New York City Haiku

Young panhandler with sign
"Spare some change for pot and beer?"
At least he's honest.

Baby shoe in the street
by creepy St. Ignatius Church
Too many pigeons.

Cross only on "walk"
At 17th, Union Square
Cars will run you down.

File Under: The Satisfaction of Mythology

I can’t think of a single thing to write about. Sometimes there’s a spate of topics in my mind that are all clamoring for expression. Lately it feels as if I have one lone chickpea rolling to and fro amid a vast and empty space.

I have fleeting thoughts and concepts and think to myself, “Yes, Vikings – I do have an endless fascination and admiration for ancient Norse culture – what a great idea for a post.”

Then I sit down to actually write and the post curiously sputters and fizzes. I sigh, save a draft, peer at it at later intervals, add a few clumsy edits. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It’s not for lack of passion or lack of information (the myrmidons of Google have been kind in spewing forth info on alarmingly diverse topics), so maybe I can blame it on the elusive yet mysterious essences of majestic One-Eyed Odin, god of war, wisdom and poetry; the darling of the common man Thor, god of thunder and wielder of lightning; and finally my personal favorites, The Valkyries.

As far as minor mythological figures go, I always thought they had a pretty good gig. They represented the ultimate in their culture’s definition of feminine beauty, and in their role as Odin’s messengers rode either winged horses (or packs of wild wolves, either of which are suitably exotic) while clad in armor and helmets (it was said the flickering glow from their armor caused the aurora borealis - I find this stupendously romantic).

The Valkyries main task, as Choosers of the Slain, was to roam Earth's battlefields and choose the bravest souls of slain warriors to join Odin in Valhalla, where every day the souls of the warriors would engage each other in mock combat on the plains of Asgard in preparation for the final, “end of the world” battle between the gods and the giants, referred to as Ragnorak. Every night they would return to Valhalla to feast on roasted boar and drink mead.

I don't believe a more macho version of the afterlife even exists, yet it's a practical and well-defined view of Heaven, offering daily exercise honing one's warrior skills plus the promise of endless nights of hearthside warmth full of hearty food, copious drink, and congenial companions.

Heaven should be just this; a place set aside for maidens and heros alike, each day an opportunity to be one's physical best - an eternity spent snug in Odin's feast hall, surrounded by one hell of a wild and wooly party.

I’ve experienced many different reactions when people find out that Mr. Fresh Hell is Algerian.

I wrote a little bit about it earlier (I haven't mastered the whole linking dealie but it's somewhere in the December archives, my apologies) in reference to racism.

I still get some “knee jerk” responses in a post 9/11 New York City, like “is he sexist?”. Ooh, did my hackles rise at that one! Just because he has an Arabic name and heritage he's automatically sexist? That comment initially made me angry not just because it was stunningly ignorant, but it came from an extremely intelligent person with a college education plus medical school (this was a doctor, people - gah!) from whom I perhaps naively expected more.

Granted, this doctor doesn’t know Mr. FH, so I didn't get too flipped out by her asking a misguided and offensive question, reasoning as I did that she probably at best has a very slim geographical knowledge of his home country filtered through the nonsense routinely profilgated in the mainstream media.

American-Algerian marriages are rather thin on the ground, so I’m sure we do stick out a lot, but most cross-cultural marriages are ripe for seemingly earnest yet intrusive and often completely rude questions that would never be asked if the couple comes from the same culture.

Although hard to discern from a casual glance, the similarities between Mr. FH and I have always been greater than our differences. We come from tediously repressive religious backgrounds that we subsequently rejected (thus fueling our reliance on science and reason); we hold the title of black sheep in our respective families; we had romantically adventurous pasts that we both prefer to consign to the mists of memory; we share a sense of humor and are both addicted to travel.

But, as I tell people constantly, cross cultural marriages aren’t for everyone. There’s a high level of ambiguity involved – one must be prepared to be thrust into potentially embarrassing situations where one doesn't have all the etiquette to hand, be open to learning about and assimilating the mores of a radically different culture, and be receptive to criticism and disagreement of many tenets of one’s own culture.

I wholeheartedly believe respective family expectations need to be agreed upon between the couple first and then clearly and firmly presented to both of the family groups. This seems to help resolve a lot of problems as time goes on.

If you are a person who feels it would be impossible to have a relationship with a person who can't share your cultural frame of reference, a cross cultural marriage will be a long row to hoe and may likely fail. Mr. FH and I don’t (and can’t) reminisce about the funniest episodes of I Dream of Jeannie or Gilligan’s Island; he doesn’t remember elementary school drills involving “duck and cover”. The stories he tells of his childhood escapades on the family farm in southern Morocco are alternately thrilling in their recklessness and at times openly barbarous when compared to the relative safety of my American suburban youth.

He has lived, worked, been productive and happy for the last 15 years in my culture, while we visit his once a year. I've made a concerted effort to learn his language and actively seek a place of comfort for myself in his culture. I've done that because I wanted it for me and because I want this marriage to grow and thrive. The fact that it also pleases him adds a little frosting on the cake.

I made a lifetime commitment with my best friend, who continues to surprise and astonish me and who is always dear but really, awfully odd.

Really? You Want Melba Toast with a Side of Industrial Strength Manure?

Food Issues - nah, let's call them by their real name, shall we? Food pathologies. I don't think I've ever met a woman who didn't have some sort of food pathology.
I can fall into conversation with a woman who's a perfect stranger while standing at an hors d'oeuvres table at a cocktail party who will within 30 seconds confess to me that she can't believe she's just made a pig out of herself for putting a spoonful of guacamole on her plate - oh, she ooh's and aah's about the wonderful taste, then in the next breath tells me she'll have to work out an extra thirty minutes the next day to undo the "damage" done by the seemingly innocent guacamole.

If you think that can't possibly happen, think again. It has and it does, all the time. I actually made a wee science experiment out of it at one time - listening to the disparaging and self-deprecating remarks women made about food and their relation to it. For what it's worth, there were always distinct shades of hostility in their words. Harsh words about their bodies, and equal disdain for the food they loved but felt they simply couldn't afford to eat. Frankly, it's not really the food that women feel badly about, but themselves - that's a larger and more insidious issue.

I still wonder, why? Wait - that's a disingenous statement for me to write. I know exactly why this happens. The diet industry doesn't rake in a gazillion wheelbarrows full of cash every day for nothing. There are times I just want to take a nice concrete pole and shove it firmly up the ass of advertising, and in this case, it's completely justified.

The current unrealistic standards of female beauty and their effects on women's lives have been written about extensively by those who studied them far more closely than I, yet even as a total amateur I know their capacity to ruin. Shall we run down the rules again? Women must be rail thin at all times - nothing must get in the way of this - most especially not age or childbearing; they must not be seen eating heartily in public; they must pick on salads only (most especially while on a date with the opposite sex); they must not indulge in public but if they do they must be damn sure to inform everyone within hearing distance that this is aberrant behavior they don't condone and reassure their listeners that they will pay the strictest penance for doing so (need I go on? Isn't this list depressing enough?).

Imagine the power of a sausage (or a chocolate eclair, oreos, or a bag of Fritos). This sausage has some serious mojo - enough so that it's mere presence on a woman's plate, in her mouth, or coursing through her digestive system causes her to experience some or all of the following emotions, all completely out of proportion to the sausage's actual standing in the universe:

Disgust - how could I have eaten all this! I'm such a fat pig!
Fear - this will go right to my thighs.
Self-loathing - but my thighs are already fat!
Resolution - I will never eat a sausage again, even though I love them.

Food, especially of the indulgence category, becomes the Enemy and is given all this irrational power that it simply doesn't have.

My mother has some severe food pathologies, and growing up with them wasn't easy. She cloaked quite a number of them under the banner of what she claimed were her health problems (very handy and also trendy). To say her health problems thirty years ago were all completely in her head would be kind. The fact that she still carries them with her when she is in her mid-sixties is an example of the tenacity of the clusterfuck. This is a woman who will, in a four star restaurant, order plain lettuce leaves with oil & vinegar on the side while the rest of the family orders normal appetizers and entrees, all the while claiming "I can't eat any of this food." So what that a lettuce leaf costs $12? So what that the people at the entire table are suddenly mute and uncomfortable, unable to enjoy their pleasant dinner because all eyes are turned to the rabbit food in front of her? Pathology rules!

It's a miracle that she raised three daughters who haven't inherited her problems with food. It's not to say that my sisters and I are all perfectly comfortable with our bodies all the time, but the deeper aspects of her pathology has thankfully passed us by.

When I was younger I was the woman feeling guilty for a dab of guacamole at the cocktail party, and I was the one eager to confess it to another woman, especially a perfect stranger. Fitting in at the time was so important to me, and espousing what I considered to be the party line in public felt natural.

I should have been wearing a neon sign on my forehead proclaiming myself as bound by what my society had defined as a acceptable standard of female beauty and behavior as were the feet of aristocratic Chinese women a couple of hundred years ago.

Yet there came a time when I wanted to free myself of the sausage's pernicious ability to cause fear and loathing. To accept my appetites for what they were, place them in a normal context in relation with the rest of my life, and to stop perpetuating, in word or deed, standards I ultimately deemed demeaning, pointless, and devoid of joy.

In other words, I ate.

And contrary to popular opinion, I didn't immediately gain 100 pounds. I actually listened to my body and appreciated my cravings, and they weren't always only for sausage and chocolate eclairs. I learned about my craving for grapefruit, for broccoli, for roast lamb with new potatoes, for steamed asparagus, for tomatoes, for hot buttered toast and cafe au lait. Sure, I'm a complete sucker for a perfectly ripened wedge of Brie; I eat enough to satisfy and put the rest away with not one single expression of guilt. I learned to eat only when I'm hungry and not as an automatic response to other emotions, and not to use food as a reward or a security blanket. I'm not grossly overweight, although I could stand to lose 10 pounds, but neither am I unhealthy (although I can't help but boast about a cholesterol level fitting a woman half my age).

This didn't happen overnight; there were fits and starts lasting years, setbacks I'm not entirely proud of, times when it seemed infinitely easier to fall back into the approved, accepted, (yet ultimately soul destroying) artificial mindfuck rather than pave my own way.

But I'm glad I persisted. In my own way, it was an achievement over my mother's tyranny, a cheeky thumbing of the nose to the patriarchy, and wonderfully liberating all on its own.

But I must close - I've got some fabulous corned beef with Dijon mustard calling my name.

This Week in Its Briefs - Stretched Out Elastic

1. Dead refrigerators. I walk one long block from the subway to my office. On trash day there were no fewer than four fridges out on the sidewalk for collection. Has the recent demise of our appliance made me more aware of their fragility or have I uncovered evidence of an alien plot?

2. Dear ebay: The Cupcake has discovered you. My life is bound to change in many ways. You would have no reason to know this, but I spend a lot of my days online, purchasing both the commonplace and hard to find items that spring from The Cupcake's inexhaustible desire for consumables. I can’t decide yet if you will be a godsend or if you will make my life a living hell. Cross your fingers for me!

3. I have an intense dislike and instant inversion to masks and clowns. I have no idea what that says about my inner life.

4. Pet Peeve #8,598: the two weeks before Daylight Savings Time begins. When the pesky sun comes up, it wakes me up. One entire effing hour before my alarm. I am a person who will snatch the last second of sleep available and a compulsive snooze-bar slammer, so you can imagine the decibel level of the ping on the pet peeve monitor.

5. My totally demented and unsurprisingly illiterate landlords put a hand-lettered sign on the building's front door to protest the delivery of unwanted circulars/sales flyers: "No! No! No! Assolutey No Papers! Thank you." Assolutey? Could they be serious? Don't think for a second that it doesn't take considerable willpower for me to resist snatching it up and creating instant confetti every single time I go in and out that door. If you can't spell four syllable words, excise them from your vocabulary. Kee-rist.

Unwashed Confessions

I never wanted to be a mother.

True - it was a job I viewed as one with very little appeal. There was no status, only a dim possibility of an eventual payoff in the form of a devoted child to care for me in my dotage, and far too many bodily fluids involved. My admittedly crass thought was always, "What's in it for me?". Motherhood could not come up with a compelling enough answer.

My Tediously Repressive Religious Upbringing(tm) had a great deal to do with forming my opinion; in a society where the words "independent woman" were whispered in the same tragedic undertone as the word cancer, the role a woman should play was always and only one: Mother.

No slouch I, you can bet I didn't swan around and announce loudly and publicly that I had zip zero zilch interest in playing that particular role. Instead, I fervently planned my eventual escape while paying the barest lip service to the prevailing viewpoint. (I did this for years, people, without cracking; I'd love to say I did it for you so you don't have to but sadly, in these frightening times one has to do it again and again.)

As a teenager I did a huge amount of babysitting - and I completely fell into that simply because it was easy work to find, not because I daydreamed about having any of my own. Truthfully, I was awfully mediocre. I never overtly neglected my charges, but I always made the kids go to bed really early so I could have more time to scour the house for porn and raid the refrigerator. But really, didn't everyone do that?

Even the adult me found it difficult to admit out loud that I didn't want children. Instead, I meekly suggested to any interested parties that I may not be able to have any. I had some severe lower back problems in my twenties, and one doctor I saw thought it might prove a problem in the future. It was a convenient fiction I could hang my hat on as long as I needed. At that particular time my most prevalent female role models were also ones who did not subscribe to the notion of biological destiny, and I gained a peculiar and welcome strength from them.

Then along came Mr. Fresh Hell. Not to make this incredibly shmoopy, but I truly believed I had finally met someone with whom raising a family might not be as awful as I expected. Yet even after trying for quite a long time and undergoing several distinctly unpleasant gynecological rituals I wouldn't wish on an enemy, my fate, with a pleasing irony, gave birth to my wish.

After receiving the verdict of infertility, and with both of us so very squeamish about continuing on in more invasive ways, we agreed we would remain childfree. I refuse to use the term childless, as that presupposes that there is something we're lacking.

As my reproductive viability dwindles with every passing hour, every now and then I get a twinge, not of regret so much as that of a distinctly melancholic musing over what might have happened along a path I chose not to take.

I wasn't a mother but then again, I also wasn't Miss Universe or Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, two viable career options I once entertained.

Angry for a Reason: Carnival of Feminists XI

With some trepidation, I submitted a post that was included in the latest Carnival of Feminists (yay me).

I was proud of myself for sending the post into the wide world and am delighted that I was included.

Click on the link to check out some of the really terrific writing being done by some talented feminist bloggers.

During Which Our Heroine Travels to the Heart of the Third World

On my first trip to Morocco, my sister-in-law (La Petite for our purposes) took me with her deep into the middle of nowhere southern Morocco. Our destination was a tiny village where lived the family who had been in service with Mr. Fresh Hell's family when he was growing up.

Disclaimer: before any egalitarian soul decides to speak up in support of beleaguered domestics everywhere, please keep in mind that it is a fact of North African culture that middle and upper class families employ domestics; while domestic service is menial labor it does provide income for a family that perhaps cannot support themselves in any other way. I am sure there are many people who treat their domestic servants badly, but that is emphatically not the Fresh Hell family way.

Our arrival in the village was heralded by excited throngs of small boys surrounding our taxi, and our welcome in the house was no less ecstatic. Watching Zara and La Petite embrace each other tightly brought a lump to my throat - it was an embrace of authentic sisterly longing and familial acknowledgement.

La Petite's annual visit and my presence (outsider status and Mr. FH's spousal status combined) turned an ordinary day into a small family festival. Extended family and friends drifted from other houses to participate. I could hardly keep track of who was related to whom - in the end, it didn't matter, as the festival feeling prevailed overall.

The children took me on an energetic tour of their outdoor courtyard and its denizens; the goats, dogs and cats, and the bunnies (one of which later turned into the legendary "bunny" tagine of earlier posting).

The family has no electricity or central running water. There is an old-fashioned water pump in the courtyard. The house is an example of traditional regional architecture; a large central square courtyard open to the elements, planted with a small grove of trees to provide shade and visual interest, and small covered rooms on all sides of the square - kitchen, men's salon, women's salon, and bedrooms. The bread is baked in the courtyard in a small conical shaped clay oven built above ground and fed by a wood fire. Ingeniously, there are pipes that filter the warmth of the bread oven's fire directly to a large teepee-like structure close by used for bathing.

During the course of the day, there were several memorable photo ops: me baking bread in the oven, me riding a donkey (while small and spindly, it could have easily supported my weight on a 25 mile trek), me posing in the couryard with the extended family.

There were quieter yet still memorable moments: taking tea with Grandma in the best salon (she killed a giant bug on the wall barehanded - whoo hoo!); enjoying a splendid lunch; sharing family news. There were some language barriers - I spoke French throughout to La Petite, who translated everything into Arabic for the family.

Much later that evening, when La Petite and I had returned to our modern hotel in Agadir, about 55 miles to the west, I looked at a night sky festooned with stars and thought about the family I had visited.

Judged by Western standards, they had nothing - no elecricity means no lights, refrigerator, radio, television or computer. No running water means no instant hot showers or flush toilets. They didn't have the latest fashions, television, shopping, or coffee - any of the things I thought must constitute proper living.

Yet during all that day I didn't hear any voices rising in discord; there was only laughter and contentment, the harmony of family love and tradition as yet unmarred by the discontent born of a modern civilization. Every family member has their place, their job and their status - every person has worth.

This family lives their lives in the same century and on the same earth as I do, yet we couldn't be further apart in tradition or a philosophy of everyday living if we tried.

While I've never fogotten them I find I can't simply view them as automatically holding a special secret of the perfectly contented life simply because they live without the benefit of mod cons.

But they certainly do have something going for them.

Literary Snobbery, Or Good Lord You Have Some Crust

I've been posting lightly over the last few weeks. I am noticing that my deep thoughts [ha!] have to percolate somewhat before my brain connects to typing fingers. Posting is also light as real life often intrudes, as is its wont.

I recently finished reading Morris Berman's The Twilight of American Culture. For anyone concerned with the currently dilapidated and appalling state of our country, I recommend this book highly. It's slightly outdated in sections (it was published during the fall of 2000), and therefore doesn't include Berman's cogent thoughts and observations on the post 9/11 atmosphere, our last presidential election [I hear some people actually call it that with a straight face - hah!], and the now third solid year of the war in Iraq.

Still, some of the things he writes about are chilling, and most tingling for me were his comments about the horrifingly severe decline of literacy among Americans. His source literature states that "Roughly 60 percent of Americans have never read a book of any kind, and only 6 percent reads as much as one book a year, where book is defined to include Harlequin romances and self-help manuals." (Italics in the original). He cites other statistics showing a correspondingly dismal lack of basic knowledge about history, geography and basic science .

I used to think that it didn't matter what material one read, it was just important that one read at all. I now disagree with those early thoughts; it is vital that reading matter stimulate and educate as well as entertain.

There needs to be something of value to counteract the insidious nature of this country's infection by and infatuation with an increasingly shallow consumer mindset. I can't even call it a culture, as it is anything but.

Enjoying current television shows or fashion magazines isn't bad, but when they constitute one's sole intellectual diet, they are mere sugary snacks devoid of lasting mental nourishment. It's not necessary to have an Ivy League education - God knows I don't - but last I checked, public libraries are free, and it's extremely easy to ask a librarian for a list of great books in literature, history, or science.

I don't always head for the highest-minded volumes; indeed, sometimes I crave light hearted contemporary fiction, hunger for hard science fiction, or I'm thirsty for a good espionage tale. Frankly, some authors considered to be the "best" fail to rouse my intellect and passion and remain total snoozefests (I can't help it Faulkner, I'm looking at you). But even if he doesn't float my boat, I know who Faulkner is and can discuss his works with a modicum of intelligence...because I've read him.

Even if a fragment of the foregoing statistics have scientific accuracy, my aesthetic foibles are small potatoes considering I read about 35 times more books a year than the average American.

Another concept Berman writes about is the current attitude towards “elitism” - that it's somehow a dirty or racist word, and that excellence is to be deplored and scorned rather than passionately emulated. The notion among American's youth that being smart is "dumb" and that books are for losers makes me weep.

The expression "dumbing down" doesn't force those less able to rise above themselves; instead, it drags everything to the level of the lowest common denominator and cannot help but breed ignorance and outright stupidity.

Damnit, I agree! I have an enormous elitist streak that I don’t often display. Why? Because it makes other people uncomfortable, and the (albeit much smaller) empathetic part of me doesn’t wish others to be uncomfortable.

But I was inspired by Berman's book and from now on the division between my privately held convictions and my public persona will cease to exist. I will never agree that one dimensional characters, flat prose, bad sentences and plots full of holes are worthy of the word novel or even remotely related to eternal human truth. I will always deplore spelling mistakes in public signage and in written correspondence of any sort. I will not refrain from using difficult words and complex concepts for fear that someone won’t be able to understand me.

I’m committed to maintaining a high standard of excellence, and it isn’t a task I’m taking on because of extrinsic pressure. I wholeheartedly believe in and support a lifelong self-directed education as a way towards becoming a whole human being.

If high standards denote snobbery, it's one label I don't mind wearing.

File Under: Odds and Ends in Food

One of my Teeny Tiny Group of Readers posted a comment a while ago that got me thinking about some of the unusual food I've eaten.

When it comes to food, most people fall into roughly two camps: those who will try anything, at least once, and those who consider food nourishment and comfort but never adventure.

The Food Network, before it got all crapped up with shows about running a restaurant, designing a kitchen, or choosing a new show host (yawns all around), did a show based on Anthony Bourdain's book, A Cook's Tour. The main topic of the book is his travels all over the world sampling exotic and outrageous food.

Side Note of Gratuituous New York Name Dropping: the restaurant Tony Bourdain is most famous for and the one profiled in his first big book is Les Halles in New York. Mr. Fresh Hell's cousin was a waiter there for years, and we have many friends who either worked there in the past or still do; obviously, we've spent a lot of time there in the past 8 years, and I've always had excellent meals there. My copy of Tony's second book was actually personally addressed to me and signed by him. I know! (Cue the impressed applause).

And now...

Location: Spain
Dish: Miniature Whole Deep Fried Fish
Product Specs: 1 inch long complete fish, heads, bones & all, dunked in tasty batter and deep fried to a golden crispy finish
Delivery Method: napkin lined basket
End user comment: Tremendous! These were like crazy potato chips made out of tiny whole fish. The crunch though the weeny fish spine was especially gratifying. Excellent paired with a hearty Spanish rioja.

Location: New York
Dish: Sauteed Lamb Testicles
Product Specs: Lamb balls sauteed with garlic and onions in olive oil and served with a baguette.
Delivery method: appetizer plate
End user comment: Like mini meatball appetizers and paired with French bread, completely satisfying. Tip: don't tell your guests ahead of time that these are balls; trust me, they'll never be the wiser!

Location: New York
Dish: Lamb Brains
Product Specs: Lamb brains scrambled in a combination of olive oil, butter, garlic, cilantro and spices, served with warm triangles of pita bread
Delivery method: appetizer plate
End user comment: Similar in texture to scrambled eggs but richer taste. The herbs and spices compliment the lamb - it's a simple yet satisfying dish.

Location: New York
Dish: Calves Feet
Product Specs: Boiled calves feet in a spicy broth and vegetable concoction. Looks like a light stew.
Delivery method: bowl
End user comment: Hardly one forkful made it to the mouth without a tripping of the gag reflex. End user slightly drunk during tasting, so one mouthful proved more than enough. Jellied texture highly offensive to end user. Rather than offend chef, pushed spoon around bowl and pretended to actually eat portion.

Location: Casablanca
Dish: Camel meat sandwiches
Product Specs: Grilled marinated ground camel meat.
Delivery method: Stuffed into pita bread with mint tea to drink.
End user comment: Reminiscent of bison sandwiches - rich and delicious. No gamey aftertaste. The scalding hot, heavily sweetened mint tea is a must, as it aids in digestion.

Location: Southern Morocco, Middle of Nowhere
Dish: Rabbit stew
Product Specs: Freshly slaughtered bunny slow-cooked in vegetables and sauce.
Delivery method: Large tagine (both the name of the stew & the fired pottery vessel it is cooked in) with chunks of Moroccan bread.
End user comment: Likely one of the best meals of my life - the rabbit was lean and tender, accompanied by perfectly cooked carrots, squash, and potatoes swimming in a tangy sauce.

Your intrepid reporter admits this list veers heavily in the meat groups, but I believe this is borne out by reality - really, how odd can a vegetable be?

This Week in Its Briefs - Fireman Red Longjohns

1. Science Experiment Update: I still haven’t colored my hair yet, and it’s getting distinctly silvery, especially at the front. Althought I still haven’t heard anyone shriek and run away from me in horror (well they do, but not about the hair) I've had some very constructive ideas about the interim process, which will go a long way towards correcting a burgeoning bag lady look.

2. Probably the only perk offered at work by the Cupcake’s colleagues is a weekly Booze Trolley, which occurs every Friday at 4:30 pm. They actually serve beer, wine, and assorted snacks for free! I know! I don’t know about you, but the words free and alcohol in the same sentence make me terribly giddy. During the warm weather we have Booze Trolley on our roof-top terrace garden – I better stop, as the combination of free, alcohol, late afternoon sunshine, fresh air, and a gorgeous roof garden in downtown Manhattan is making me swoon.

3. I-Tunes is addictive. I don’t have an IPod, and have no interest in getting one, but I do like playing music on my computer and buying a song online for only .99 is pretty cool – until you buy one hundred of them at once. Oops!

4. Dear Ambien: I take you to get necessary sleep, yet also find half opened boxes of cinnamon buns in the kitchen the morning after I've sampled your charms. Do you think I might not only be sleep eating but also walking to the kitchen in my sleep? I not only have no memory of of consuming half a box of buns during the middle of the night, but don't remember putting the buns directly by the bed. Could it be my dog? My husband? Sincerely, Confused While Carbo-Loading. P.S. Hurry please and answer, as I feel distinctly nervous about the status of my extra large box of Cheerios.

5. Pet Peeve Monitor Ping #5,067: I absolutely cannot stand people in line behind me at the deli attempting to shove their one item purchase in front of my sale. Relax, dude - the unlimited attentions of the cashier will be with you after I've finished transacting my business. Should the purchase of your candy bar constitute an emergency, I'll be the first to tell you. Until then, wait your effing turn.

An American Woman in Morocco

Most Americans traveling to Morocco visit there once, mostly for the exotic destinations. They have a tourist experience that doesn't veer off the sidepaths, and for a week or so skirt the edges of a different culture.

Although my first trip there in 1999 was incredibly exotic and often shocking, I didn't have the luxury of treating the culture as merely an entertaining and colorful pageant. On the contrary, I felt it was vital that I adopt a "When in Rome..." mindset to understand and learn about Mr. Fresh Hell's culture. Even though he is Algerian, he grew up in Morocco, and his personality and behavior veers between these two similar yet individual North African cultures.

It's a culture, to use a well-worn phrase, that's very much like an onion. There are outer layers that a first or second time visitor may see. It is only through several visits and a genuine interest in peeling back the layers and examining what's underneath that one can truly appreciate the heart of the rich combination of history and tradition.

Over the years, I've learned to appreciate this profusion of riches, mostly by seeing a lot of the country - I've visited museums and palaces, beaches & deserts, traveled long distances overland by train and bus, shopped in countless souks, and most importantly I've been able to step off the beaten path and have been graciously invited inside people's homes in large cities, small towns, and even in a teeny village in the middle of nowhere southern Morocco where there isn't electricity or running water.

Part of learning the culture involves hearing of a woman's position in their society. As a woman, albeit a visitor, I am subject to many of the rules and customs governing women. I personally don't care for most of them. I find the laws demeaning and constrictive and hate the fact that in general, women are still treated as property of their male relatives rather than persons in their own right.

The more I learn, the more I know I don't wish to be them.

There are still so many wrongs done to women in Western society; however, I admit I have it pretty good. Too often the liberal Western expression towards the injustices practiced in Third World societies is condescending and dismissive, as if we're living in some Woman's Utopia here.

I've tried to refrain from automatically thinking myself superior - after all, I believe we have a good many homegrown wrongs to right before pointing accusatory fingers.

As in too many places, exceedingly few North African women are given a choice or a voice, and their lives are decided for them in advance. Poor women are especially given the shaft; most remain illiterate all their lives, and if they aren't lucky enough to marry must help support their extended families through menial labor.

There are a few very lucky women who are independent and who can support themselves - it isn't impossible, but it is a thin line to walk - it takes courage, support, ambition, perseverance, education, and a lot of luck. Oh, plus pots of money.

As an outsider in North Africa, not all of the rules apply to me, and thus I gain a "pass" in light of my outsider status. That status also gains me a proportionate measure of often covert resentment and suspicion from the local population simply because I don't conform to all the rules.

While I would never dream of prancing down a Moroccan street in a short skirt and tank top, I don't cover myself completely, wear a veil over my hair, or even alter my regular clothing style by much. In the larger North African cities, many women adopt Western styles, so blue jeans and tee shirts don't qualify for shock value - in the countryside, I am always getting stares due to my Western clothing. Blonde ponytails, thin on the ground, are good all over for double takes.

I smoke in public (something "good women" don't do), go to outdoor cafes and nightclubs (with male companions) where the nice girls don't, and drink alcohol at restaurants. I'm a typical New Yorker who walks very quickly while they stroll. In a small way, I live a typical man's life over there, although I chafe at not being free to stride out all alone anywhere I choose. (I am practical above all things - I don't indulge myself in mistakenly assuming there are situations in which I will always win and therefore never actively seek trouble.)

On my trips I have met women with zero interest in supporting themselves financially, going to college, or living alone. They don't envy me my mobility and freedom. Quite the opposite - they consider my life one that is too closely focused on material pursuits, lonely and frightening without the protection and support of nearby extended family and, since I don't have children, devoid of purpose and joy.

They aren't dense or unusually isolated from Western society - they just don't wish to be me.

But as divergent as our lives are, they never attempt to convert me to what they perceive as the delight a woman should properly take in hearth and home, and I don't attempt to push the satisfaction and contentment of working and living in a larger sphere. I help when and where I can, all the while hoping and believing that all of our lives as women can and will be made better.

The Fresh Hell Times - Corrections Page

I stand corrected. An astute reader and film buff pointed out to me that the Oscar winning movie Crash was NOT the movie that was based on a novel by J.G. Ballard.

Apparently there are two movies with the same title, one of them based on the novel by Ballard and starring the ever intense yet aging in an oddly ill-defined fashion James Spader, which was nowhere near an Oscar contender.

I erroneously confused the two and vow to complete my research before posting.

Piping hot fresh content coming soon.

Fresh Hell Bizarre Family Story, One of Many

Midwest, Ho!

I've ragged about some of the crazy nonsense recently promulgated by some state and local governments in the Midwest.

On my paternal side I myself come from solid Illinois farmers, and the recent news has embarrassed me on behalf of my assorted genetic material.

The Fresh Hell assortment of paternal ancestors sadly didn't arise from what is commonly known as a melting pot (although there are a few 18th century cads born on the wrong side of the blanket). My dad's side is a fruitful combination of the acceptably inbred Pennsylvania Dutch and agreeably bland Anglo-Saxon.

Around the mid 1800's a small branch in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania caught on to the Westward, Ho! movement and went to Illinois, settling as farmers both solid and true. In their way, and in their time they formed the backbone of agriculture, people often glorified as "salt of the earth".

Generations were satisfied with rural living and carried on their acceptably Dutch & Anglo-Saxon Puritan traditions. Along the way, I think a great many things were lost in the harsh life of the prairie. Independent thought was not a trait worth preserving - imagination and flair lost out to conformity. The life of the mind and the appreciation of artistic creation were unnecessary luxuries - considered too effete or too flashy, not appropriate for simple country folk and jettisoned along with the unusual and exotic. (I do wonder about the illegitimate 18th century cads, but they were never discussed so I imagined fascinating lives for them. However, like so much family history, they were probably as dull as dirt.)

Flash forward to Christmas of 1986; the last time I saw my father's relations. I was a ballsy young kid newly moved to New York and convinced there wasn't a trick out there that I hadn't heard of, and not a single dearly beloved cultural artifact I hadn't planned to kick the shit out of. Simply put, I was a pretty belligerent know-it-all. I'd been to college, I'd read actual books, I skillfully navigated smelly dangerous big city streets (which to the relatives, might have been Beirut for all they knew).

Back on the ranch, my father's extended family had gotten very accustomed to the shopworn 50 years outdated platitudes my great uncle, titular head of the family, routinely spouted without ever hearing a murmur of dissent. As I recall, he basked in his position as the Local Resident Authority on Everything. And the women, especially, hung on his every word as if each were priceless rubies.

Imagine a collective gasp the size of a cornfield when I debunked him on a subject fair and square, with genuine facts to back up my argument. I honestly can't remember the subject of this magnificent trouncing - it was either political or a current event. I wasn't a complete dolt - I certainly wouldn't have challenged him in areas in which I knew he was an expert, such as John Deere tractors or parsnips - but I couldn't sit quietly and nod like one of his heifers while he betrayed his rabid, racist small-mindedness and sheer willful ignorance.

Thus the rift began - in my eyes it was merely shameful ignorance that had been properly corrected, though perhaps not diplomatically, and in those days I certainly felt no reason to offer empty respect to my elders when they mouthed egregious poppycock. Judging by the enormous gasp and the overt snubbing I subsequently received, I now believe that the mere fact that I, a young woman, opened my mouth to contradict the patriarch of the family was enough to consign me directly into a Hell designed especially for young, sassy-mouthed females.

They closed the book on me after that and later on my siblings were shut out, for various other petty slights - to the extent that when my father's mother died no one in my immediately family was even told.

The only way I found out was through the Internet; while aimlessly surfing I found the online version of their local weekly newspaper and her obituary was listed. To this day I can't decide whether this is truly pathetic, or merely an example of the family's legendary ability to hold a grudge longer than anyone else in the universe- hey, we'll hold a grudge beyond the grave if we must.

I am truly sorry for their narrowness, which I'm sure presently continues. Had I been older when confronted with my great-uncle aptly impersonating a giant ass I would have responded, if at all, with rather more delicacy. Most of all, I'm grateful I'm rarely exposed to people who prefer rigid conformity and outmoded hierarchy to pesky facts, intelligent discourse and logic-based opinions. (Needless to say, Mr. Fresh Hell would send them all immediately into coronary arrest, and don't think I haven't considered looking up one of the old fogeys just for spite. After all, I do come from champion grudge-holding stock.)

So I know why certain Midwesterners have bound themselves like glue to many beliefs and worldviews barely relevant to the 20th century and certainly outmoded in the 21st.

Oh but sometimes my fingers still itch to shake some sense into them.

This Week in Its Briefs - Granny Pants Edition

1. An Iranian-American student at the University of North Carolina attempted to avenge wrongs on his fellow Muslims around the world by running over as many of his classmates as possible in a Jeep Cherokee. That might have made sense had he rented a tank at Enterprise, as I find my imagination stretched to envision Muslims being crushed right & left by Cherokees. As newsworthy escapades by college students go, we'll have to rate this one a poofty 2. I've seen more inventive bongs, for Christ's sake.

2. South Dakota - hey, the Repressive Era called and it wants its hateful laws toward women and their right to a legal and safe abortion back. (Meanwhile, poor beleagured South Dakotans of common sense heave yet another weary sigh and wonder why no one actually goes to their state willingly.) Way to go there and ignore the last 30 years of Supreme Court jurisprudence by leaving no outlet even for cases of rape and incest.

While we're at it, Missouri could use "Separation of Church & State 101" leaflets strewn from bi-planes, as the state legislature is pondering a bill that would make Christianity the "majority" religion, denying any protections to minority religions, and ensure the majority's, I don't know, right to be the majority? If they're the majority, don't they hold the power anyway? Who knew the majority needed a law to feel secure? I feel sullied and misled by what I've been taught about the genuine meaning of the word majority. I'm sorry Midwest, I know you house many intelligent progressive folks who have no truck with these pathetic initiatives, but you should all be feeling a bit embarassed right about now. (Hey, I have Midwestern roots and I'm appalled.)

3. I missed watching the Academy Awards on Sunday - but really, did I miss that much? And, since I looked it up, Best Picture winner Crash was based on a book by J.G. Ballard, which I read while in college and really can't recommend.

4. Speaking of books, I'm re-reading Margaret Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale. It was chilling when I originally read it (it was first published in 1986, I believe), but never more so than now. This novel I can certainly recommend.

5. We have an armchair I absolutely hate, yet its handiness can't be denied. It's mostly a clothing depot extraordinaire, and every time I'm tempted to chuck the thing out the window, I do wonder what we'll do with all the clothes that are now draped upon it. They'll have to find a new perch, as they won't find their way to the closet on their own, will they?

6. The Cupcake has been quiet recently, but he did suggest today that the crinkled parchment sheets layered between pages in a set of his absurdly expensive leather photo albums could be ironed. I actually volunteered for that, as I like ironing, but he quickly backpedaled after my eyes lit up at the thought of office ironing and I mentioned what a wonderful episode it would make in my memoirs. (I can't make this stuff up. I know it boggles the ordinary mind, but seriously, Can't.Make.Up.Cupcake.Antics.)

On Travel, Expectations, Arguments & One Orange

It's a common belief that travel broadens a person. Taken on the surface, this is a blanket statement that can often be tested empirically, which I find quite satisfying.

But it's also readily acknowledged that the kind of travel one embarks on determines if one is truly broadened. How could a person visit a foreign city or country and digest and appreciate all of the differences in a short period of time?

If one goes to Europe on a packaged tour, seeing 4 countries in 10 days, whisked from place to place in an enormous tour bus, scheduled for all monuments, museums & historic places in finite bits, and fed in extremely specific restaurants catering not only to groups but to foreign groups, how much really can one say one has seen? Of what value is that experience? How much of the sights have really penetrated one's consciousness?

Mightn't there be a corner glimpsed outside of the bus window that could lead up a winding lane into the city that, if one takes that turn, would change one's life forever?

I've always believed that to be true.

It's the small, unscheduled and unplanned events that are usually remembered most fondly - on my first trip to Paris, it was the pleasure of finding the Place Vendome on my own, simply by turning a random corner and wandering to the end of the street. For my sister, it was as simple as giving an orange to a child in the street of one of the poor sections of Casablanca and receiving a blindingly beautiful smile in return. (For her husband, it might have been the annoyance of trying to order ketchup in a country that doesn't know what ketchup is...but that's another story.)

I eschew even guide books these days - the authors write about certain things with authority, and include most certainly destinations of interest - but it seems to me that reading about a place in a guidebook can't compare with the thrill of personal discovery. Or conversely, the disappointment of having read a glowing description of a momument or museum in a guidebook and then going there to find the written word quite far off reality's mark.

I have found that traveling as a couple is a recipe with ingredients both comedic and tragic, especially if there are romantic components involved in the trip (there are always romantic expectations involved in one way or another and it's not always the female half of the couple that harbors the expectations).

Expectations of the romantic depend on the other sharing one's definition of romance. A person could be aching to wander with their beloved over narrow cobblestoned streets, window shop for hours, and finally linger over a light supper in a candlelit restaurant, lacing fingers across the tablecloth over glasses of superb local wine while enjoying a panoramic view and glorious sunset.

While the other half of the couple simply can't be arsed to wake up in time to savor the sunset or the view, and once dragged to said romantic destination, remains jet-lagged and uncommunicative or simply surly.

Not that that's ever happened.

Mr. Fresh Hell and I have found that dramatic shouting matches and furious quarrels in each foreign country we've found ourselves in are quite a lively tonic, perhaps even an impetus towards future romantic bliss. I say this only because we've fought in every foreign country we've ever visited. I can't say for sure why this is so, but it is nonetheless consciously unexpected and subliminally understood, and the arguments usually involve us attempting to find our hotel in an unfamiliar city in the wee hours of the morning, after strenous partying in a raucous dance club or charming local tavern.

These are often very public fights (really, who cares if people see you on the street screaming at each other in the pouring rain? They aren't your neighbors, after all, and will never see you again. Why not provide a little entertainment to the locals? Hello Spain!).

I believe it is just those public quarrels that endear us both to the place - we've owned it and made it peculiarily ours, if only for a short explosive time. For us, it seems that one fight per foreign country is the limit - subsequent trips are calm and ordered, the only arguments consisting of a few minutes of tight-lipped silence and sighs of exasperation, dispelled within a moment as hardly worth the continuance of the grievance.

There are many more countries out there we've never been to together, yet I look forward to visiting each one...so if you see us tusseling on your charming thoroughfare around 4:00 am or so, don't be alarmed - we're fine, just either trying to find our hotel or putting down roots.

To The Two Who "Get" Me

I have two amazing sisters. I know, everyone with beloved and influential siblings says that.

We were all born very close toghether, and I simply don't remember life without them.

My oldest sister told me Santa Claus didn't exist - she was 8, and I was 5, and she did not dispel the myth with malicious intent. In later years we mused that this might have not crushed my innocence but likely helped me on my path toward a healthy cynicism.

She, to her credit, reports being completely flabbergasted by this earthshattering knowledge and the first thing in her mind was to rid herself of the secret and tell the rest of us.

We manned the trenches together like brothers in arms, supporting each other during a difficult childhood, sharing the experiences of specific familial warfare. We spent our adolescence together, yet drifted away somewhat during our 20's and 30's. As often occurs with wartime buddies, I have theorized that our collective experience affected us to such a painful degree that we couldn't be close or with each other and still continue to define ourselves as adults.

Thankfully, the passions of maintaining the boundaries of early adulthood have diminished to a simmering point - now we're in our 40's and enthusiastically reconnecting and finding that the circle of people who genuinely "get" us and our humour has collapsed enough that we can count them on one hand. All the more reason to hold those people very closely indeed.

I enjoy how effortless it is to make them laugh, and there is no one else in the world who makes me laugh so freely as these two.

They saw me into this world and If I am allowed a proper deathbed, my dearest wish is that theirs are the last faces I see.

Postscript: Yesterday

It occurred to me today that a reader of yesterday's post may have been severely let down by its lack of content.

I can hear it now: "Jesus Christ on toast points, lady - there are larger issues at stake in society and you're grousing that the big bad world won't let you age gracefully! What a load of crap!"

True that. Yet I cop freely to a certain amount of vanity, which I believe was obvious in yesterday's post.

However shallow my end of the pool may appear (and I agree that there are many large issues out there that desperately need fixing), one issue has stuck in my craw for quite some time now, and that is the completely different appearance standards set for men and women.

It's as if we aren't both human, but two opposite species who aren't subject to the same rules.

Oh sure, women can get wrinkly, paunchy and gray just like men - it's just that if they do, if they dare step out of the psuedo-defiant "I ain't gettin' old mister" sexpot persona and fail to stem the inevitable with hair color, face lifts, Botox, liposuction, collagen implants, etc., they become completely invisible, considered with no interest, no authority and no status.

The alarming success of shows like "Desperate Housewives" and the acronnym MILF (which I refuse to explain) all serve to bolster the rule; women are viable only in terms of their desirablility. This isn't an urban phenomenon, nor is it manufactured solely by Hollywood.

Nothing else counts, and women who refuse to play by these rules get smacked down. Now there are many women out there that do refuse to play by the rules, and don't care in the least that they get a smackdown because of it. On some days I am one of them, and on many others I am not, yet I'm learning to understand and accept the ambiguity in these often daily reactions.

Our society presents women with very few genuine choices; granted, gains made by courageous women over the last forty years have broadened the selection, but there still aren't that many. I operate within those choices; the fact that I know most of them are shit glosses them with a cynical coating, but it doesn't make a decision any easier.

So maybe wanting the freedom to choose NOT to color my hair and NOT be penalized for it seems like a teeny baby step,

Hell - I'll see your baby step and raise you another.

File Under: Subversive Gestures

It's an unfair fact of life that women who work in "beauty industries", while not entirely exonerated from creating and perpetuating the media myths about the way women should look, are as much as if not more at the mercy of those same myths.

I work in an advertising agency, which is considered glamorous [although I give you my solemn word it's not at all]. It's a young person's game, involving a great deal of energy and stamina. It's not for the faint of heart or mature of limb.

Even though our jobs aren't glamourous, we're selling glamour. And to sell pretty you have to look pretty. Here is where the standards that are perpetuated in every magazine ad, billboard and television commercial rebound to bite us all in the ass.

For women who work in this industry, there is intense pressure to look just right. For younger women, the current mode is to look appropriately sexy while remaining business-like. The recipe is in part a dash of boardroom mixed with a splash of secret dominatrix. If the suit is conservative, the top is tight or low-cut and the heels are high. It's preferable that hair be long, straight and highlighted. Did I mention the heels should be high? If it's a casual meeting or a day away from clients, low rise jeans with a flirty blouse will work. Oh, and high heels? Yep.

Add a final coating of makeup and you have the uniform.

If the pressure to look perfect for young women in advertising is a narrow line, the pressure for older women to stay current in their appearance is a tightwire journey along the thinnest of razor edges.

Even if I wake up tired or hungover, I can't skip makeup. Oh I suppose I could, but facing the silent condemnation (or the not so silent, the "Are you feeling okay?" or "You look tired today") isn't worth the price for the 10 minutes it takes to apply.

Thankfully we don't have a dress code, and I haven't worn a suit and pantyhose in ten years. I wear skirts if I feel like it, and could wear jeans every day if I wanted to, although that would raise some eyebrows. Still, it's a daily challenge to dress in a youthful manner without crossing the line into ludicrous by pouring myself into an outfit better suited for a woman twenty years younger and twenty pounds lighter than I.

I went gray prematurely, and have colored my hair for twenty years. I'm currently conducting a little science experiment - I've stopped coloring my hair. After twenty years it's a tedious process I'd rather chuck from my repertoire. Yet I'm ambiguous about it - on the one hand, [tiny voice] I'm too young to be gray [end tiny voice]. On the other hand, the money, time and effort it takes to keep the silver strands at bay are increasingly irrirating. On the third hand my opportunities for subversion are so few that I simply must give this a try.

The experiment is only six months old and like any paranoid modern woman I'm prepared with a box of color in the bathroom just in case the whole thing goes awry. So far I haven't heard any comments (believe me, my colleagues wouldn't hesitate to point out any grooming flaws in an instant), but every day I wonder when they will come.

The adage of men aging better than women is so much stuff and nonsense - it's a societal and media construct that for some insane reason, we've all bought into like a bunch of hooked trout.

The sexbot image demanded of women is unfair, degrading, and sexist, yet I keep up appearances to the extent I do because I must - I can't afford to be tossed aside simply because I'm tired of trying.

So I'll try subversion instead.