotted time that somehow seemed exactly right. But soon I was salivating for more. I moved on though Massage (or “Kobe Teeth”), Whitening, (a good idea; though my teeth were clean, my married self felt dirty) all the way to Deep Clean. Or as the Spanish-language version of the instructions informed me, Profundo.

They had it right. Deep Clean was so Profundo, its toothpaste tsunami so pleasurable, that I lost track of time. It was only when a smile face broke the mood and informed me that I'd been brushing for 11 minutes and 38 seconds that the OB 4750 left my mouth.

I began to put the handle down on its rightful place, (just to the left of my bathroom sink and next to that woven thing full of cotton balls) stopping once to lightly squeeze its ribbed underside and marvel at its girth. I knew it would be many hours before I felt it again.

How to get the love you want from a blog.

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-09-30T17:54:00Z

I tried. Honestly, I tired many times a day every single day to log in to my blog, write something and then get on with my day. But instead of using my confused beloved as the world's window to me, and vice versa, our relationship has become a candidate for couples counseling.

It's not that your empty spaces mock me, or your technology confounds me. It's just that...well.. brace yourself, sweetie.... I have another suitor who begs me to come whisper words in his ear-intimate words that will never see the light of the Web.Yes, I've been having a non-virtual affair with my personal journal.

When my pen touches his thick, handmade paper, I feel free because I know I'm writing for no one but myself. That narcissistic ass Kerouac got one thing right when he advised writers to keep "Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy."

But I will never stop loving you, hanging out with you, and sharing my witty, pithy comments on life, politics, and everything else with you.
I shall never, ever divorce you. But from now on, my secret dreams, passions, fears, thoughts, will be shared with another.

Please don't be sad. It's not you, it's me.

Im a lazy human being and I have no right to be on the blogosphere

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-09-10T16:38:00Z

According to some site that I glanced at once that I'm too lazy to check out again or even hyperlink to, a huge number of blogs are abandoned after a few weeks or a few months or some other statistic that I half-remember but don't feel like searching for right now.

I can see why.

Blogs are similar to relationships. When you first meet, you're smacked by that bolt of phermerones that keeps you so full of in-love stupidity that you post ten times a day. You call in sick, ignore family and friends and survive on whatever frozen crap is closet to the checkout lane.

Then, the shift. Imperceptible at first, ignorable for a while, but you feel it deep in the pads of your fingers. You start differentiating between day and night, begin wearing clothing again, and suddenly notice those breathing things walking around in your house. Your posts twitter down to once a day.

Once a day! You can do this! There's so many things going on in your head that surely you can post something, even a few sentences, once a day.

Once a day. Every damn day.

And you do for a while, because you've told everyone you have a blog and they commented a few times on the clever bon mots you saved and published. At this point, clicking on the publish button still gives you a thrill. You're an author!

But authors come out with books maybe once a year at the most. And since you take so much care to structure your sentences and show off your writing chops as opposed to those hacks that multiply like bacteria in the Petri dish of the Internet, you'd be prolific if you post even once a month.

I mean, you have to redo your business website that you've ignored for the past year. You're teaching Web writing and your own site reads like the kind of bad example you'd show your students. You've got to either hustle more or get off the air with this crazy dream that you can continue your radio career in a recession while staying put. Your husband feels ignored, your dog is shedding like crazy, your house looks like crap and you're embarrassed to have anyone over.

So you tell yourself that posting as often as a non-menopausal woman has a period would be fine and after all, you can spend less time honing your pithy/witty Tweets instead-the ones that go directly to Facebook so you don't have to jack around with writing stuff solely for that time suck.

Hey, you don't have to post at all anymore! You can just cut and paste your Tweets onto your blog, and when you have enough, you can make a real live printed book from your Tweets!

Then you'll be an author and start a blog. At first, you post daily...

Blog Break

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-08-05T01:25:00Z

Hi everyone!
If you hadn't noticed already, I'm taking a break from my beloved blog. Did you know that zillions of abandoned blogs are floating around cyberspace? Well not this one-it will not be abandoned.
I 'm working on some projects and will resume NOISE in September.

Meanwhile-You can hear me on 790 KNST from 6-9 a.m. Arizona time (3 hrs earlier than Eastern time) Wed. and Thursday, Aug. 5th and 6th.

If you want to listen online, go to

www.knst.com

The "listen live" doesn't seem to work, and if it doesn't, go to www.iheartradio.com launch the player towards the top. Where it says 'browse by format" choose "all" and where it says browse by state, choose "AZ"

it will give you choices in the state, go to page three to KNST-AM and click on listen.

I will also be on WHAM/Rochester on Friday August 14th from 11a.m. to 2p.m. Eastern Time you can listen live at
http://www.wham1180.com.

Toodles and talk to you soon,

Double your money, double your revulsion

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-07-25T00:00:00Z

Why do I insist on wasting money trying new flavors and brands of gum that are impressively marketed and packaged, but taste worse then the five day old dove carcass that I refuse to move from my back yard because I would be depriving some predator of chosen protein? If I tasted that carcass, I mean.

This time it was Extra Fruit Sensations Island Cooler. It wasn't the pictures of pineapple, orange and some mango/watermelon-looking-fruit on the front that pulled me in,nor was it the promise of "long-lasting fruit flavor"-that prospect could be hellish if the flavor sucked- it was the 88 cent price tag with my Safeway club card. The time before that it was Orbit fruity-mint something. Let's gets something straight-fruit and mint do not mix unless they're in a mojito.

This is my second date with Extra. The first time it was some exotic flavor that tasted like Rye bread with caraway seeds. I kept chewing it, though, because after all, it is gum and I've adored the stuff ever since my first one cent piece of Bazooka.

If Razzles (another perennial fave) are the lobster of gum, Bazooka is the steak, because it tastes like gum should-pink. And I'd still be spending every day and night with Bazooka Joe if it wasn't for the cavities and the manic effects of sugar that guild my hyperactive lily. I guess I'll have my chance now that someone is making a movie about him.

The other classics do nothing for me. Dubble Bubble tastes like a cross between third world bubble gum and wax lips, (although you have to give them props for misspelling their name long before it was fashionable) and Bubblicious tastes too big-in the same way that those giant Stay-Puft marshmallows don't quite have the concentrated flavor of the regular-sized ones.

I think I'll stick to an occasional giant gum ball. I put in my quarter, twist my wrist off, and the ball falls to the floor, where I pick it up and put it in my mouth. They pick the color, they pick the flavor, and I feel like a typical American, paying out of my ass and working my ass off, only to have someone else make choices for me.

And the swine just keep on infectin' n' killin'

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-07-19T18:37:00Z

Last night, either Walter Cronkite or Walt Disney came to me in a dream-hard to tell. In a voice that alternated between reverb and bass, and reverb and treble, either the voice of the 20th century or the voice of Micky Mouse told me to always remember to keep the American public paranoid and/or entertained.

So as some pig named Wilbur is my witness, I will never, ever, stop talking about Swine Flu again.

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it's not too late to be paranoid about swine flu!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-07-12T16:52:00Z

How easily we forget about swine flu-especially when one more celebrity death or political corruption/affair/resignation de jour pushes our fave mutant virus off of the news cycle. But with 37,246 confirmed cases and 211 deaths in the US, it's time to drum up some American pandemic pride!

Swine flu One-the primer!

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Hit me with your best club

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-07-05T15:52:00Z

The email below is an actual missive to some friends after a July 4th party.

Ok- our womens club was born last night on Dawn's bed. Like a pupae, it will now take shape into an eventual butterfly. Or not.

I am such a nerd and my mind is still in high school. I started thinking about all this cool stuff we could do with our club-we could sponsor a dog or a third world kid, video or audiotape ourselves and make movies or podcasts to put up on the internet, do crafts, climb every major peak in the US, eat dim sum.

And then-this is the ultra-queer part-I was thinking about what the we could name it-like the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants or something similarly idiotic, what kind of induction ceremony we would have for new members, etc. I was thinking it could involve fire and sacrificing S'mores and rice cakes, although to me, sacrificing rice cakes is no sacrifice at all, unless they're the kind with BBQ seasoning, i.e. gag suppressant. (Disclosure: the last two words of last sentence stolen from a "Simpson's" episode.)

Then I realized that this kind of club would become a full-time job and people would just stop showing up for "meetings" because in my overly-ordered mind, we would call them "meetings," which would turn a lot of people off, including me. In other words, I was creating a club that I would probably check out once, and then blow off.

So let's just try to get together once every month or so and do something fun involving at least one or more of the following: liquor, food, and sharp tongues, and laughter. If we agree on anything, it's what will not be involved. I suggest Wiccan rituals, crying over two minutes, and discussions about fiber.

If you are not totally turned off by the above, let me know what weekend you'll be in town over the next month.

love,

Roberta

P.S. I will not be the secretary just because I can write. The only notes will be in our minds to drift around our temporal lobes, or the lobe of your choice.

Tony! Toni! Tone! Get me out of this loser life for $69.99 plus S&H!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-07-02T16:36:00Z

Tony Robbins may or may not be changing my life as you listen.

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Executweet and Skymall

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-06-23T03:11:55Z

The difference between Executweet and Skymall is that you can check out only one of them while flying.

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Now older with added nag!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-06-21T07:00:00Z

I never thought I'd be obsessing over the color of my hair-and the other changes that go along with it have colored my emotions in a not-always-wonderful way.

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Me and Lou Dobbs and some decent makeup for once!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-06-12T17:27:00Z

Hey kids-here I am on Lou Dobbs Tonight on CNN-putting my toe in the tar pit of punditry!

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Masks of Distinction

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-06-01T07:00:00Z

Check out my latest podcasts n' stuff right here on www.robertagale.com or itunes.

I bought a few N-95 masks at the same time I made fun of people who did so. I'm always willing to practice apocalyptic hypocrisy if it results in humor, while getting me what I need just in case. And N-95 for H1N1 sounds cryptic in that cool action movie way.

This is a great time for me to stock up on masks, because we're in the window between the time the Swine Flu hysteria has slacked off a bit, and the time when the media begins pumping the second wave of Swine Flu stories. There's been a few of them trickling through, but they've been eclipsed by the retirement of Supreme Court Justice David Souter, who's returning to his hot bachelor pad in New Hampshire. The place looks like Jeb's shack before he hit black gold, Texas Tea, and moved with his family to Beverly Hills. Yes, this is the actual photo.

And of course there's the death of Dom DeLuise-it's hard to feel sad about the death of someone you thought died years ago. I feel a bit cheated since my mourning is muted.

Wait-STOP THE UPLOADING! This just in from CNN: Swine Flu Casts a Cloud Over Cinco de Mayo
Damn it! Too bad Cinco de Mayo is just a blip on the Mexican calendar, and only wildly celebrated here in the US. It if was popular in Mexico, I could have gone down there and sold my N-95's at inflated prices to Mexicans desperate to celebrate the thrilling battle of Puebla. And no, I wouldn't have sold them for useless pesos-American dollars and commodities only.

The Curious Case of Indomitably Long Movies

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-05-30T18:56:00Z

Two hours. That's it. With special effects, 3D, computer generated graphics, insanely compensated actors and our rapidly shrinking attention span, there's no reason for any halfway sane person to make a movie any longer than that.

As a self-focused individual who is less than halfway sane, I know better than to get into the movie making biz. I also understand why some movies are way too long: directors who suffer from megalomania, egocentricism, narcissism-a need to make the movie their way even if it would be a better film if half of it ended up on the cutting room floor.

Outsized ego was very carefully applied with calligraphy all overThe Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which my neighbor gave me yesterday with the caveat that I return it to Blockbuster by Monday. No problem there-I was ready to return it about an hour and forty minutes in-when I realized the movie was a little over half over and I hadn't even seen Cate Blanchette at all-only the kid who plays here as a young girl. Nor did I get to see the hot Brad Pitt-that guy is only on screen for a very short period. The rest ofthe time he either looks like the spawn of Yoda and Truman Capote, or a cross between cougar and pedophile bait.

The film was based on a short story by F.Scott Fitzgerald, and that should have been the tipoff. Every time a movie is based on a short story, the screenwriter fleshes it out with so much made up crap that the meaning and wordsmithery* of the lean original becomes bloated.

In the case of C2OB2 (copyrighted acronym for the movie's title but I forgot how to make the little circle C thing with my keyboard) the screenplay was written by the guy who wrote Forrest Gump. But where Gump was tolerable because the story of his life paralleled a historic timeline, C2OB2 shows a not-so-interesting guy's life over the course of a century and feels like sitting next to a disliked 90-year-old relative at dinner out of familial obligation.

This woman's nails were bitten to the quick when she sat down to see C20B2

Yesterday I went to a graduation party for a friend's daughter. I asked a few people if they liked the movie-not because I care whether "it's just me" or not, but so I'll know who I can't have a meaningful conversation with.

One lady said she loved it and watched it five times because she's a psychic and it confirms her belief that we have all lived before. Then she gave her me card. It had stars and moons and pink hearts with the designation "psychic" after her name. I could probably get a hold of her purse and add an "ot" in between the "h" and the "ic" Then it would read "psychotic" instead of "psychic." I'm just such an imp! Is this another digression? Sorry, but my ADD is protected in this blog under the ADA.

I was going to end this with "If she was really a psychic, isn't she also a masochist, because she watched the movie five times knowing how excruciatingly long it is?" thinking I was cleverly wrapping up this post, but then I realized how stupid that line was, because if she liked the movie, even if she knew how long it was going to be, she wasn't being a masochist.

I have to get out of here now. I'm going to TJ Maxx to find the heavily-discounted Born sandals my friend had on at the party yesterday. If I was a psychic I would know whether they have any left in my size and save myself a trip.

*may or may not be a word. Too lazy to check it out and I like the way it reads, anyway.

Don't Play Pattycake with My Balls!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-05-17T20:12:00Z

I am SO all about meatballs. Yes, that phrase sounds pitiful coming from a 52-year-old woman, but it's the most accurate way I could explain my extreme passion for round ground beef in some kind of sauce.

That's round ground, not ground round, although you can use ground round to make your meatballs if you'd like. I'm not going to argue about what kind of meat to use, because I'm burned out from spending all last night stuffing myself with savory, perfectly shaped and sized, crock pot meatballs in barbecue sauce. And kids' birthday cake, for which I staked my rightful claim by yelling "out of my way, you punks, I get a corner piece." Since I'm older, I'm entitled to more frosting in the short time I have left.

Sorry, got sidetracked. Back to meatballs. The meatballs at the party were so good that I brought a bunch of them home, because the host and hostess were considerate enough to provide take home containers for everyone, and encourage them to take as much as they wanted. The containers were made of styrofoam, which can screw up the earth, leech toxic chemicals, damage the ozone, and clog landfills, but is yummy enough to be eaten when filled with delectable and free meatballs.

These meatballs were so amazing that I had some later that night, and the next morning, despite having to take Alka Seltzer* twice. When I microwaved the last meatball, it somehow bounced off of the counter and onto the floor. In the blink of eye, I grabbed the meatball and shoved it into my mouth, only seconds ahead of my dog, Jingo. I usually examine food that fell on the floor before I eat it-even I have my rules; no dead bugs or clumps of dog hair-but meatballs are the exception.

Small is not only preferable, it's much tastier as well. The smaller the meatballs, the more surface area becomes exposed to the sauce, resulting in an intensely concentrated explosion of flavor.

How much surface area is available to be covered in my fave bbq sauce using the perfect meatball size of 1" in diameter? Let's figure it out, shall we?
Area=pr²
where p=pi (3.14)
and r=radius (.5 x diameter)

3.14x.5x1squared=0.7853981633974483

Yes, at great personal risk to myself and our country, I have decided to share the secret formula. Of course, now the world will end in a apocalyptic fury, but who cares about blood curdling screams and massive loss of life when you can pop a delish meatball into the melting flesh around your rapidly deteriorating jaw?

*My husband has demanded that the one product I cannot buy as a generic is Alka Seltzer, because once he opened a packet of Wal-Mart's Equate Effervescent Tablets and claimed they didn't fizz. I told him it was probably because the packet expired in 2005, but he thought it was due to its inferior ingredients.

A Case Against Getting Your Own Medical Records

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-05-12T15:31:00Z

I'm a Spaz. This is not the same objective statement so kindly provided by schoolchildren, but the bona fide conclusion of my physical therapist. Of course, medheads think they're clever by couching it in medical jargon, but when I read "poor body awareness" on my chart, I knew exactly what she meant.

Of course I know I'm a spaz. You'd think I would have picked it up by having it said to me about 526,000 times from kindergarten to high school. I think it stopped around the time I got breasts. Who cares if someone flops around if you have a chance to cop a feel while they're doing so? Remind me to Twitter Katy Perry with an idea for her next single "I kissed a Spaz, and I missed her mouth."

According to some teacher handout that I found on the first Google search listing because I was too lazy to go any further, knowing where your body is in space, right and left discrimination, and spatial relations are all components of body awareness and necessary for learning.

What it should have said was knowing where your body is in space, right and left discrimination, and spatial relations are all components of body awareness and necessary to not make your early school years a living hell just because those girls who take ballet class know their right from their left, where their limbs are at any given time, and how far away they are from stuff that they could bump into.

I'm going to use every search engine I can, find everyone I went to school with, and sue each one of these little punks for violating my right under the ADA not to be ostracized.

I didn't want to be a ballerina, anyway. (Bloggers' disclosure: that is a lie.) Tulle is the most uncomfortable material known to mankind. Look at this girl-she can't even turn around in her tutu because she's in so much pain.

That's OK. She's probably one of the kids who made fun of me.

I suffer from Positional Dyslexia, (or as my husband says while giving me driving directions, "I meant the other left!) lack of spacial acuity, poor hand/eye coordination, and I'm double-jointed. I flop around like a fish while doing simple activities like walking, not because of my lack of grace, but because my mind is in the same place where Einstein's was while he was trying to work out his Theory of Relativity. And who says you have follow the rules of movement that the man told us to follow?

I may be a spaz-but I'm an anarchist genius spaz!

Now will someone please tell me if my left elbow is anywhere in the vicinity of the edge of a table?

Oh no, Not THE DOG!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-05-09T00:53:00Z

Every time I hear about some harrowing event involving humans and animals, I immediately ask if the animals made it. If the animals are OK, I'm fine. If the animals were killed or hurt, I'm a mess for the rest of the week.

It's not that I hate humanity, or wish death and suffering upon humans, (except for a few people who know who you are and why I feel this way) it's just that my tragedy emoto-meter is permanently set to "animal."

It reminds me of this code word I came up with when my friends and I call each other to talk about some soul-wrenching experience that needs urgent attention. We used to start with a few minutes of small talk, no matter how pained we were, because we wanted to be polite. Now we tell the aggrieved party to "cut to the pain." It works. In that same way, when someone begins to tell me about a flood, blizzard, mudslide, wildfire or similar event with possible cataclysmic consequences, I order them to "cut to the animals.'"

So of course when I read an article about two dozen sled dogs, their owner and his girlfriend, who were rescued from a flood in the northern reaches of Alaska, I was elated. The dogs were OK! Nice that the people weren't killed, but their survival honestly didn't move me.

The story read like a Jack London novel. "House sized" ice was starting to break up on the Yukon River, and the water was rising so rapidly that it began flooding a couples' cabin. So the people went outside and began untying their two dozen sled dogs, who probably never saw the inside of a house in their lives. I don't buy that crap that sled dogs like to sleep in the snow. They just keep their mouths shut so they won't be out of a job in this economy.

At this point, I was reminded of the worst movie I've ever tried to sit though called "Snow Dogs." I can't even tell you the plot without crying hysterically, but this "children's movie" involves dog abandonment and death. How many kids threw up their Happy Meals after seeing it, and will end up in therapy as adults?

Anyway, the dogs were put in boats, pallets of plywood, whatever the people could find. Then all of a sudden, the water rushed over its banks. One of the boats full of dogs broke apart, but the dogs swam to high ice and safety. I was elated at this point. The dogs were going to be OK!

Then the people blah, blah, blah, people VHS radio help, blah, blah blah, people chop down trees for copter to land, blah, blah, blah, rescue helicopter comes, blah, blah, blah, and then they supported the dogs by their stomachs, lifted them by their collars, (which ordinarily would upset me, but it was an emergency) put them in the helicopters, and harnessed them in.

That story made my month. I was going to email it all of my animal-loving friends so we could gush over the survival of these amazing dogs, when I came to a certain line about ten paragraphs further down.

"But Skipper, a one-year-old who looked like a malamute, didn't make it. (The man's) voice caught as he said (Skipper's) name.
We didn't even know he was dead until the water dropped out."

My god, is there no justice in this world, no beauty, nothing to live for? The thought of Skipper dead ruined the rescue of the other dogs for me. And they had to use the poor guys' name. I kept thinking, If only Skipper made it-then life would be good.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the people in the story are kindred spirits and love their dogs as much as I do. "That's our kids," said the woman, Kate, who now deserves to be named.

But poor Skipper. Known forever to me and all dog lovers as the dog who didn't make it. He joins the annals of other dogs, both famous and unknown, who never made it, like Snowball, who was violently taken away from the little boy he loved during the evacuation after the New Orleans flood.

Skipper. Snowball. Millions of others. Some taken by mother nature, some taken by force, some taken because there wasn't enough room in the pound. Think of me what you will, call me the Oprah of dogs, but when one dog goes down, we all go down.

So to paraphrase Stephen Stills, "If you can't be with the dog you love, love the dog you're with."

Swine Flu Fever

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-05-01T01:13:00Z

I accomplished next to nothing today, and for that, I have no one but Swine Flu, A.K.A. Mexican Flu. A.K.A. H1N1 A.K.A. Mad Pig Disease, to blame.

Yep, I caught Swine Flu Fever -or SF squared as my hip mind is compelled to call it-and now I can't stop checking the latest toll. the CDC and the WHO may have the most factual info, but the networks have the most exciting and frightening presentation.

I actually woke up this morning and did something I've never done before-go right to the TV set to check out the latest stats. My SF squared would not be denied.

I learned that someone who calls herself "Dr. Nancy" likes BBQ pork from certain street corner vendors in New York, and stuffs her face with it in front of tens of millions of people just to show you can't get Swine flu from eating the little buggers all chopped up with delectable sauce.

I also learned how to cough into my elbow instead of my hand, use tissues to sneeze instead of my hand, wash my hands with my hands, and stay home from work or school when I'm sick. And to keep tuning in as the death and non-death toll mounts and people get voted off for life. It's sort of like watching American Idol, only with the whole world competing.

I feel left out becuase I don't have the actual flu yet. I want to be one of the early adopters, those ultra kewl cognoscenti who do stuff way before the rest of us. With my luck, I'll be the last person on early to get it. Literally.

Another little bastard I still don't trust.

Animal Farm Revisited

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-04-27T20:13:00Z

I'm totally panicked about Swine Flu. I have 100 lbs. of Nature's Recipe Lamb and Rice Senior waiting for my husband and I after I kill Jingo so we can drink her blood. And those N-95 respirator masks disappearing from retail and internet stores? Already have 'em-any self-respecting hypochondriac would.

At the same time, I'm laughing at the inbred paranoia of your average pussified American who sits in front of her computer waiting for the latest RSS feed from the CDC or going out of her way to look up terrifying images of infected human-pig clones running to our country as fast as their little hooves can take them.

I knew there was something weird about Pigs-being so delicious and as intelligent as humans and all.

Look at the way they look at us-even the cute little ones.

Those pug-nosed monsters know something we don't. If we don't nip this in the bud, they'll start coming out of our stomachs.

P.S. Keep an eye on people who college pig figurines. If you visit someone and see anything like this in their home

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!

The least sexiest topic in the world-with breasts

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-04-20T22:29:00Z

I've wanted to talk about this for the past week, and frankly, it's been taking up a lot of my time. But I don't know anyone over legal age who isn't being pulled under by a similar issue, so the time to talk is now.
The problem is, the topic is health care-and I don't need to tell you how excruciating it is to hear someone's else health problem. So I decided to substitute the world "nipple" for health insurance and "breast" for my particular prescription.
I went to pick up my breast at Walgreen's the other day, and the pharmacist said I couldn't have it because my nipple stopped covering my breast. I said, "No one told me that my breast isn't covered, what are you talking about?" He replied, "There's nothing I can do, your nipple keeps rejecting your breast. Perhaps you can order a substitute."
I told her that there was no substitute for my breast, because I've tried several other breasts in the past, and they didn't work-I ended up either throwing them out or giving them away.
I was really upset because I was almost out of breast and there was no way I could afford to pay for it on my own. So I went home and tried to get in touch with my nipple, but even after waiting on the phone for over an hour and talking to three different people, my nipple wouldn't budge. Apparently, it changed the formulary and was now substituting my breast with a less expensive one.
So now I'm thinking of going down to Mexico for my breast, although my nipple told me that was an illegal and dangerous thing to do.
So I'm pleading with you, President Obama-fix the nipple problem now, before it grows larger and even more ugly.

Intimate, and Only Quasi-Annoying, Movie

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-04-12T16:40:00Z

Yesterday I went to a movie for the first time since I walked out of 300 a few years ago, because it was played on some new type of screen that made me want to throw up. Thankfully, we were at a mall theater, so I left my husband in Spartan bliss while I went to American Eagle Outfitters and trolled the $5.00 basket for something wearable.
This time I met some friends at an art theater to see The Black Balloon, although I mistakingly called it The Red Balloon, which is about some kid who becomes friends with a red balloon but it's destroyed by bullies and then a bunch of other red balloons show up and take the kid on a ride. It's mute with attempted meaning in the way the French have down pat.
The Black Balloon is about a boy coming to terms with his autistic/ADD younger brother, while falling in love and dealing with the rest of his family. It's an Australian film, so I hoped Russell Crowe would be in it, but instead I got Toni Collette, the only thing that makes The United States of Tara watchable.
The Aussies are grittier than Americans, and less tolerant of couching reality, so the Autistic kid was annoying and retarded 2/3 of the time, and charming and retarded only 1/3 of the time. We Americans love to show our cinematic retarded people as good-natured shamans, who force us to understand some essential truth about our own, non-retarded lives.
Yes, I know the difference between autistic and mentally retarded, and that the word retard is out of favor. Hell, I spent years in elementary school being called "retard," which was actually a refreshing change from "Christ Killer."
For the purposes of the move, the kid was called autistic, but he acted retarded and violent enough to be institutionalized. The he pulled some cute, relatable stunt, just enough so the audience would share an "awwww, you can't take this kid away from his family," moment. Then he acted violent again. That's what I liked about this movie. That and the fact that the girl who played the older brother's girlfriend was gorgeous, and the movie kept reminding us of that by shooting the kind of close-ups that implore us to count pores. It made me feel better to know that young, beautiful woman still have pores that beg to be squeezed.
It was the day after the movies' premiere, a matinée with reduced admission. Yet there were only about 15 people in the theater. It made me wonder how many people were taking this recession-cutting-back-on-spending-thing seriously But their spendthrift nature was my bonus gift, because I'm a personal-space lover and germaphobe. I got to experience the intimacy of being with strangers, without actually having to be near them.
But I did have to be near my friends, one of whom had constipation and missed the first ten minutes of the movie, and the other who brought a hummus lunch despite the reasonably priced pizza and panini served at the concession stand.
The movie was about a half hour too long, as most movies seem to be these days. But I liked the no-plot slice-of-life art movie thing, as much I was bored by it.
It was an atypical cold and rainy April day in the desert, and hanging out in a huge room in the dark with something big flickering on one wall had a certain appeal. Plus I could sort of relate to the retarded kid, what with my hyperactivity, low thrill threshold, and massive brattiness when I don't get my way. All my friends knew it. So much so that one friend called my husband and implored him to repeat one of the pivitol lines in the film, "can you say monkey?" to me when I called.
And in case you're wondering-yes, I can say monkey-very well, thank you.

Passing over Passover

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-04-09T19:32:00Z

Last night was the first night of Passover, and the first time I didn't observe it in years. Yeah, the old Jewish guilt made a opening act appearance, but the ephemeral guilt I felt was based more on feeling guilty for not feeling guilty.
Instead, I went to a video field production class at this public access joint downtown. When I signed up for it, I forgot it met on Passover. When I remembered, I experienced some wistfulness-no matzo ball soup, no gefilte fish, no brisket, no kugel, no ancient ritual of gratitude, no 'hey, they tried to off us, but we showed them-we're still here." chosen people cockiness.
But for the first time in my life, I considered the options, made a decision, stuck with it, and moved on. What the hell was that about? I feel so empty without the agony of rumination. So boring without the spice of neurosis.
I decided instead to have some quasi-meaningful ritual of my own. So I spent a few minutes being thankful for things in my life, and lit a Yahrzeit Candle. A Yahrzeit candle is a memorial candle that's supposed to be lit on the anniversary of the person's death according to the Hebrew calender, and during Jewish holidays. (Notice I'm blowing off the hyperlinks today. While I understand they can be illuminating to non-Jews during this post, they can be irritating.)
So I lit a candle and thought of everyone in my life and the life of everyone I know who died. It started off pretty specifically with the deaths of those closest to me, and then became less meaningful, almost lame, when I got to the names of people I didn't even know, i.e. "My friend Beth's friend who died."
Then I realized, "screw this" since I don't think dead people you don't even know care if you're lighting a memorial candle for them, even when it's done in the name of one of the white trash babies Nancy Grace gets an orgasm talking about.
So I dedicated the candle to the one person I lost this year who meant more to me than anyone else on my list-my dog Arby

So here's to you, Arby. I miss you and I'm taking good care of the Arby tree that I nourished with your ashes. I know you loved my brisket, so I hope you forgive me for not making any this year. Maybe this whole thing was about how Passover wouldn't be the same without you.

Quail Sculpture-Peck Art -and I'm practicing adding images and a crapload of hyperlinks!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-04-05T22:52:00Z

My Quail block costs 23 bucks for a 30 lb. block, and they used to last about two months. Now I'm lucky if I get two weeks put of it. For those of you who don't live in areas where quail conjugate, a quail block is a almost impenetrable block of birdseed-the equivalent of compressed rawhide.

But just as the increased density of the dog bone does little to increase its life and placate the "aggressive chewer," the quail block gives the finger to the "man" part of "man vs. nature."

It stands on a five-foot platform in my backyard-a structure built to protect it from the herds of living trash compactors called javalina, but apparently not from White-winged doves (i.e. pigeons, i.e. the cockroach of the desert,) and Curve-Billed thrashers and Gila Woodpeckers and every other bird that the indiscriminate Gamble's Quail decide to invite over.

But I have to admit the results of this artistic gestalt are quite impressive. I don't have any pics of a brand-new block, because I'm going to let the gang sell their own feathered asses to get seed for the next month, but after a few days it looks like the image above-sort of like an old adobe ruin.

But the work goes quickly, and the symbiosis is evident. If Darwin saw all the adaptation going on, he'd forget all about the Galapagos.

The quail, woodpeckers, and thrashers chisel right into this puppy, softening it up so the doves can flap in for the kill. Yes, I said puppy. As in, this masterpiece looks like a dog. Check it out-it's sort of beagle-like, the nose and mouth are on the left side, a flappy ear on the right, and the comically short legs and bobbed tail are below. It's like I have my own little Texas Canyon, or anywhere that weathered boulders resemble something familiar.

Then little by little, the Quail art fades, slips away like the proverbial seed in a block. Until the pile diminishes, and little is left but the crumbs of what once was. I always become sad and annoyed at these times-sad because the beauty is gone forever, and annoyed because it's time to buy another 23 dollar, 30 pound quail block. I don't have the heart to show you any less than this

Auto-Saved: 10:31:37 AM

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-04-01T17:31:37Z

Back with the Wind

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-02-04T15:51:00Z

There's cobwebs in this blog-I haven't been here in ages. Maybe because I believed that what I had to say was no different from what hundreds of millions, if not billions of people are expressing right now-what the hell is going to happen? I've never seen a time in my entire life when people give a shit about nothing else but how to get out of this recession. Immigration, Guantanamo, Border security, Iraq, tax problems of certain Obama nominees -even though the newscasts are full of that stuff and pound us with it over and over and over again, WE DON'T CARE! Glad I'm not a talk show host at this very moment, because all I could talk about was how you can make a meal out of nothing but a box of Hamburger Helper, because, as cousin Eddie announced with precongnizance in National Lampoon's Vacation, "It tastes good all by itself!" Come to think of it, that would be better than most of the prattle on the airwaves.

Of course stuffed into these other media stories are apocalyptic predictions of how the US, and then the entire world, is going to collapse economically-how everyone will lose their jobs, their homes, their cars, and we're all going to be living outside in tattered remnants of what once were Lucky Brand jeans and Manolo's, freezing our asses off and eating rotten vegetables, just like Scarlett O' Hara in Gone With the Wind. (My fave movie!)

But just as Scarlett O' Hara rose up from the ravaged field, her tattered party dress but a remnant of the soirees she once held in thrall, grabbed her rotten tuber, held it up defiantly to the sky, and vowed "I will never go hungry again," so shall I.

Gotta go start my quest. I can easily find a rotten tuber at those Big Lot discount food stores, but it may take a few more days to find a wedding dressed ripped to shreds by some bitter divorcee to stand in for Scarlett's trashed party frock.

How Many Times a Week Do You Do It?

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-01-21T01:28:00Z

I have committed the bloggers' sin of not blogging every day. Or even every week. But why not blog only when I feel like it or have something to say? After all, it's not my job, it's supposed to be for fun, and despite a lucky few being able to "monetize" their blogs, there's a brain cells' chance in Bush's head that I'll be one of them.

Do you really want to read every piece of crap that passes through my head? I don't even want to, but I'm me, and I don't have a choice If you do, I'd be glad to provide you with one of millions of self-serving, narcissistic piece of undistilled stream-of-consciousness material that's so intimate, long, and sometimes boring, you'll want to get away from me after a while, too.

Yes, I have done the exact same thing in my podcasts (www.robertagale.com) but at least there's a bit of entertainment value in listening (or watching) someone spit out their stuff in real time-the train wreck theory. I don't know if I have the capacity to be that riveting in print.

By it's very nature, blogging is supposed to be stream-of-consciousness-unedited, unfettered, and free, like that guy in Paris that Joni Mitchell sings about. But I spent a career doing that on the radio. I wanted something a bit more polished on my blog. Sort of like "real" writing that I look at a little while later and change stuff around, or even cut it out entirely if it would make the piece better. The problem is, it took so much time to write and rewrite a post before I published it, that my blog became more of a homework assignment than a creative diversion. So I stopped adding posts. I didn't even want to go to my blog site because it would just depress me.

And so much has happened since I last posted. I started my first traditional job in years (ok, it's a temp job, but the last time I had one, Kelly Services was called Kelly Girls,) developed compassion and disgust for people who work on their feet all day for $8.50 an hour, learned everything there is to know about college students, am in the midst of an existential crisis as I watch my beloved terrestrial radio careen down techo mountain in a ball of flames, and other stuff, like learning to spell inauguration.

So I will temper my need to immediately express every crumb of my personal experiences that I always interpret as a microcosm of what's going on in the universe at large, with my desire to write an edited, pithy, meaningful, humorous and/or profound piece that someone other than myself might want to print.

Toodles and luv ya!

Roberta

I swear (or affirm) I will sell stuff

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-01-10T23:09:04Z

A few days ago I was hired for a temporary job at a university bookstore. I was one of hundreds of people hired to fortify the staff during the second semester rush, when hordes of freshman, grad students, undergrads, parents, and those who have a masochistic desire to be in crowds, will descend upon a three-story temple of words. For a few short weeks, my place of employment will become a microcosm, petri dish, and sump pump of humanity. But have no fear, for I am ready. I've been trained to deal with fear, confusion, frustration, anger, depression,and retail mania. At least as much as can be crammed into a three-hour orientation.

Being initiated into the public sector is a strange experience. I was a virgin at the beginning of the ritual, I became a whore by the end.

Because buried in the twenty-something pages of paperwork, was something so bizarre that it deserved more pause than I, ever-cognizant of the job market, gave it. Something so creepy that I expected Joe McCarthy to jump though the page and force me to sign or be blacklisted. Something that was as foreign to me as eating Larb Gai for breakfast. Something I signed because I needed to get out of the house. Something that went like this:

A. I, Roberta Gale solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution and laws of the State of Arizona, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and defend them against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and that I will faithfully and impartially discharge the duties of the office of temporary sales assistant according to the best of my ability, so help me God (or so I do affirm).

It's called a loyalty oath, and any public employee in the state has to sign one. Correction. Everyone working for the state doesn't have to sign one. How ridiculous of me to even think that. That would be way too big-brother-ish.

B. Any officer or employee who fails to take and subscribe to the oath or affirmation provided by this section within the time limits prescribed by this section is not entitled to any compensation until the officer or employee does so take and subscribe to the form of oath or affirmation prescribed by this section.

So I guess it's not that creepy, after all. You're free to work at a state job, you just won't get paid for it. But think about. Wouldn't it make you feel better knowing that if you're checking out your book and a bunch of guys in red uniforms with muskets and bayonets come charging in between the Biology and Mass Media sections, I am sworn to defend you?

And should you fear that the person running the register one lane over will join the other side and turn on all of us, don't worry.

C. Any officer or employee having taken the form of oath or affirmation prescribed by this section, and knowingly at the time of subscribing to the oath or affirmation, or at any time thereafter during the officer's or employee's term of office or employment, does commit or aid in the commission of any act to overthrow by force, violence or terrorism as defined in section 13-2301 the government of this state or of any of its political subdivisions, or advocates the overthrow by force, violence or terrorism as defined in section 13-2301 of the government of this state or of any of its political subdivisions, is guilty of a class 4 felony and, on conviction under this section, the officer or employee is deemed discharged from the office or employment and is not entitled to any additional compensation or any other emoluments or benefits which may have been incident or appurtenant to the office or employment.

They'll be canned. And they won't even be eligible for unemployment or COBRA.

A swear (or affirm) I will sell stuff

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-01-10T20:40:00Z

Asthma Taffy

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2009-01-03T22:25:00Z

It started with a Bell telephone my family rented for a dollar a month. The sucker weighed about twenty pounds and shook when it rang-a jarring ring that commanded anyone within range to pick it up NOW or ELSE.

My mom was out, leaving my sister to her least favorite chore-babysitting me. The only plus on her end was being able to tell me what to do. I rarely listened, unless I had something she wanted, which she got by using reserve psychology so brilliantly succinct it still works. "I don't want it, anyway," was powerful back then, and it still suckers me in now. Why would I want something that my big sister doesn't?

A few minutes after I had given her my Brown Cow and was well into not realizing my stupidity, the phone rang. It was mom checking up on us. Why just then, I don't know, but for some reason I looked at the phone and wondered what made it work. I asked my sister, who answered, "I don't know, It just does." Then she walked off to relish the candy she psyched me out of, all carmel-y and chocolate covered and no longer mine.

It was just me and the phone, my sudden object of intense curiosity. I picked it up and shook it, and noticed the ringer set inside the metal plate. OK, that's how it rang! It wasn't good enough for me. I wanted IN. I ran and got a screwdriver from the kitchen catch-all drawer and got to work. First I screwed off the metal plate. Then the ringers (real bells back then,) then all the other metal stuff inside. I undid the wires and was fascinated by the different colors. Then I started on the handset. Wow! A microphone where you put your mouth and a heavy disc thing where you put your ear. By the time I was done, it looked like someone had eaten a phone and thrown up.

I felt only semi-fulfilled. I took the phone apart, but I still didn't have much of an idea of how it worked-how it took a voice from somewhere else and put it in our phone.

I never found out, since my sister came into kitchen soon after with those three words that always led to a spanking. "I'm telling mom!" She always sounded so gleeful. But no belt across my ass was forthcoming, because I put the phone back together so well that mom didn't believe my sis when she insisted I tore the phone apart.

Since then, I've always been curious about how things were made. Which led to my passion for factory tours (and later third world factory tours where OHSA regulations are non-existent and anyone can get close enough to touch products and blades) and for taking things apart.

This curiosity persisted through the decades, and I still get the same thrill when I open something up as I did back then. My latest project is an empty Advair Discus. Empty is important because if I had to pay out of pocket for these things, I'd be out 200 bucks.

Since the moment I started huffing them a few years ago, I was enthralled with how well they were built-the Mack trucks of inhalers.

The Advair "Diskus"-which sounds like an ancient Olympic event that someone suffering from asthma couldn't win-works by lining up the mouthpiece with some little bubble of powder. Something in the inhaler bursts the bubble, and I inhale deeply as the magic dust invades my lungs. In theory, this is supposed to improve their efficiency. Each time I picked it up it was so round and heavy and thick and full of pulleys and mechanisms and plastic that it was just too irresistible. I had to find out what was inside this goose that laid the golden dust.

The Intact Inhaler

So I gathered up screwdrivers and wrenches and pliers and hammers and nails and screws and pins and whatever else I could get my hands on to unbuild this mystery of non-American (English) ingenuity. I tried to pry the top open with a screwdriver. Failing that, I tried the pliers, always a favorite. The top moved a bit, but that's it. I stuck some nails in whatever openings I could but still no luck. I was really getting fed up and a little wheezy at this point, so I went for the cheaters tool-the hammer. I took it outside and smashed it on the concrete. It cracked, but didn't open. I was really frustrated. In all my history of opening stuff up, I have never failed to get the guts out. I decided to do the adult thing and get a sledgehammer from the garage, but for some reason I couldn't find it. I think my husband hid it from me for just this reason. I still didn't give up, but I did capitulate somewhat. The last refuge of a scoundrel is the internet, and that just where I went to find a pic of the Advair innards.

The Amazing Guts of an Advair Inhaler

It really doesn't look like much, so I quickly got over my disappointment. Until I saw that someone not only got inside but made a flying saucer out of the thing complete with noise and blinking lights. They even made a video of Advair shooting though the atmosphere. You'll have to find that one yourself, because I'm jealous and don't want to share.

Youse Amuse Me

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-31T18:41:00Z

When I was seven, I watched the cartoon where the gangster was going to kill Bugs Bunny. Just before we was about to shoot Bugs, he said “I’d kill yas, but ya amuse me.” I’m sure something hit my subconscious at that point, because ever since that moment, I became amusing to save my life.

I decided that if anyone ever came in the house to kill me (though it was more likely someone from inside the house would do the deed) I had to be amusing- or be killed.

It’s served me well over the years. And I not dead, so I must be amusing. Or I just haven’t met the gangster yet.

This Sucks Don't Change the Channel

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-27T19:25:00Z

At a Christmas party, my husband and I found ourselves sitting at a table with people we met only an hour before. The discussion was far from muted-the addition of alcohol gave it that je ne sais quoi-but it really jacked up when I mentioned I was so bored on Christmas Eve, I watched Eddie and the Cruisers ll-Eddie Lives on Showtime. Immediately, four voices yelled "I watched that, too!"

What followed was a long discussion interspersed with one of us singing or acting out scenes from the movie.

Eddie: I gotta to do my music my way this time!
Cut to: Eddie doing his new music the exact same way he did his old music.

Eddie and The Cruisers ll, Eddie Lives, (Tagline: The Legend. The Movie. The Man.) was the 1989 sequel to 1983's Eddie and the Cruisers, (Tagline: Rebel. Rocker. Lover. Idol. Vanished.) a thinly disguised biography of Bruce Springsteen, complete with hardscrabble, dead-end New Jersey shore town. In the original, Eddie Wilson finds fame as a rocker, then disappears. ECll follows Eddie's new life in Canada as the mysterious Joe West, a construction worker with a bad mustache and a band. The music, by Springsteen's movie doppelganger, John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band, resulted in a top ten single "On The Dark Side." The plots are predictable, the music derivative, and the acting pedestrian- not quite bad enough to be funny.

So why did five out of five of us at that table sit though the entire thing? My husband said he was compelled to watch it, and the rest of us agreed. Apparently we were not the only ones hypnotized by the film, as evidenced by this quote I found on IMDB.com from a ECll fan from Easton, PA.: This movie held me spellbound right up to the end.

WTF? The movie sucked, pure and simple. Eddie 20 years later isn't even that cute, although he does have an artistic-loser quality I would have found attractive years ago. The chick was too stupid looking to be hot, and the guys in the band were idiots. His Jersey band looked vaguely ethnic in that "I could be Jewish or Italian" way, with an angry non-ethnic high-school dropout thrown in as a garnish. "Canada" consisted of an exterior shot of water and pine trees, and a log cabin for band practice.

But none of us-from the M.D. at the party, to the guy from Easton-couldn't stop watching. I became so obsessed with Eddie that I came home that night, listened to "On the Dark Side" and a whole bunch of lesser Eddie songs on YouTube, Googled, Wikipedia'd and IMDB'd both movies, and even blogged about it. I'm still fixated.

Is it the spellbinding nature of ECll that kept us watching, or just the dead time between Christmas week and New Years' when we don't know what to do with all that time we say we want? We don't milk cows, tell stories, or play pianoforte for the gathered guests, we watch TV. And those bastards at the premium channels know all too well that this is the one time of year we give a damn that Eddie Lives.

Voted Most Popular Virtual Friend

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-24T17:10:00Z

When I was a kid I didn't have many friends for a multitude of reasons-from having zero sports skills, which forced the teacher in my fifth grade class to assign me to a groaning softball team, to being so manic the school shrink wanted my mom to sign me up for a trial of an experimental drug for what was then called "Hyperkinetic Reaction," to having the kind of family that was dysfunctional before the term existed, to the sentence invoked by my parents and punishable by shunning, for the crime of being Jewish in a non-Jewish neighborhood.

Which explains why I not only say "yes" to every friend request on Facebook, but go trolling for friends as if my survival depends on the days' catch.

Facebook is presumably a more collegial version of Linked In or Plaxo, (that last which I mistook as a networking site for fellow hypochondriacs,) and a less annoying version of Twitter, which sounds like something you want to swat until it lies flat and lifeless on your kitchen counter.

But Facebook is as old fashioned as fruitcake and just as useless. Except to me and hundreds of thousands of other attention-starved childhood losers who really do want to know that right now Jim is changing his son's diaper, or Kimberly is stranded at JFK because of an ice storm.

I started with friends-real friends-people I know and would actually pick up the phone to talk to. Then I moved on to acquaintances-those I met once or twice somewhere at some convention or something. Then things really began to deteriorate. I would not only accept anyone who was thrown my way by friends of friends, but I actively searched for people who I may have heard of, or who were friends of friends of friends-or even complete strangers who had nice pictures and decent-sounding names.

Once I broke my Facebook cherry, I quickly deteriorated into slutdom. Someone asked-no matter how dorky or fat or dumb or hillbilly- and I confirmed them.

One day, it was there. A friend request from Tom Petty. Not Tom L. Petty from Chattanooga who works for the Tennessee Valley Authority, but the Tom Petty. I thought he really wanted to be friends with me because he read my profile and thought I was cool. Tom Petty picked me for his softball team! My shaking hand grabbed the mouse and left-clicked "confirm"

"Dave-I'm friends with Tom Petty!" I screamed into the next room.

"God, are you naive," he said. "Tom didn't ask you. His 17-year-old web nerd did."

Wow. What a heartsink. But not enough to keep confirming total strangers and pathetically searching for "friends."

One day, this hyperkinetic Jew with no spacial acuity, no hand-eye coordination, congenital clumsiness, and positional dyslexia (a fancy term for being too dumb to figure out left from right,) will be the first one picked for the intrepid Facebook team. Put me in, social networking coach, I'm ready to play, today.

I Feel Like Crap Today, Thanks for Asking!

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-22T20:36:00Z

Sometimes, despite our best efforts to the contrary, our day just sucks. Nothing in particular brings about such a day-it's not cloudy, no one died, we still have a job, we didn't spend two hours on the phone to trying to deal with a package promised but never delivered-we just feel bad. And once we realize we feel bad for no particular reason, we feel bad about feeling bad for nothing.

After all, horrible days must go with horrible events, right? And having a horrible day for nothing is a cause for alarm-time for all those self-help books, and sayings on posters of eagles flying, to kick in with some memorable phrase that will yank us up, dust us off, and get us on with our day. That is, until something we've programmed ourselves to think is really worthy of being bummed out comes along.

But why can't feeling depressed be a luxury-sort of a soul spa where we can stop pretending that we're happy just to be alive?

A slovenly day when we toss whatever is holding us together on the floor and don't pick it up? A day when we can actually indulge in the inherent shitiness of life when it comes our way?

Thinking about it makes me feel better already.

.

Poas Volcano, Costa Rica-a great place to throw rocks when you want to feel good about feeling bad.

Merry Whatever-You-Heathens-Celebrate

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-19T00:57:00Z

I'm probably the only Jew you'll ever meet who knows the words to O Come All Ye Faithful in Latin. Don't believe me? Adeste Fideles Laeti triumphantes... I learned it in school back in the day when December meant Christmas. Christmas pageants. Christmas songs. Christmas break. Christmas parties. Christmas Cookies. Christmas gifts. Jesus was coming to my school and I didn't even bat an eye.

I never would have gotten to know Jesus so intimately had my parents decided to stay in the comfortable shtetl of East Orange, New Jersey, where we Yids lived a comfortable distance from them-the gentiles. Eaters of cheap bologna and mandarin orange slices with mini-marshmallows and mayonnaise, pink people rarely crossed my path.

But mom and dad selfishly lit out for fresh air and enemy territory-rural Warren Township, New Jersey, where I never had a seatmate on the school bus, and our cars were spray-painted with swastikas. Where the lit menorah in our front window served as target practice for BB guns. Where I perpetually suffered from cooties and the sin of killing Jesus. Where my mother told me to respond to kids who tried me on the spot by responding "Jesus was Jewish," and hearing "but he didn't want to be" echoed back. Jesus was not my friend-he wasn't even my acquaintance-so why couldn't he leave me alone?

As I got older, traveling all over and living across the country, my hatred for Jesus came along with me. It intensified every December to the point where any kind of Christmas decoration, or even a whiff of pine, would send me into a tsunami of anger. Most intolerable of all, was when a stranger wished me "Merry Christmas!"

"I don't celebrate Christmas! I snarled, staring down the offender until she turned away.

Outsiders attempts to acknowledge my existence as a non-gentile were met with even more bile. Whenever I spied a Happy Chanukah To Our Jewish Friends sign in a store, I vowed never to shop there again. It seemed like nothing more than anti-semitism cloaked in ecumenicalism-us vs. them with them making sure they weren't mistaken for us.

I've mellowed out in the last few years and no longer think that anyone who's wishing me a Merry Christmas is a Jew-hater. In hindsight, yelling at someone who was just trying to be pleasant was an asinine thing to do. Why the shift? Maybe I've come to realize that intolerance rarely hides in the voice of one human being wishing another something good. Maybe I want to save my anger for those who deserve it. Maybe I've moved on to another persecution obsession.

But I still beware of gentiles bearing dreidels.

olduselesscrap.com

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-16T02:29:00Z

When I was in high school, one of my favorite stoned conversation topics was space. As in big, black and outer. In an altered state, I tried my best to get my head around "what was beyond space but more space but didn't space have to end at some point but if it ended where was the space that came beyond the space of space and if it kept going forever, how would anyone know if they've never been there" but the answer always failed to approach whatever orbit I was in at the time.

Now older and THC-less, I find myself suffering through a similar existential quandary involving cyberspace. Where the hell does all the crap go? Galaxies upon galaxies of failed dotcoms, abandoned web businesses, family photo albums, that email that told me I won the UK National Lottery-are they still hanging out on some celestial server, waiting to come around in 100 years and explode like a Supernova? Will groups of people in purple robes pray for the day when Web 1.0 will return and we'll all go back to Usenet? Have all the newsgroup posts I typed in '87 on that newfangled keyboard thing from my 20MB DOS-accessed computer co-mingled with last weeks' online health insurance application in a black data hole?

I'm starting to getting creepy images of the movie Pleasantville.

Some say it started with the Big Bang for your Buck Theory- the idea that cyber-commerce exploded and the world began.

I just hope that all that cybercrap won't lead to the dreaded Greenlaptop Effect- the cloying of the earth caused by too many Dell computers.

Now I know why I want to throttle the neo-pixie that sings "I am green today."

A Quilt for Women Who Don't Sew

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-13T16:59:00Z

I decided to start a "Women Who Would Never Join a Women's Group." group. Something that would mix n' match the balls of the suffragette movement, the acerbic wit of the Algonquin round table, the unshaven salad days of the women's lib movement, the practicality of high school secretarial clubs, the one-dimensional camaraderie of Tupperware and sex toy parties, the retro pragmatism of group baking, the reading is FUN-dimensional chick-lit book clubs, the ceiling-banging execu-broad networking groups, the spirituality of a woman's sangha, the capitalism of a women's investment club, the controlled creativity of a women's chorus, the hedonism of chicks who meet for happy hour, the deep discussions of a women's hiking club where someone just happens to have a joint, woman's improv theater, the endless self-analysis of "women's issues" groups, women's' recovery groups, groups of chicks without a shred of drug, sexual or other kind of impulse control, women who journal, women who want to journal but don't, women who retch at the thought or journaling, and those two chicks who used to do comedy routines using their breasts as puppets.

The kind of group that everyone from that woman you see in Smithsonian pointing to strands of DNA, to wonkettes, rock grrrllls, addicts, bloggers, vloggers, YouTube-ers, podcasters, Jitterbug users, Calvinists, techo-phobes, compulsive networkers, introverts, PHD's, GED's, stay-at-home-moms, stay-at-home blobs, and my husband's favorite bartender at Sam's could join. A little Rusty Warren, a little Oprah. A little Tina Fey, A little Delilah. A little Hillary, a little Britney.

Hell, with enough party favors from all decades, we'd be able to get along-maybe even forge the kind of fun and truly life-changing ideas that a homogeneous group never could. And I bet guys would would be falling all over themselves for an invite to our holiday bacchanal.

The Sky is Falling- Please Hold

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-10T17:15:00Z

My theory that Winter Vomiting Disease (that name-it conjures up images ring-around-the-rosie with its plague provenance) was a male plot to insert a compliance chip in womens' minds is now dead in the water, because my husband now has it. Vomitic justice.

And I've moved on from being a victim to warning the rest of the world that this (medical jargon alert!) norovirus is spreading.
And it's virulent. Eight people on my block have had it in the last week-and that constitutes an outbreak. At least in my mind.
So I did what ever good citizen should do and reported it to the state health department. At least I tried. Three phone calls and four forwards later, I'm no closer to sounding the alarm then I was while I was sipping beef broth a few days ago. (Knorr Mexican Caldo Con Sabor de Res-easy to get here in Arizona-worth it to search for in the rest of the country. There's real globules of fat (otherwise known as flavor)- on the top-from a bouillon cube!)

I'm not going to bore you with the details that anyone who has ever wasted an hour trying to get something done with any large organization already knows. But the fourth forward ended with this exchange.

You're calling the wrong county.
Do you have that number?
Thirty seconds of silence.
Are you still there?
Yes, ma'am, I'm trying to look up that number for you.
More silence.
I'll just look it up myself.
All I have is the main county information line, It's...

Next move-a call to the number I was given, even though I know that the bird who keeps pecking at his reflection in my window could be of more assistance than people who staff help lines. I decided to ask for infections diseases-I mean, they have to respond quickly in that department, right?

I'm sorry, the person you want to talk with is out sick today.
Great. Is there anyone else I can talk to to report an outbreak?
No, but I can give you his voice mail.

What if this was something really serious? OK, I could be a nutjob, but don't you think they'd at least check me out?
It's not like I'm calling about a some kind of bacteria injected into womenfolks to make them behave. Oops,. that was the other day.

So I figure I'd do my civic duty and call THE MEDIA. I'd been a member of that club for over 20 years, and perhaps I still have a scoche of cache. I decided to call our morning newspaper, We're one of the last cities to still have morning and afternoon papers, although they're owned by the same people and share most of the same staff. I guess we actually have one paper with two editions. I figured they'd have a health reporter, because TV people are stupid and radio newsrooms have been gutted.

After a fruitless twenty-minute search on their web page, I lost faith in what I thought were my adroit research skills. I had yet to find a list of staff. Finally, a call to a friend who works at the paper resulted in the name and phone number of the health reporter.

I stupidly figured I was getting somewhere. But Lois Lane told me she had no contacts or information access, because the former health reporter had recently been fired, and LL was also a feature, entertainment, and home reporter. I suggested she call the county health department, which she thought was a good idea.

So far, no stories, and the vomiting just keeps on coming. Maybe I should email Drudge. I even have a headline: Thousands Die as Democrats Ignore Deadly Virus. What the hell. I'll buy into partisan hyperbole if it stops people from vomiting. At least physically.

Up with People Who Upchuck

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-07T23:00:00Z

I've been weakly but effectively gathering intelligence on this virulent stomach flu I have, and it doesn't look pretty.

More accurately this affliction is called epidemic viral gastroenteritis or winter vomiting disease. (What a lovely picture that last term brings to mind. Too bad it doesn't show up in the spring, when one could heave among tulips and daffodils.)

I've only had WVD (attention, drug companies-your ad here!) once in my adult life. (Kids expel everything all the time. I suspect it's from dipping chicken fingers in Nerds.) It was only a few weeks after I got married. But rather than bring me Pink Bismuth (I only buy generics) my husband brought me something else pink and decidedly less liquid. I'm no Freud,(though I've had enough therapy to go into practice with him) but I can tell something is twisted when a man finds the sight of his woman alternatively vomiting and lying on the cool tile of the bathroom floor arousing. He still does. Just yesterday, while I was weak and bedridden, he brought me some broth and said, "you really turn me on when you're sick." Is this a bona fide fetish? Is "Sick Girls" gathering dust on some newsstand?

Then there was 1978. I was going to school at the University of Arizona, and my friend Carol's parents drove us to Las Vegas. We all shared a hotel room, and were getting ready to go to the Gals with Feathers in their Heads when it hit me. Four hours of sitting on the toilet with my head in the sink later, I realized that 25 cent shrimp cocktails weren't all they're cracked up to be. OK. I lied. That one was actually food poisoning. Props to bacterial gastroenteritis or Vegas Vomiting Disease.

But in both instances, my malady did not come in bulk-no one else shared it with me. But this time it's different.

Everyone I know who is winter vomiting is a woman! My neighbors, friends, the kids at school-all the victims are female! Not one man known to man has caught WVD, and I immediately grew suspect.

Dave, I think that men are implanting chips in our heads, or some strange molecule or they've shrunk aliens and injected them into women's bodies- and the side effect is this virus.

You're crazy.

That's what they say in those movies where we're being attacked internally and only one person knows the truth.

What the hell are you talking about?

The virus. Don't you see? Only women are getting it. Men are putting something in us, except even their advanced medical technology couldn't pull it off flawlessly-so that's why we're getting sick-it's a side effect-not a natural illness.

Maybe it's a no-nag chip.

That not funny. For all I know, you're one of the guys that's trying to control women with this throw-up virus thing.

What'd ya say? I wasn't paying attention.

The story doesn't end here. The investigation will continue once I stop hurling. Meantime, if you have any information, send it to me anonymously at roberta@robertagale.com

Sorta Like a Woman

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-06T01:34:00Z

I just had to take my generic "Tussin" expectorant from Walmart because I'm getting over a chest cold, and if I'm going to vomit anything out, I may as well make sure a bit of sputum comes along for the ride.

The sudden desire to expectorate seizes me every time I hear "I am green today, I chirp with joy like a cricket song" in that Dell commercial. The woman-as-little-girl shtick is way overplayed, and my only comfort is knowing that once a trend trickles down to the commercial world (like blogging!) it's already over. The concept was pounded into my head forever by my older and revered sister, who once called me in a panic, screaming, "TAKE YOUR CRYSTAL NECKLACE OFF!" When I asked her why, she told me she just saw a woman selling healing crystals on QVC. The signal came though loud and clear. Once some obese woman living in in Iowa owns a piece of rose crystal like the one that was hanging around my neck to attract love, it was not only no longer cool, it was so uber uncool as to attract ridicule and public shame among my peers.

So back to the Dell ad featuring the "I'm-40-going-on-eight" voice. Ever since Lisa Loeb sing-songed "Stay" in 1994, there's been an active contingent of female singer-songwriters who feel compelled to whisper through their insipid lyrics. And although I can't deny that The Moldy Peaches' Kimya Dawson had me singing along while watching Juno, the sound gets old real fast, simply because she doesn't. My guess is they're the children of the women who boffed Bob Dylan, inspiring him to write:

You fake just like a woman,
You make love just like a woman,
Then you ache just like a woman
But you break just like a little girl.

Isn't that what all chicks are supposed to do? Be phony, screw, and act depressed like a bona fide adult female, but once the facade shatters like the chocolate dip on a Dairy Queen cone, melt onto the car seat?

It wasn't difficult to find out who was responsible for the green song. A Google search for "I am green today" found 2,730 results, the majority wanting to know "Who sings that song 'I am Green Today' on the Dell Commercial?" And, unlike me, they weren't asking because they thought it sucked.

It turns out the song was written and performed by Kira Willey, a woman who is described as a "mellower female Donovan" by someone working for one of those sites where people who don't have the 0.16 seconds it took to do the search pay other people a quarter to do it for them. Willey specializes in children's yoga songs, such as Dance for the Sun ("Sun salutation, dance for the sun. I can do it, you can do it, we can do a sun salutation.") All in that breathy,quivering voice that should be reserved for kids under two, or someone who enjoys sexual infantilism. But toddlers don't buy laptops in 60's kitchen colors. Adults who want to be hip-who want to own the rose quartz that's going to heal their longing for love-do.

All righty, then! Let's put on our Gaiam 100% organic free-trade cotton yoga pants and sing along with me...I am green today...

I am, Therefore I Buy

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-12-03T16:33:00Z

The holiday catalogs mailed to my home have not yet reached critical mass, so I'm still able to sort through them easily to find my perennial bathroom faves. Harry and David is a reliable staple, if only because of the reverie involved. Each year, between Xmas and Chanukah, the same orange slip appears in my mailbox, facilitating the same hour wait at the post office to pick up the same Harry and David micro package of cheese n' meat treats with the same greeting; To Roberta and David: Happy Holidays! Love, Mother.

How six separate items can total a mere 4.5 ounces is a Christmas miracle. How my 85-year-old mom with no discernible income is able to buy them on credit makes me believe both Harry and David will be next in line for a bailout. Or selling government cheese. But looking at full-color photos of boxes upon boxes of little stuff piled on top of each other to make one big edifice- H n' D's Tower of Treats©- still gives me the same thrill it did as a child, only with a more laxative effect.

And then there's Gaiam, a portmanteau of Gaia, the Greek goddess of the earth, and the narcissistic "I am." Decades ago, Robin Williams said, "Cocaine is God's way of telling you you have too much money." Gaiam is the 21st century manner in which the big guy informs you your credit is burning a hole in your 100% organic fair-trade cotton yoga pants. I want to throttle the broad in the photo, sitting on the beach in lotus position, lost in the contentment of knowing her clothing is, to quote Gaiam, "designed for healthy, active lifestyles and people who care about the environment enough to be conscious of the impact their clothes have on the rest of the world. Made from natural and fair-trade materials like soy, organic cotton, bamboo, and leather-alternatives, our yoga clothing and accessories are eco-conscious, socially responsible and stylish at the same time." I must be more spiritually evolved than these folks. I feel that way about my Target sweats.

Fall Out for the Boy

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-30T23:49:00Z

Bronx Mowgli. It took almost a week for me to try to suck out all the future pain of that kid's life, but no dice. I'm an empath, but obviously not a very good one. For even I could do nothing to mitigate the years of torture that will be endured by the new son of Pete Wentz and Ashlee "I thought hyphenated names were still cool" Simpson-Wentz' baby boy.

By the time BM (those initials alone are suicide-worthy) is in grade school, his parents’ celebrity factor will be permanently extinguished,

and BroMo will be left alone to deal with the kind of fall out that no boy should ever have to bear. Come to think of it, how famous are you now when the media has to identify you by the name of your band? And any effort to let the non-cognoscenti know who Ashlee Simpson-Wentz is was abandoned a long time ago. Which is a good idea when your best- known performance involves flipping out on Saturday Night Live.

Explaining why he named his son after the main character in Rudyard Kipling's classic The Jungle Book, Pete said it's "a cool name" that he and Ashlee "bonded over." OK, they like the same cool book, they bonded, and maybe they even read it to each other as foreplay in some hotel room during the last Fall Out Boy tour. I can buy that. So why not make Mowgli the kid's middle name and give him a decent first name-a name he can depend on to get though school without scars or missing limbs. For example, Josh Mowgli Simpson-Wentz. The only way he'd get the crap beaten out of him then was if there was a kid in his class with the same first and last name, say, Josh Baloo Simpson-Wentz, and the teacher had to resort to calling out middle names. No such luck for this newborn. Like every dippy parent who wants their child to have a distinctive name, Pete n' Ashlee have exponentially added to the anguish with the geographically correct name Bronx. Brooklyn was already taken, of course, by David and Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham, so there were only four New York boroughs left. (Note: Manhattan, Staten Island, and Queens are still up for grabs.)

Why do parents, especially celebrity parents, seem so willing to toss their newborns into a linguistic minefield? Is it a sacrificial gift to the gods who changed their crappy pre-fame lives into something less crappy?

Two things come to mind. When my now 90-year-old aunt was going though an especially bad time in her youth, she changed her name to Letty, because as she always told me, "you change your name, you change your luck."

And many experts believe that after adopting a rescue animal, you should change its name so it will lose all association with its former (and presumably bad) life.

So we can only hope that Bronx Mowgli either has a run of bad luck, or is given to an animal shelter.

Creosote on my nose

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-26T20:33:00Z

It rained here today for the first time in months. Rain is irritating in the east, but in the west, it's a godsend, giver of life, a living being and object of awe. And it smells so damn good.

After years of living in the desert, I can smell a scosche of humidity anywhere within a square mile. In the east, rain and wet are the prevailing smells, and dry doesn't smell like anything. But here, when the rain comes, the dust and mold and spores and crap are washed away, and the smell of wet is inescapable.

Some of this is due to the smell of creosote. Not the carbon that builds up in chimneys, nor the stuff you paint on wood to protect it, but the desert creosote bush, Larrea tridentata. The smell is spicy, moist, green, brown, industrial, natural: impossible to forget.

For years after I left Arizona and toured the country with my microphone and my dog, I smelled creosote. In my dreams, during work, while walking, I developed the ability to call it up when I was homesick for the place I wasn't born in, but belonged to.

I wish I could insert a scratch n' sniff strip right here, but so far, smellcasting has yet to permeate cyberspace. Better add that to my list of great ideas that will never go farther than my mouth or my keyboard.

Loser Thanksgiving

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-25T18:14:00Z

How few people does it take to have a pathetic Thanksgiving? Two? One? Twenty? It depends on how hung-up you are on the "more is better because it means I'm wanted" philosophy. I wish I didn't succumb to that school of thought, but I have.Though decades of Thanksgivings should have carved the knowledge into my thick head that a crust of bread in peace is preferable to a feast in chaos, I still seek shelter in the extrovert side of my Myers-Briggs when I hear that gobble.

My worst Thanksgiving was in San Francisco. I had just moved there to pursue my dream of being a stand-up comedian. I knew very few people, and the ones I knew, I knew on the level that even someone who tends to call acquaintances "friends," would call acquaintances. I thought about dishing out food to the homeless, or even joining them at their homeless people table, but I wasn't in the mood for colorful stories of travels or woe.

I refused to go home and eat a frozen Turkey dinner, nor did I want to order a catered dinner for one. I felt so alone and loser-ly at this point, I decided to go for it. The Buddhists call this "residing in the eye of the poostorm." I'm sure it sounds a lot more spiritual in Sanskrit. So I went to a Denny's or an IHOP some other 24/7 black hole of humanity, got a table for one (there was no way I was going to spend Thanksgiving sitting on a stool-even I have my limits) and ordered the Turkey dinner. The one available 365 days a year. Masochist that I am, I forced myself to look around and smile at the families who gathered here for an All American Feast. Then I went home, sat around with my dog for a few forevers, and then fell asleep while counting friends I wish I had.

I often revise this story as a personal best in my file of cool, ballsy, fun, things I've done in my life. But I know even though I know that being a liar is infinitely more pathetic that being alone.

No, mom, I know what happened at the end

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-23T16:50:00Z

At least mom is good for comic relief. That's what my sister said after one particularly grueling conversation with the woman who was the catalyst for my three-thousand-mile move years ago.

Some of our lighter, yet exasperating, discussions have been about movies. A few lives ago, she was a regular on my radio show. Her "Mom on Movies" was an instant hit, due to verbatim comments like the following:

I saw Titanic yesterday. What did you think? I left before the end and got my money back. It was wonderful in the beginning, but I didn't know the boat would sink.

So this morning I call her -opening with the topic I can always count on for small talk.

Berta, I saw a great movie yesterday. What was it called? The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Never heard of it. It's new-it just came out. What was it about? These two boys who become friends in Europe during the Holocaust. One's a Jew and one's a German. I don't want to hear it, ma. Oh stop it, Berta! So the Jewish boy is wearing the striped outfit and the German boy wants to try it on. He sneaks to the other side and puts on his striped pajamas. OK, that's enough-I'm sick of Holocaust movies. Do you want to know how it ends? No, mom, I know what happened-the Jews die. No you don't know what happened. The German boy is the son of the commandant and they both try to the find the Jewish boy's father. They're ordered to take their clothes off and go into the showers together. OK, I was right. The Jews die. But the German boy died, too-it was very moving. The Jews and a German kid die. What a twist. Berta, I tell you, everyone was so shocked at the end, they just sat there and no one said a word.. I told you I hate Holocaust movies. We're Jews. I don't like to see us exterminated. I've seen it enough times. But this one, Berta..you wouldn't believe it-the silence-no one got up-not a word. It was something. I'm telling you, you'll love it. Ma, I gotta go,

This is the same woman I took to the Holocaust Museum in DC, whose assessment was, "Beautiful. And the food in the cafeteria is very good. Nice portions. Probably because the Jews didn't have enough to eat during the war."

Yep. Comic relief. The one quality that keeps me from throttling the woman.

Menopause or Hypochondria?

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-20T17:53:00Z

Ah yes, another day of aches and pains and all the crap you don’t want to hear about, but I’m narcissistic enough to force upon strangers.

When the hell did menopause involve aches and fatigue? I thought it was all about the hot flashes and night sweats. I honestly did not believe it would suck this much, despite evidence to the contrary. I chose to believe my friend Janet who entered the gates of old egg expulsion with lighter periods and no discomfort. A bit of weight gain, perhaps, but all that extra food she was eating didn’t help.

No, I chose to do what I’m so well practiced at-denial. Why would I ever think that I would be like my sister-my sister who going crazy throwing out buckets of sweat any time of night or day, only to succumb to the shelter of hormones that made her bleed and resulted in the ol’ D and C-dilatation and cutterage. Or, the hot-sounding burning off of the uterine wall. Or Lourdes who needed to change her sheets twice a night-and not because they were soaked with the fluids of passion.

Are you guys still reading this, or did you run off to vomit? Trust me; given a choice between watching your woman flood the couch with fist-size clots, and turning the ceiling fan and thermostat on and off every 10 minutes, I’d take the latter.

Hook Boy

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-18T16:47:00Z

11/18/08

What do you do if you’re a group of women with time on your hands, and an empty beach? You drink, graze over and over again on Trader Joe’s quasi-upscale snack foods, do yoga/slo-robics and walk the requisite five miles a day. It’s boot camp for Y-chromosomes.

So with pesto/sun dried tomato/goat cheese spread and pita chips churning in my “much flatter than it was 40 pounds ago but still spouting a pouch because of that splay me open hip to hip but I don’t regret leaving behind the fist-sized clots" hysterectomy stomach I clomp out with Dela and ponder the big choice. Right or left? It was left this time, because it was right last time.

We walked about a mile, talking about the kind of things that two Type-A Jews-one neurotic and one oblivious to neurosis-talk about. Business. People we know. Relatives. Spouses, Other women. Suddenly I turn around because I feel the vibe. The one you feel when someone is following you. Yep, a chubby Mexican kid about 10 years old is right there with a pole longer than he is topped with the kind of hook they use to toss some loser offstage. My husband will tell me later this is a gaff. Interesting, but not something you need to know when someone is following you. We walked away from the beach. So did Hook Boy. We moved toward the beach, Hook Boy did, too.

I’m going to kill him, I say, don’t get so paranoid, Dela replies. I’m not afraid of a kid-but that hook is a little intimidating. Yeah.

Intimidating as hell when you’re not carrying weapons. Why didn’t I bring my mace? Why can’t you have guns in Mexico? I’ll find a big rock and hit him with it. OK. I’ll hit him in the head and leave him for dead. No, don’t-just hit him in the leg. We don’t need to have to leave a dead Mexican kid on the beach. I’ll say it was self-defense-I told him to vamamose-andele-adios but he didn’t respond. That was creepy. He’s still following us. Don’t keep looking back; he’ll know he’s scaring us. I‘ll stare at him with fire in my eyes so he’ll get scared. I have to pee. Not now, let’s turn back. Can’t you hold it? No. Don’t go up by that vacant house, he’ll corner us and rip us up with that hook. I HAVE to pee. Ok, I have to go with you or he’ll kill you and I’ll feel guilty. Stop it, you’re way too paranoid. But it is weird that he’s following us-and then there’s that hook thing. Can you go in the ocean? No, not with him looking at us. Ok, I’ll follow you up to the dunes by that house and just go enough so you can hold it. I don’t know if I can do that. He’s coming up here! I’ll kill him-I will! Stop it-just let me pee. I want to go back. No! I want to do five miles! Sorry your exercise was interrupted by Hook Boy-just eat less today. Look, he’s walking up to the deck of that house. Ok, let’s go! I HAVE TO PEE! Ok, pee but if we get killed or maimed it’s your bladders’ fault. OK, I’m done. Look, he’s not following us anymore. I still want to go back. It IS weird….Ok he not following us anymore-but he could start up again. He’s going the opposite way. Let’s get out of here. It unsettling. Unsettling? Hook Boy could have f-ing killed us!

We walked home without incident as Hook Boy faded in the distance, his short, chubby silhouette contrasting with the shadows of the long, thin thing that could have been the instrument of our death. Or maiming. When we got back, we polished off the rest of the pesto/sun dried tomato/goat cheese spread and pita chips

Mouth Spa

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-17T22:20:00Z

11/17/2008

When a group of woman spends a weekend together in a small space, an insidious but quick-moving gestalt occurs, and they become one organism by Sunday. By Monday, each person returns to her previous state. But the new organism isn’t dead, only hibernating. And when the right set of circumstances occur - like a return trip to anywhere that isn’t home, rich snacks, and mind-altering and/or numbing party favors- the organism awakens from it’s comatose state.

I spent such a weekend recently and it has changed my mind about a few things. I thought only a few women were as smart and perceptive as me. Nope, they’re everywhere, in every occupation and every town. I thought I was the only person with multiple mental and physical “issues”. Nope. If anything, I rate only about the middle high in that department. Pre-existing conditions-whether in the soul or in the sole- are rampant. Both men and women have issues. But only women turn their issues into “issues.” Women talk a lot. A hell of a lot. So much that they can push a woman who, up until that moment, thought she talked more than any living being on any galaxy and beyond, to tell someone else to shut up. It felt weird. And refreshing. A mouth spa.

You'll never be lonely again

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-13T02:48:00Z

1/12/08

Thanksgiving. The best holiday in the world. It’s never too early to plan. Make this and bring it to someone else’s dinner. Refuse to give the recipe out. Be prepared for invitations to endless soirees with the caveat that you bring this dish.

Louise's Bourbon Sweet Potatoes

Serves 4-6

For the potatoes

One large can sweet potatoes, drained (may substitute a bit over 2 lbs. fresh, peeled, cooked sweet potatoes)

1/3 cup sugar

Two eggs

One stick butter

One 5 oz can evaporated milk

One-teaspoon vanilla

1 oz. bourbon (I put in at least 4 oz. but I like food that gives me a buzz.)

For the topping

1/2 cup light brown sugar

1/2 cup flour

1/2 cup chopped pecans

1/2 stick butter

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Mash or whip sweet potatoes and add the next six ingredients in order. Pour into a well-greased casserole. Mix all topping ingredients and dot over prepared casserole. Bake covered for 35 minutes. Uncover and bake an additional 20 minutes or more until topping is browned.

First meditation

roberta@robertagale.com (Roberta Gale) — 2008-11-05T02:39:00Z

11/4/2008

I’m leaving to work as a poll observer for my precinct, so I can either throw some piece of trash together quickly, or make a slightly less lame attempt to sooth that unsettled election day feeling by delving into the Roberta vault. Here’s a fraction of what went though my mind during my first one-hour meditation.

Why the hell am I here? I can never do this. Do I have the right posture? My back is going to hurt really soon and I’ll have to move or go into a chair like that old hippie lady. Thinking. I just have to label everything Thinking and then it doesn’t matter what I think. Thinking. Breathe. Only 25 percent of my attention on the outbreath. What the hell does that mean? Do I put 75 percent on the inbreath or none at all? Thinking. I have to move I just have to my back is killing me. The guy next to me figured it’s OK to move after I did, I’m usually the leader in this kind of stuff. I don’t know if I like this square high cushion thing I’ll try the round one. I made sure I got a round and a square cushion before anyone else took them. I guess that’s sort of selfish, especially in a place like this. I can always go on the chair. I want that ergonomic back chair over there but I don’t want to disturb the woman right next to it. Why is she only inches away from the chair I want? Thinking. There’s a bunch of old ladies here who are flabbier than me. They don’t dye their hair. Old hippies. Thinking. That woman over there looks like my friend Sally-same spinster look with the dated dress and bad glasses. She looks lonely. Wonder if she ever had a decent relationship. I should talk. Breathe. I have to start labeling Thinking as Thinking or I’m not doing the meditation right. That’s a Thinking just there. Thinking. I have to close my eyes for a minute to focus and focus on my breathing. Thinking. Is it still a Thinking if you think about something you’re supposed to be doing in meditation? Thinking-just in case it is. Breathe. Breathe. Only 25 percent of focus on the breath. The woman leading this thing looks really stupid with her eyes sort of open and a slack jaw plus she’s fatter than I am but it doesn’t seem to bother her. The noise of that fan is driving me nuts it’s been click click clicking since I got here. Thinking. It’s Thinking you idiot! I can always leave but I’m doing OK so far. Has it been twenty minutes? Breathe. Take a few deep breaths. Wow, that person in front of me is even more restless than I am. He is taking something out of his pocket to check the time-there is a pack of cigarettes in there. I wonder if he is trying to use meditation to quit smoking. I bet he has many bad habits. Thinking. Thinking- it’s frigging Thinking. Breathe. Try to focus but not too much on breathing. The guy's getting up he’s leaving-I’m better than him because I’m staying. I wonder if this will change my life quickly. How much should I get into this? Thinking. I don’t want to burn out on it but I’m not the type to sit still for a long time. I wish the lady would bang the gong so I can say I did this. Thinking. Maybe I’m getting better at this. What if I get so healthy I won’t be funny and neurotic on the air? Who wants to listen to a calm, boring mediator? Thinking. God I have so many thoughts and most of them are useless crap. Thinking. My posture sucks. I have to work on that balance between leading with my heart center and not overextending my back. Breathe though my back and front. This isn’t yoga. Thinking. I should be exercising instead of doing this for an hour. Maybe the walking meditation will burn some calories-that’s twenty minutes. They say twenty minutes of aerobics is the daily minimum. Thinking. Thinking.THINKING! Meditation is not aerobic. That’s the kind of thing I would think. Thinking. I should have known a place like this wouldn’t have air conditioning-at least there’s an air purifier here so maybe I’ll have less of a chance of getting sick from someone else’s germs. Breathe. Breathe again. Slow. Thinking. Thank god they have that no- perfume-no-cologne rule. All I would need is to get stuck next to someone with that old lady perfume on that makes me dizzy sick. I wonder if any of the guys are here to pick up women. Thinking.