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So, recently the A.V. Club posted the latest in its series on the bestselling movie of each year, and they were featuring 1985's Back to the Future. I've been hosting a little parlor game in my head lately, revisiting '80s movies and how they stand up the modern more (obviously Revenge of the Nerds is well-nigh unwatchable now), and had a few thoughts about this particular one.

Ever since I first saw this article I’ve been composing in my head a post about how this movie may be Marty’s story but it’s George’s arc. He was nervous enough to approach Lorraine in the diner (and yes, I love that moment where she first really sees him and how it’s essential, that moment, because it means there really was something there all along, that she wasn’t just manipulated into falling for George), and that was with a script in hand. Imagine how terrified he must’ve been to throw open that door and see BIFF there? And how easy it would’ve been to go away, not to provoke this bully. Biff is literally telling him “Just go away”—but he doesn’t. His quiet, shaky delivery of “No, Biff. You leave her alone”—his decency nearly reduces me to tears. Like, I feel proud of this completely imaginary character!

5/04/20 12:02pm

And thinking about it some more, not only has the script changed from Marty to Biff being there, from a staged confrontation whose outcome is pre-determined but a very real and terrifying and violent one—Biff is about rape Lorraine—but George has everything to lose from not “just going away,” from making a stand. At the very least he will be beaten up. And that’s what makes his reaction all the more extraordinary—he stands up for Lorraine simply because it’s the right thing to do. Because that’s the kind of guy he is.

And part of me was thinking last night—a major result of Marty’s actions in the past is that his present is much improved. He gets back to the future and finds that his parents are openly loving, openly happy with their lives, the house is nicer, the siblings are more successful (leaving aside the movie’s implicit snobbery and sexism re: the siblings, hey, it was the ‘80s)—but the main thing that drove this was because George in this timeline is a successful novelist. George’s choice to stand up for Lorraine because it’s the right thing to do somehow empowers him to do something with his writing, to pursue this as a vocation. Previously he’d been a writer in secret—now he is unafraid, he’s published, now he is living his truest self, because being a writer is also the kind of guy he is. Which makes me wonder—what if Marty instead of just introducing a new timeline—what if Marty fixed the timeline? Maybe this was meant to be the life George was supposed to be living all along? Maybe Marty was supposed to go back in time?

And I’ve been turning it over in my head and one thing that occurred to me was—okay, in the original timeline, George and Lorraine somehow got together because “Grandpa hit him with a car”? And then they went to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance? We can imagine Biff did not take this lightly, that he was still in the background, making things difficult, but in the original timeline George never stood up to him, never said back off (leaving aside the assumption that it should’ve been George to say back off—again, it’s an ‘80s movie, there’s a lot left unexplored about rape and harassment). So George and Lorraine mature, become adults, and meanwhile there’s this looming presence in their lives—BIFF. Biff, who continues to act as though he’s entitled to George’s intellect, attention. He dents George’s car, he makes the same homework-y demands on George, and George simply does not have the skills to stand up to Biff.

Then Marty is introduced to the timeline—and how much do I FUCKING love that Marty is completely unafraid to stand up to Biff. God, I want to CHEER in the cafeteria when he rears back, about to pop Biff in the face. He is at least a head shorter than Biff!!! I am a small person, I fucking LOVE that small Marty is unafraid. He takes him on on the cafeteria, stopping him from harassing Lorraine because it’s the right thing to do, and then later trips him in the diner and humiliates him with the scooter-turned-skateboard. Someone else on this board called him a hothead—sure, he is that. But he’s also modeling for George how to stand up for yourself.

And what I mean to imply is not so much fatalism, as in, it was “always” meant to be this way. But more—this is the person George always should’ve been. Because this is who George is. And Marty had to unlock that for him.

I swear, this all is more thinking about BTTF than I’ve done in 30 years. But all classic cinema, even pop cinema, is worth revisiting. If it touched us—there’s a reason why. And BTTF is uniquely well-crafted.

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/734689.html

Had the greatest exchange a week ago with one of my kids, Z. He first joined my 7-10 class last year and was a little too excited. He interrupted me constantly, was always challenging me, and I had to put him in his place a few times (politely but firmly). He was with me all last year and was in the middle of the pack, as far as ability.

He came back this fall and had obviously been practicing. And he stopped interrupting me, and in subtle ways kind of championed me to the rest of the class. Not trying to be teacher's pet or anything, just you could tell he had bought in, as it were.

I'd been watching him during the scrimmages and he's one of the two best in the class now. Last week we played 2 v. 4--he and I against the other 4, and I couldn't score. (Whenever I play against the kids I don't score.) He was still able to score against 4 kids, only able to pass to me. I pulled him aside and said how much he'd improved, how I could see the hard work he'd been putting in and it was paying off. He said: "Well, it's also due to having a good teacher."

What a sweet thing to say! His mother is always at class and she seems really solid, it's obvious the parents are doing a great job. But what a kind thing to say! I'm still glowing.

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/734381.html

So they have been showing the movie Flashdance once or twice over the past month on cable (I love the serendipity of cable) and I've had a chance to rewatch it. Full disclosure: I loved the shit out of that movie when it came out. I saw it many times in the theater, bought the soundtrack, was obsessed with it. I used to put the record on in Mom's basement and just dancedancedaaaaaance. The movie made you want to move, to jump, to throw your body across the room--it didn't just show the joy of motion, it compelled you to want to experience that joy yourself. And that's a really timeless aspect of that movie and I think a significant part of its appeal and success. It was the third most successful movie of 1983! (The first obviously was Return of the Jedi--I'm guessing the second was Trading Places?*checks list* No! Trading Places was #4; Terms of Endearment was #3.)

Anyway--so I like this movie. I like how it looks like Pittsburgh--it's set in Pittsburgh and has that dark, surrounded-by-gloomy-hills feeling, that old not-rich manufacturing city feeling. Movies shot on location should look it, and Pittsburgh isn't a cinematic cliche. I like the scenes of Jeanie with her family, that felt authentic. And I love the scenes of Alex and Jeanie together--doing laundry, working out, teasing each other. They seem to have so much fun together. The scene where Alex teases the cop is unexpectedly witty--it's scored to the Carmen piece where the children mock the soldiers, so clever!

However, herewith things that make you go hmmm. The Michael Nouri's character's last name is Hurley? He doesn't look remotely Irish--and a man of his age, in that area at that time, was highly unlikely to have been the product of a mixed marriage (mixed as in, someone of an Irish background and someone of a Mediterranean background, which is what Nouri looks like (and is)).

I love how Alex tells Nick twice, quite clearly and firmly, that she doesn't want to date him and why, which is completely appropriate and the right way to handle your boss asking you out...only for him to make a joke about firing her and for her to just give up and go along. Way to stick to your feminist guns, writers! *headdesk*

The skating sequence is weird. Is this an audition? It certainly isn't an amateur competition--they never would've allowed music with lyrics or a spotlight. (Which is why the climactic program in The Cutting Edge is also incorrect, Doug and Kate are skating with a spot. It's hard to see the ice properly with spotlights.) And Jeanie falling even twice wouldn't mean she can never have a second chance. Skaters fall all the time. It happens.

Where is Alex's family? We have so many great scenes with Jeanie's family and we know nothing about why Alex is living on her own in a big city at the age of 18?

As gross as the huge age difference is between Nick and Alex, at least they acknowledge it once or twice. Alex really does seem an age-appropriate 18 (i.e., still immature) next to him. But still...GROSS.

But whatever, I still love this movie. It wears its heart on its sleeve."When you give up your dream, you die."

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/734128.html

So I had kind of a difficult train ride home from my classes in Lower Manhattan this morning. I boarded the 2 train on Chambers Street and immediately noticed a dude hanging out between the cars, which is obviously very dangerous and not allowed. Once the train started moving he opened the doors and came into the cars, and he was HUGE. A very, very big guy, and he sat down on my side, just a few seats away from me. And dude was weird--he kept shifting around and moving around and turning and staring at me. I got a weird vibe from the whole thing, and I believe in listening to my instincts, so at the next stop I moved to the next train down.

This train was also relatively empty but I noticed a bag lady sitting at the far corner so I sat down in the middle and pulled out my book. I read and noticed a family came on at the next stop--a mom and 3 young kids (a girl around age 6, two boys around age 4-5). And I also noticed the bag lady was quite vocal, screaming--literally screaming--about how YOU FUCKED XYZ PERSON and that sort of thing. As I was noticing this, I saw the mom noticing it. The kids, especially the two young boys, looked freaked out. The mom leaned forward and was telling the kids "the lady is mentally ill--that means she is sick in the brain. We're going to switch cars at the next stop." She was handling it very well, very casual, but the kids were still unnerved by the whole thing so I leaned over and started conversing with them. They had on Irish rugby tee-shirts so I asked them about that. "I really like your shirts. I have visited Ireland and I just love that country. Have you ever been there?" As it turned out, they had--all 3 kids are half-Irish and visit the country twice a year. We entered into a grand conversation about Ireland and Mom gave me a grateful look. When we pulled into the next station Mom and the kids and I exited the car--they went in one direction, I went in the other (toward the last car, the one in which I typically want to be when the train pulls into 110th Street).

This turned out to be THE WORST car of all three. JFC this was seriously the Freak Train. Cat Stevens had the Peace Train, I had the Freak Train. There was a guy in the corner, young guy, couldn't have been older than very early 20s if that, with a bike. Eventually he picked up his bike and started walking to the other end of the car, and didn't give a shit about the other passengers. Like, he was actively trying to brush up against us with his bike. I pulled up as he passed, and then he approached an older dude--maybe late 50s--and just started swinging at him, screaming at him, slamming the glass of the windows next to the guy's face. EVERYONE flipped out and I remember yelling "Jesus fucking Christ!" and grabbing the pepper spray I always carry. The guy was screaming at the older dud, and screaming at us. He still had the bike. He was kind of menacing the car with the bike but also kind of looking around for validation. The older guy was terrified--we all were--but would not move and GOOD FOR HIM. Because fuck anti-social shits like this dude. Fuck them hard. Anti-Social Shit came toward me, looking as though he was going to throw the bike at me or something, and I said "If you come near me, I will spray you."* What I really wanted to do was call him on his shit, push his buttons, but I figured it was better not to engage. He did recognize the spray and kept his distance.

He and I had a three-or-so minute staredown as we approached 110th Street. At one point he started to lurch toward me and I thought he was going to throw the bike at me. He was also babbling about how the older dude "was lucky" and "I can't even walk down the STREET!!!" I just made sure he saw that pepper spray. Dude, I don't GAF about your problems. The moment you start threatening some older dude with violence, you lose my sympathy. When we pulled in of course he ran across the platform like the coward he is to catch the downtown train. Another dude and I found a transit officer and reported the whole thing. (I doubt anything will happen.) The other dude and I were bonding about this sort of thing--it was actually rather sweet, there was a sort of world-weary "New York transit, ain't this some shit?" And he pointed out that my backpack was unzipped and did I want him to zip it up?

Honestly, the most remarkable thing about it was that ten minutes later, I'd completely put it out of my mind instead of worrying endlessly over it.

*And part of me later realized--you should've said "if you go near anyone, I will spray you." I had a weapon, I should've used it to protect the rest of the car. At least I was able to protect my half of the car.

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/733786.html

The other day I was walking along 91st Street toward Fifth Avenue, and got caught behind a group of three semi-elderly people. They were pointing out the building at the corner of 91st and Fifth, the one that houses the Cooper Hewitt Museum. One of them commented on how beautiful it was and another replied "Yes, Frank Lloyd Wright designed it, that's why it's so beautiful." I opened my mouth to say "No, there's only one remaining Frank Lloyd Wright-designed building in Manhattan and that's the Guggenheim" and then I remembered maybe they wouldn't appreciate having a stranger correct them. Just to be sure, though, I Googled the building and I was right--it was designed by a firm called Babb, Cook and Willard. But seriously, anyone with even a basic knowledge of Frank Lloyd Wright's portfolio would guess right away he was not the architect. The Cooper Hewitt building clearly is Beaux Arts:

Cooper Hewitt Building in Manhattan

See, this building would fight right in in Paris, all that neoclassicism and the flourishes, the cornices.

FLW was not Beaux Arts--he was too late for that (arguably, his style was a reaction to the baroque-ness of Beaux Arts) and I'm not even sure you could put him into a school. Some of his stuff is Art Deco-ish but honestly, Wright was really sui generis. His designs are so original, and his style is immediately recognizable. But his guiding principles emphasized nature and integrating nature into the the design itself. I mean he had a tree coming right through the floor in one house he designed. And Fallingwater famously has the waterfall going under and through the house.

(I was lucky enough to be able to visit Fallingwater, his masterpiece. Thank you, Elizabeth and Andy! That may have been the one and only time I'll ever be able to see it.) I first became interested in his work when I read an article in the Washington Post magazine about a gas station he'd designed--the article also talked about Fallingwater and my fascination was piqued.

Anyway, it's obvious the three people in front of me were confusing the Cooper Hewitt Building with the Guggenheim, two blocks away.

That, my friends, is what a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed building looks like.

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/733501.html

With the recent news about the college admissions bribery scandal, I have a couple of thoughts:

Some of those schools are truly WTF. You're going to break the law and risk prison and your reputation for...Wake Forest? USC? Seriously? Go big or go home, people.

The main reaction I'm having to this is how innocent my Mom and I were back in the '80s when I was applying to schools. I mean this in the best way but Mom didn't really help me a whole lot, except to remind me when things were due (and of course to drive me to interviews). She didn't read over any of my essays, I didn't have a tutor helping me write them or a tutor to prep me for the SATs. In fact I liked taking the SATs and the PSATs precisely because you weren't expected to study for them. (And in fact I did very well on both--I had the highest PSATs in my class.) These stories of elaborate strategies--tutors and fake accommodations for fake disabilities and re-writing essays, photoshopping--they're mind-boggling. I didn't do any of that and I don't think my friends did either.

Here's how I did the essay thing: I procrastinated until literally the day it had to be mailed. I woke up early that morning and improvised an essay--I wrote an imaginary conversation between two women in 1947, one of whom has just seen A Streetcar Named Desire (a few months prior there'd been a TV-movie of Streetcar starring Anne-Margret and Treat Williams which served as my introduction to the play--Mom watched it with me and said some of the lines along with the characters and I was mesmerized). I wrote this essay by hand onto the admissions form--no typing, no computer, just wrote it all down. Didn't edit or anything. I mailed it off that day. And that, my friends, is how I got into Mount Holyoke :) My essays for Bryn Mawr and Sweet Briar were necessarily different since I didn't make copies.

Full disclosure: I got in everywhere I applied, but that had a lot to do with the fact that my generation was a lot smaller than the Baby Boomers. I wrote very well, and had the scores (and did a great interview since I was interested in everything) but my grades were not that great. The sponsor of the National Honor Society used me as a tutor (I was paid!) even though I wasn't actually in the NHS. I remember her lecturing me that I SHOULD be in the NHS, and I really need to take care of that. (I was a much better student in college, I will say.)

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/733437.html

Inspired by Elizabeth's post...

Monday, I was walking from a class on the UWS to my evening job in Midtown. I was waiting to cross Columbus Avenue at that triangle just uptown of Lincoln Center. I was JUST about to dart across when the light turned red--as I stopped, I saw an elderly woman across the street go down HARD on the sidewalk. I was horrified but could not cross because there was now a shitton of traffic going past. I was waiting anxiously, catching glimpses of this woman lying on the sidewalk, and seeing people gather around her. Finally the light changed and I ran across. By now there were at least 10 people there--offering to help her up, I asked if we should call an ambulance, people were offering advice. People holding this woman's hand, saying "we're here for you." A young woman was walking past, paused, and said "you should call an ambulance. You REALLY should call an ambulance." People still standing by anxiously. Young woman walked down the sidewalk, came back and identified herself as a Physician's Assistant. She said we REALLY should call an ambulance and pretty much took it from there. Some guy in some kind of official-looking vehicle drove up and Young Woman had taken charge at that point, telling him "I'm a healthcare professional, she needs..." I finally drifted away, feeling secure this woman would be helped.

New Yorkers--we got your back. And I loved this because this applies to everyone. Iranians and Iraqis flying in to JFK--we got your back. Fuck Trump. We got your back.

Today. Walking to evening job, cross over to Fifth Avenue at 51st where there is a Banana Republic store. In the foyer is a pigeon, trapped, banging against the glass doors leading to the outside. I, and a number of other spectators notice this all at the same time. I jump forward to open up one of the three doors to encourage the bird to fly out. Another spectator does the same thing. Between the two of us we manage to keep open the three doors and the bird flies away.

New Yorker--we got your back. Even the pigeons ;)

Fuck Trump. We got your back. The funny thing is, the stereotype is that New Yorkers are cold and disinterested--this has never been my experience. New Yorkers take very seriously their stated values of inclusivity, liberalism. To all our friends flying into JFK from Iraq, Iran, Syria--we will not let you languish, all those . We have your back.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/732982.html

My mother's younger sister, my godmother Jenny, is very ill--breast cancer. She's been fighting it for awhile--this isn't the first time--but my Uncle Jon thinks this is it. My mom's flying out there right after Christmas.

Jenny is awesome. She is ten years younger than my Mom--profane, a ferocious fighter and FIERCELY loyal to her family. She helped me out a ton during the situation with the Fungus--in the interest of plausible deniability I am not sure exactly what she did because she wouldn't tell me. She loves her family. She and Mom adore each other.

My other godmother, my aunt Clarissa (on Dad's side), is also sick but it's not quite so dire yet.

My favorite uncle, my Dad's twin-separated-by-19-months brother Metty, died this year. They were very close, and I loved him a lot. He was always so nice toward my mother, always asked after her. I was able to FaceTime him several times this summer/fall.

It just all sucks right now. My poor Mother--my poor Dad.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/732753.html

I am so effing stressed about Election Day. I had to leave one of my classes early today because I nearly passed out, I felt so nauseated.

prayingprayingpraying

I will be carrying my Anglican rosary in my pockets all day tomorrow (today, really). And doing a LOT of drinking once I get home.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/732436.html

...there's something strange about this timeline, specifically Stacy's pregnancy. Stacy and Mark have their one date in late December (when he leaves the house and looks back, the house is covered with Christmas decorations). A week or so later (Damone says "you fall on the horse, you gotta get back on," or something like that referencing their one date) , Mark and Damone come over to swim in Stacy's pool (the scene where Brad fantasizes about Linda). Then they show Damone getting Stacy's locker open, which helps solidify her crush on him. So, the earliest they could've slept together would've been sometime in January but more likely early-mid February. But it could've been even later--when they're on her house they talk about how the school annuals (yearbooks) are coming out soon, typically an end-of-the-year occurrence. So let's say late February? I'm thinking at least 6-8 weeks before she figures out she's pregnant and books the appointment at the clinic so now we're in mid-late April. That leaves just a month (finals are the beginning of June, per Mr. Hand's note on the blackboard) for the fight between Damone and Mark, the visit to the ME's office which leads to the gradual softening between Mark and Stacy...I don't know, it just all seems a little fast.

Also January is when Spicoli and Jefferson's little brother crash the car and they make it look as though the Lincoln football team deliberately trashed the car, which leads to Jefferson destroying the Lincoln football team in the game. But--in January? What high school has regular season football games in January? Is that a Southern California thing?

Also--why are Spicoli, Stacy and Brad's girlfriend all in the same history class? Stacy is a freshman--who knows how many times Spicoli has flunked but the girlfriend at least should be a junior.

So not long after Tatia died I started thinking about fostering kittens. Tibby had always done well enough with other cats in the household—Tatia hated him, but he always wanted to be friends with her, and he and Edna Mo more or less got along, so I didn’t think he’d mind. A week or so later Ryan forwarded a text to me from a friend begging for foster homes for a litter of feral kittens. I responded to this and ended up with two wee ones, a black one and a white/orange tabby mix, both boys. I named them Apple and Jack. They were tiny and terrified (I kept them in the shower at first) but gradually grew to trust me and eventually try to take over the apartment. They were PRECIOUS and tiny and very, very sweet.

HOWEVER. Tibby did NOT appreciate their presence. In fact he was utterly miserable. At first, when they were more timid, he hissed at them to keep them in their place but as they got bolder (and realized there were two of them and one of him) they weren’t so intimidated by him. In fact (adorably) they tried making friends with him—they would try to nudge him and reach out. He wasn’t having any of it, though, And then when they started trying to gobble his food (at one point I literally lunged for the both of them and held them in my lap—they immediately started purring--so he could eat) he went on full strike and basically just hid in the closet the entire time. And he went off his food.

After a few days of this I started freaking out. I told the woman who’d set up the whole fostering arrangement that she needed to find a home as quickly as possible for the babies. As adorable as they were Tibby couldn’t handle it and he was and is my priority. Alex (the woman) was kind of difficult about this. We had talked before about how to get them adopted out—we agreed it would be ideal for them go together as they had bonded, but she seemed to have left it up to me. Then in later conversations, she started digging in her heels—we had to find them a home TOGETHER. And she didn’t seem to “hear” me—at one point she suggested I put up fliers in my building advertising them and I responded “According to the bylaws of the building, I’m only allowed to have one pet, not 3” so she replied that I should advertise that I have one kitten for adoption, and then when someone comes to look at it, show them both. Uh, no, that’s really not an option. Don’t suggest things that are going to get me in trouble.

The weirdest thing was when she told me “there is a reason adoption places only adopt out in pairs.” Uh, what? That isn’t true at all. Both Tibby and Tatia were adopted singly. Nobody in NYC would ever have cats if that were the case! One organization (interestingly, the one from which I adopted Tibby) only lets you take home pets if they’re in pairs OR if you already have another pet (so, I could take Tibby because I already had a cat) but every other place I researched allows single adoptions. She seemed really committed to “we must have the PERFECT situation,” both of them adopted together, and I was like 1) this could mean they NEVER get adopted, and 2) I, not you, am paying the price for your insistence on the perfect instead of pragmatism. Because the babies are here with me, and it’s my cat who is miserable. It was starting to get kind of tense until a cat-parent-ex-machina fell down from the sky (a friend-of-a-friend of hers) came in to take Apple and Jack. Problem solved!

Or so I thought. He was certainly happier after they’d left but he still wasn’t eating. So Labor Day Saturday I took him to the vet and they immediately diagnosed the problem. Tibby had severe dental issues—his mouth looked horribleand he was mewling piteously during the examination. It was very upsetting. So they pumped him full of antibiotics and pain meds and I took him home (they couldn’t operate until a few days later). He ate a little bit during those days—the pain meds helped. When I took him back for surgery—he was terrified. They put him into a kennel and he was absolutely shaking and hyperventilating. I think he honestly thought I was going to abandon him. Oh Tibby, my sweet earnest Tibby. Never. You are my precious baby boy, my Tiberius Hotspur Spots Green, Lord Stompalot, Sir Sassafras, my precious big-pawed ‘normous boycat. I love you to pieces—always have, always will. And I’m so, so sorry—after losing Tatia, I never should’ve put you through that stress with the kittens. I’m glad I was able to help them but it was just too much for my boy. He comes first. Always.

He was in the hospital for a few days, and then I got to bring him home Friday evening. He was ECSTATIC. He could not stop suzzing up to me, purring, demanding headskritches, curling next to me. And yes, he was eating. Even with hardly any teeth, he was eating. He seems more energetic and even a little social with the people I’ve had over. All I can say is Thank God. I could not handle losing another cat so soon.

So--last week was bad. Tatia has been declining ever since last December, although she was doing so well for awhile that both my mom and Ryan were thoroughly confused. "Sick cats don't eat like that." Months ago I concluded that Tatia had found some way to fake the whole thing, including the bloodwork, for treats and cuddles. That would be just like her :)

She has been getting noticeably weaker the last couple of weeks--her hind legs in particular. And her appetite has been getting worse--weirdly, she seemed to want to eat but wouldn't eat anything I have her (and I offered her everything). So last week was difficult--she still had some energy and was giving me "feed me!" looks but wouldn't eat and, heartbreakingly, couldn't climb onto my bed without help. And there was a horrifying episode when I heard her howling, looked behind me, and saw that Tibby had literally LANDED on her (she was splayed out flat on the floor, EXTREMELY upset). So Friday (10 days ago) I called the vet and they told me to bring her in. Thankfully my Friday boss at L***** was cool with letting me go home early so I was able to bring her in.

So I did and the vet examined her--the initial exam was inconclusive but then then she asked for an X-ray and then discussed the results with me. Apparently my precious Tatia had fairly severe anemia, and fluid on the lungs and heart, as well as the beginning stages of some kind of cancer,

And the vet said at this point we need to discuss euthanasia. And I was DEVASTATED. I could not stop crying.

We talked about it at length. And to be honest, I've been prepared for it for awhile. Certainly since she was diagnosed with the kidney disease in December. But I knew even before then my lamb's days were numbered--I mean, she was certainly not a young kitty, I've had her for 18.5 years. I was so upset, the vet said that if I wanted to take her home for the night to prepare myself, that she could give Tatia some kind of injection/transfusion to help her, but I would have to bring her back first thing in the morning.

At that, I made the extremely difficult decision that it was probably best to let her go now. If she was so sick she needed a transfusion just to go home, she was obviously in very bad shape. And I couldn't risk another incident where Tibby jumped on her--what if he broke a bone? My precious one would've been in agony. So we went into a side room while the vet examined another patient and I just petted her and hugged her and told her how good she was, what a sweet kitty she was, how pretty she was.

How much I love her.

I told her she would be seeing Bunny (my mother's cat--the only other cat Tatia ever really bonded with) and Edno Mo (my brother's cat who lived with us for 5 months) when she crossed over. And I told her "feel free to visit us when you get settled..."--because I am pretty sure Edna Mo visited Anya and me a few times afterward. (I remember one night after I'd gone to bed, Tatia was sleeping on my head, and Tibby was next to me. And I KNOW something jumped onto the foot of the bed and lay at my feet.) The vet and the assistant came in and were very kind and loving. And my Tatia went to sleep in my arms, surrounded by love and loving words and softness and good smells (I'd brought my pillowcase to help comfort her in her cat carrier).

Rest in peace, my sweet Tatia--I miss you so very, very much.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/731772.html

Since this is the first day off that I've had at least a couple of months, I was hoping I could go to the beach, but in fact today it is cloudy and rainy so no go :( I had actually had tentative plans with my neighbor Maria to go to Brighton Beach–– she is Russian and I thought I could've practiced my Russian down there. (I love that about BB, that I can actually read the signs по русски and practice.) Maria is pretty cool--I met her and her mother when we all moved into the building 3 years ago, and there was a big meet-and-greet on the terrace in August. We hung out for drinks with her brother (who also lives in the building) two weeks ago--she asked me to meet her up at her apartment which she said was 1004. I go up there and knock, several times, and there's no answer. I text her "где ты? я здесь в 1004." {Where are you? I am here at 1004.) She gave me the wrong number--she lives the floor above. But look me at, texting full sentences and question in Cyrillic!!!!!

The heat came on this past week bigtime, which means another summer like that year. When you work outside, global warming becomes very personal--last summer was really, really hard on me. From July through to the end of August--every day I worked outside, drinking as much water as I could, and trudging home to try to cool down before trudging off again to my evenning job. I couldn't WAIT for September, and December's very warm spell was terrifying to me. I really, really hope the conservative shitheads in Congress who are reflexively blocking any kind of measure on climate change just to say fuck you to Obama live by the water, so their houses will be the first to wash into the ocean when the waters rise. I am honestly terrified at the change.

And speaking of politics, some of these Bernie fans need to step away from the Kool-Aid. Look, I have no problem with Bernie Sanders (although he isn't my choice) and if he got the nomination, of course I would vote for him. What the fuck is wrong with so many of his supporters (NOT ALL, many of perfectly reasonable, please do not NOT ALL MEN my post) that they would rather burn the whole building down than vote for a viable candidate who is LEAPS AND BOUNDS better than the Republican clown? I look at them and they all seem to be white, straight, cisgenerdered men--who really have little to fear from a Trump administration. They can afford to be pie-in-the-sky about politics. Rachel posted somehting a few days ago that brought out the Bernie nuts, and one of them actually said ""If we can't win, at least we can make the re-election an impassible road for whomever wins!" Like, WHAT THE FUCK. What a completely stupid, stupid, self-absorbed, dumbass thing to say. It's as though this is some sort of freshman year class in political theory. Four years of living under Trump policy and rhetoric would actually affect some people's lives, you fucking toddler.

In better news, my Sunday classes are growing by leaps and bounds. They added me to these classes 6 weeks ago--3 in a row in Hell's Kitchen. At first each class had literally one kid each and then they started growing. I thought little of it until one of the mothers buttonholed me after a lesson, saying "your company is new to this neighborhood, right?" I said I didn't know but these were my first classes here in Hell's Kitchen. She said you don't advertise here--I never see fliers or anything like that but all your business is growing by word-of-mouth. All of us parents go home and tell the parents of our children's friends that they should sign up. (Which obviously means they like my classes!*) She said you should advertise more--you only have one competitor (she named the company, I didn't recognize it but I could tell by the name they didn't specialize in soccer) and this neighborhood is filling up with families.

Now, I used to live in Hell's Kitchen and know and love the area quite well. I said I would pass this on to the head of marketing who was THRILLED to read all this.

And then yesterday one of the kids gave me the cutest offering. I called him a little rosencavalier (but seriously, what kind of flower is that? It's not a rose). Isn't that adorbs?

*Also on this day, one of my kids' grandparents were there to drop off/pick up the kid, and they stayed and watched. Afterward they were just aglow--the grandmother was marveling at how good I was with the kids and I said well, it's a good job for me because I like kids, I like soccer and I like to perform. And the grandfather shook his head and said "they're lucky to have you." What a nice compliment! That was a good day :)

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/731454.html

So, Tatia seeeeems to be doing much better. She is active (relatively), she is eating and drinking, she hisses at her brother (she’s gotten quite feisty actually) and she cuddles on Mommy’s lap like it’s her day job. The vets are still reserved about her long-term chances—they say her kidney numbers aren’t that good (or at least as high as they’d like) and they want to run some more blood work on her next week. But they did say how she does at home is a stronger indicator of her health than the numbers...so we shall see. I am optimistic that my fuzzy precious one will be with us for a little while longer.

Also—saw the new Star Wars movie! It was EPIC. I absolutely loved it! I think the new characters are great and I loved the grandeur and, well, pictures. It was wonderful to see all the old favorites again--I (along with the audience) cheered whenever Han and Chewie, or C-3PO, or Leia came into view. The Falcon! So great to see everyone again. And I loved the new characters as well--Rey and Ren were great, loved Finn and BB-8. Love it, love it, love it.

Also—money. The vet bills are pretty big, almost $3,000 (it’s worth it to have Tatia but still—ouch). But the good news is that my parents gave me a decent amount of cash for my birthday and for Christmas, and then I also got decent bonuses from the bankers for whom I work. Plus charging so much on my card does at least generate 1% cash back. So all of this adds up to a nice chunk of change and in fact nearly half the bill so far. Which is obviously incredibly relieving. I doubt I’ll be able to go to Oslo this spring as I’d planned but it’s not because of the money, it’s because Tatia needs nightly medication and fluids. I just don’t feel right about having someone else do that right now (although it’s possible I could change my mind if she remains stable). I certainly don’t want to miss out on Oslo but my precious Lady Stompalot is more important.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/731305.html

Oh, this week from hell just gets better and better and better. Talia has been in the hospital for several days and they thought it would be best if she came home tonight--the clinic is closed for over 12 hours on Saturday and Sunday nights and they didn't want her to be alone that long. So I'm walking to the clinic, big L.L. Bean bag on one arm, my cat carrier on the other and as soon as I turn onto Park Avenue I noticed there is a kid nearby walking in the same direction. No older than 12, and he seems to be walking about my pace, I noticed that he never got ahead of me. So, annoyed, I slow down and noticed that he slowed down as well. I speed up, noticed he sped up as well. There was really nothing I could do other than stop I suppose, you can't exactly turn around and tell a total stranger stop walking near me.

Then a few blocks later I feel something. This nasty little fucking shit stain had the temerity to grab my butt. I turned around and absolutely roared at him and he looked terrified. I chased him for most of the block absolutely screaming at him YOU ARE A COWARD I WILL FIND YOU IF YOU TRY THAT AGAIN I WILL KICK YOUR ASS LITTLE BOY IF YOU EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN I WILL KICK YOUR ASS LITTLE BOY

Just--ewww. What the fuck is wrong with you! 12 years old and you're grabbing strange women? Stalking them for five blocks? What the fuck is wrong with you, you nasty little shit?

What a fucking birthday week, man. Scammed on Saturday for $100, my cat nearly dies and goes into the hospital costing me thousands of dollars and then some little nasty piece of shit acts like a nasty entitled piece of shit.

Updated to add: Just filed a police report. I doubt they'll catch the shitstain but if when he does it again, it will have established a pattern.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/730955.html

Have had an utterly shit weekend, all things considered—and the gift just keeps on giving today.

It started with my corporate game Friday night. None of the guys on the team responded or came so I had to dig up a bunch of subs just so we could have a game. One of my friends, who monitors a soccer email group, sent out an email for me saying I needed subs and a goalie. Several guys responded, including one guy who was the first to get to the field house. He was an older player and I could tell right off the bat he wasn’t very good (just generally not very coordinated, kind of awkward and flail-y). Angela (my friend) was also asking guys at the field house if they wanted to play and quite a few said yes. So we had a team and lots of subs, which was obviously good. Older Guy asks me “do you actually need subs?” I thought he was asking if I needed HIM, like if we didn’t really need him, he could leave or do something else or whatever. I shrugged and said “well, we did—we are pretty full right now though” and he starts yelling at me, saying “why did you send out that email then? I thought you needed players, I came a long way for this!” Like, back the fuck UP. I don’t care how far away you came, that’s on you. I said “Angela sent out the email and a lot of people responded but they didn’t show up until just before the game and she knew I was still worried, so she recruited even more players.” He’s like “well, do you need me or not?” I said “what do YOU want to do? Do you want to play? THEN PLAY. No one’s kicking you out! And get off my case!” I really wanted to say “you are not good enough to cop this kind of attitude and the pickup community is small—you will be remembered if you act obnoxiously.” It really upset me at the beginning of the game—dude, I don’t even know you, calm down. I absolutely detest it when older men act like that. After the game (he wasn’t terrible but he was far and away the weakest and slowest player out there) he tried to make nice with me but man, never again. If he responds to another mass email seeking subs, I’m ignoring it.

So then Saturday after my classes, I was walking through Harlem on my way back to my apartment, and going up Frederick Douglass Boulevard. FDB was really blossomed in the past 5 years or so—tons of great new restaurants and lounges, all different types. I text Ryan “hey, it’s a gorgeous day—wanna meet for lunch?” So we decide to meet at 116 and FDB. I get there and Ryan comes up to me—he says he was waiting for me and a guy came up to him, coming on to him, and was asking him to get a drink. Ryan said he was waiting for a friend and the guy said bring your friend, I’ll buy them a drink as well. Said he was in town for a wedding and he hated to drink alone. Ryan said to me we don’t have to if you’d rather not but I thought, why not? We all sit down together and the guy was staring at me, absolutely hung on my every word. But he said he was gay and I thought he was trying to impress Ryan and pick him up. The guy orders another round of drinks and then Ryan and I decide why not, we’ll eat here. It seemed like a good conversation. Then the guy goes over to the waitress and when he comes back, he’s slipping a receipt into his pocket—trying to look like he was being discreet but I sensed he wanted me to notice. Then the food arrives and a few minutes later he wants to go out front for a cigarette and asks Ryan to join him.

I wait FOREVER for them to come back—at least 15-20 minutes. Finally Ryan comes back—alone. He says the guy told him he had paid for the bill with his “corporate card” but he had to meet his “weed dealer” and asked Ryan to pay for our portions, in cash. He asked for $70 and Ryan immediately balked. Ryan said oh no, you ordered those rounds of drinks, not us. We’ll pay for our food and that’s it. Ryan said he would give him $40 but he didn’t have cash—the guy said there’s an ATM machine a few blocks away. (This, I think, is when I might have figured it out [I say might because someone tried to scam me like this once and as soon as they mentioned the phrase ”ATM machine” something clicked and it felt wrong somehow. Like, you should not be directing me to an ATM]. But Ryan had a lot of information to process, I don’t blame him for not picking up on this.) The guy was talkingtalkingtalking the entire way, Ryan gets him $40 and the guy says he’ll be right back.

I sat there, processing this, and said “What do we do now?” Ryan said he’ll be back and I thought about it. I said “Ryan, I don’t think he’s going to come back—that’s a pretty egregious etiquette breach, asking for cash like that, even if he did foot the bill. I think he might be embarrassed.” Then it occurred to me if he doesn’t come back, he might’ve stiffed the waitress so I call her over and ask if he tipped her. She looks startled and says: he didn’t pay the bill at all.

Ryan and I sit there, stunned. The waitress is very concerned and asks us what’s the deal, and we explain to her what happened. She goes to get the manager and I tell Ryan the fairest thing would be for them to take off his portion and we just pay for our meals, but we shouldn’t count on that. Manager comes, we tell her everything and she decides to take off one round of drinks and his meal. The bill comes to $70-something and I put on a whopping tip (on the original amount, not the adjusted total) which the waitress had to clarify “are you sure?” I said you’ve been so helpful and I’m not going to stiff you on the service you provided to him, even if he is a thief, that’s not your fault. We went to police to file a report but the guy to whom we spoke was utterly unhelpful (if polite) and was very discouraging, saying the guy hadn’t used force, it wasn’t a crime, a judge wouldn’t do anything. I said who cares about a judge? We know we’re not going to see Ryan’s money again—but what about informing the community that a scammer is running around? The cop was saying to Ryan, well you gave him that money, he didn’t actually rob you. I said--then why did you go after the squeegee guys in the '90s? Why do you go after the costumed people in Times Square? It’s not a crime to ask for a tip—why would you come down hard on them but you don’t care about scammers who actually lie? It's a quality of life issue, which is exactly what the broken windows theory is designed to address--that little crimes turn into bigger ones. In the end the cop refused to do anything so as we walked out I loudly remarked about how he didn’t want to do his job, even though crime is so low they have nothing else to do except escort 12 year old boys in handcuffs (which we saw when we first entered). Hey, I might as well use white privilege (I knew the cop wouldn’t come down on me for that remark) for good.

Then yesterday. Here’s the context: I went away for Thanksgiving and as usual, Michael fed the babies. When I came back I noticed Tatia was hardly moving—for two days (Monday and Tuesday) she literally barely stirred from my pillow. I had to shove food under her nose to get her to eat anything. Very concerned, I made an appointment at the vet for her. My current vet is on Lex and 94th—they’re great but they’re expensive, $97 per visit. I first took the babies there in fall of ’13 and it was obviously a bit of a hit, especially because they were recommending blood tests for Tatia ($200+) and tooth extraction (much more $$$). At that time I flat-out could not afford that, whatsoever. (I'm doing better now but this is still ending up to be quite a lot for me.)

So since then I haven’t taken them back for a checkup, thinking hey, they’re indoor cats, it’s not like they’ll get hit by a car. So anyway, as this past week progressed, Tatia was doing better—moving around, climbing into my lap. But I kept the appointment, which was yesterday. They did a regular checkup and then recommended blood work and a fluid injection (she was dehydrated). I nixed the fluid injection (the least important thing—she wasn't terribly dehydrated) but okayed the blood work, so the bill was $327 (checkup, bloodwork, plus 2 cans of AD, a special super-fattening and irresistible wet food for cats who have gone off their food).

The vet called today. Lambkin has kidney disease and a bladder infection, so I have to bring her in tomorrow for an antibiotic. Plus they wanted to “do a culture” on her to make sure they were getting her the right antibiotic (the one tomorrow is a general one—she needs one pretty badly). The culture is $160, plus $50 for the first antibiotic. I thought about it and decided to go ahead and get the culture (that was optional--the doctor was very respectful of my financial concerns--but recommended). In for a penny, in for a metric fuckton, right?

The kicker is—I have insurance for them. But it’s contingent upon their receiving a yearly checkup, so they have a baseline of health for the animal. Which I skipped last year, because I couldn’t afford it. (And I’d forgotten about that insurance requirement.) My options are not good—I can either ask the vet to back me up if I say I took Tatia for her annual exam which they might refuse (and which they would be entirely in the right to do so. That’s a lot to ask). Or I throw myself on the mercy of my insurance company, and I don’t expect them to give in. (Although if they do I’ll just go ahead and cancel her policy—not out of spite but I might as well save myself that monthly expense.) $500+ in one week for Tatia. Plus the restaurant thing. Jesus.

WHAT YE FUCK, UNIVERSE?!

But at least Lambkin is doing better. She's eating, she's moving around, she's cuddling, and she's doing one of my favorite stunts--when I'm in bed but awake (like when I first wake up, or first lie down), she loves to walk over to the pillow and stand with front and back paws on opposite sides of my face, essentially straddling my face. What kills me is how she pulls this off--she kind of looks around, like she's considering something, like hmm, what to do, what to do, decisions, decisions. Meanwhile her BELLY FULL OF FUR is hanging right in my face, smothering me. And Tatia just pretends she doesn't even notice. This sadistic game of hers is how I know she's doing a little better. When your elderly cat stops trying to kill you, that's when you know they're in trouble.

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/730469.html

So, the rest of the weekend. I had two soccer games on Friday. The first game was for my corporate team--we were playing the last place team so we should've won easily. Except that a couple of people who were supposed to show up, who were confirmed to show up, did not so we ended up playing the entire game with just five players––i.e., no subs. I have been in this situation before and it is infuriating and depressing. You literally feel abandoned by your teammates. This was the last place team and we should've been crushing them but we were down by one or two goals at halftime, at which point I sent off a blistering email to everybody on the email distribution list plaintively asking where the hell are you guys?! I get that the analysts on our team are constantly called in at the last minute to do work but the big guy who bailed on us was not an analyst, he's an associate--he should've been there. On the other hand, perhaps it's better he wasn't there. He has an annoying way of trying to take on every single person on the other team and score like that and he never, ever, ever, ever seems to see me for any other player waiting on the sidelines by the goal, available to score. He just wants to score all the goals himself.

At any rate we ended up winning 10-7, And I scored five of our 10 goals. I don't know, I seemed to get a groove Friday night--even the other team was commenting on it. So as I said before, after the game I grabbed my phone and was checking up on what happened in the last hour in Paris and was asked if I could step in to play as a female since our league dictates that two women must be on the field entire game. I said sure, I'm happy to get more playing time. This is a very very good team, better than ours quite frankly. They had a lot of set pieces and obviously have worked together a lot and finally they started feeding the ball to me. The first few times I was messing up––my touches are not always that great–– but eventually I started putting the ball in the goal and they started noticing. And I could see the looks of growing respect on their faces after every goal. I ended up being the high score in that game as well, which was certainly gratifying.

I remember having a conversation with one of the guys on our team who was complimenting me and I said you know, my form is not that great and there're a lot of things I can't do on the field but when I can do is convert. I am ALWAYS looking for a shot, always trying to score and I never let the goalie relax. One goal of which I am MOST proud was when a bunch of us were clustered around the goal and the goalie grabbed the ball. We all started to jog back and I snuck a glance over my shoulder--I am not sure how but somehow he let go of the ball and dribbled out of his hand so I pounced on it and shot it in. I was very proud of that.

Crossposts: https://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/730020.html

So Friday. Along with the rest of the world I was obviously horrified and sickened and saddened by the news I started picking up online around five o'clock. I went over to the woman for whom I work on Fridays and said "have you seen the news? Do you know what's going on in Paris?" We both started monitoring news web sites. I remember when just 66 dead (CNN) seemed like a ridiculous exaggeration. Absolutely horrifying. My brother's in-laws (he is married to a Parisienne) are all safe, thank God.

Friday was a little crazy for me. I was struggling with my reaction to this horrific news situation but I also had a soccer game with my corporate team. I was actually really immersed into that and was grateful for the escape from the sadness. After the game I remembered again what had happened in Paris and immediately grabbed my phone to see what (new) news there was. Then I was asked to join another game which went really well (in both games I was the lead scorer). Again, I was very grateful for the escape. I'll talk more about that later but it was a strange juxtaposition of feeling like a citizen of the world, compelled to partake of the world's tragedies, and feeling like a very privileged American, who can forget about stuff like this with frivolous activities.

The next day I had classes in the morning and then I had to hop on the bus to get home for a very brief trip so I could partake of my high school reunion. (Again, more about that later but it was a lot of fun.) But on the bus ride home I noticed two things--first, a lot of people were changing their profile picture on Facebook to add the tricouleur overlay. (Which I also wanted to do but was unable to manage via cell phone.) The other thing was that a lot of posts coming out about additional attacks that had happened in other locations by ISIS (i.e., Daesh), in Kenya and in Beirut. And it is obviously very important to point out this as well--for whatever reason the media didn't seem to push these stories as hard so I was unaware of them. That is absolutely worth discussing.

But there was also a lot of finger-pointing and a lot of pretty harsh statements (I saw one really offputting article on HuffPo today) about how racist people must be if they cared more about Paris than about these other attacks. I don't really take it personally because I know that these things are meant as a response to a trend and not to me personally but for the record I will say--I speak French. I have extended French family. I have a lot of French ancestry on my mother's side, and I was raised to be proud of that. And perhaps most importantly and most obviously: I have been to Paris. I daresay a decent number of Americans have. I have never been to Beirut, nor to Kenya. If I had visited those place, the attacks would've been much more on my radar and I would've had a response to them. If somebody had attacked Tangiers or Casablanca, two cities where I visited--in Tangiers's case I've been there many, many times –– I would've been just as horrified. I think it's a little ridiculous to beancount and micromanage people's heartfelt reactions to tragedy. Yes, if this were a perfect world we would always respond the same way to tragedies near and tragedies far, but right now that's not the way the human heart works. We tend to respond to those tragedies which are closest to us or to which we have some kind of personal connection. Again, along with everything else, I have visited Paris. It's a beautiful city--lots of history, gorgeous architecture, the world's most popular musical takes place there. *Shrug* I feel that that accounts for the reaction on Saturday and I'm not sure there's anything to be gained by trying to shame people into reacting to something else. It honestly strikes me as a weird version of the Oppression Olympics. Just let people react honestly and stop trying to police their grief unless it's overtly problematic.

I was also disappointed to read an article today that included a long series of comments about how stupid and silly people were to, say, add the tricouleur overlay to their FB profile pics. The way I saw it was--after 9-11, I was devastated, like everyone else in NYC, DC and the rest of the country. Shortly thereafter, people started forwarding the emails (remember our lives before social media?) showing how the rest of the world responded. I saw pictures of candlelight vigils from people all over Europe. And the Middle East--including Palestinians (that did quite a lot to me, after seeing that horrible video of Palestinians dancing around and handing out candy after hearing about 9-11). Country after country, culture after culture were standing up, saying we stand with you. We reject this. Nous sommes tous Americains. That mattered to me. That made me feel better. It comforted me, standing in my apartment, wailing to the ceiling, asking God how could you do this? What is the point of all that death? I wanted to send the same message back to our French friends. This is wrong. We stand with you. We are your friends. What is the harm? If someone wants to post a picture of themselves in front of the Tour Eiffel, why is that a problem? If someone mis-translates a statement of solidarity, who cares? You know what they meant. I just don't get the need to sneer at any effort that isn't perfect.

Aujour'dhui, nous sommes tous francais. Nous sommes avec vous. Nous vous aimons. Nous sommes vos amis. Nous marchons avec vous. Nous surmonterons.

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/729628.html

So I had an interesting afternoon.

I had a two-hour window between classes so I got lunch and went to hang out in Washington Square Park, which was packed with people and lovely. I'm sitting on the grass there in my stocking feet (shoe issues, podiatrist visit tomorrow) and noticed a couple of possibly-homeless guys maybe 50 feet away, talking loudly, swaying back and forth, the usual. I'm working on a couple of classes and look up to see one of the PHG getting in the face (literally) of an older guy (60s?), who had a dog on a leash nearby by. This was right near me, maybe 10 feet. PHG is yelling at Older Guy, "your DOG bit me in the FACE, what the fuck are you gonna do about it?" I see he does indeed have a small wound on his nose that's bleeding. OG is backing away, not saying much and PHG hauls off and SOCKS OG in the face, knocking him to the ground. OG is trying to stand back up and stumbles back down again. PHG is still yelling at him, "WHAT are you gonna DO about it?" I jump up, pepper spray in hand, and jump between them, asking OG "are you okay? Should I call 911?" PHG is lunging forward and I stuck out a hand, saying "leave him alone!" (Like--CRINGE, Clara. "Leave him alone"? Couldn't I have said something more authoritative like keep your distance? Oy.) OG said to me "no, I'm not okay..." and I whipped out my phone. The best part was when PHG moved backwards at one point and came within range of the doggie who was still on the leash attached to a fence post. Dog went to TOWN on PHG's ankle. Doggie saw PHG attacking his human and he was having none of it. (I was very proud of him--good doggie! Don't come near me but good doggie!)

OG take doggie and stumbles out of the park. PHG is lurching after him, and now he's really bellowing. He's screaming at people on the bench in front of me and I'm on the phone with 911, giving a description of PHG (I'm sure they could hear him on the phone), telling them exactly where in the park we were. The dispatcher asked me "what does he look like--is he black or Hispanic?" "Uh, actually he's white!" She said they'd send out a call (or whatever they said) but as it turned out there were already cops in the park, pretty close by, who kind of strolled over. Good timing, guys! Would've been nice if you'd stepped in earlier. A few other spectators and I spoke to the cops and eventually PHG showed up, cops in tow, handcuffed. The cops asked me where the victim had gone and I pointed--they thought he'd disappeared because of the dog, because the dog had bitten someone. The other spectators and I were discussing this--I was saying that anyone with a lick of sense doesn't just shove their head toward a strange dog. You ask the owner if you can pet the dog, you ask if it's friendly. And then you slowly extend your hand to the dog so it can smell you. Don't ever put your face near a strange dog. Dogs are not humans, they are subject to their instincts, they will react unpredictably. That's the risk you take when you put yourself into their space. I would've had no sympathy for him even before he attacked OG and was screaming at him.

The kicker was that 30 minutes later PHG is strolling around, free. The cops didn't book him. I get that the victim vanished but you had at least 30 witnesses and he ATTACKED the guy. He'll undoubtedly do it again. I guess they didn't want the administrative hassle. Only in New York!

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/729520.html

So Wednesday I was assisting a coach in a class of 2-3 year olds. This coach is older, from Italy, and we have some awesome discussions. And he knows I’m a huge history nerd. So he was teaching the kids, and as the lesson progressed we ended up with a floor of big cones with smaller cones on top of them, and he wants the kids to knock them down. So he says “thees is lahk Rome and…”—looks questioningly at me—“…the Phoenicians?” I laughed and said “the Carthaginians, actually, although they spoke Phoenician.” So then I start getting into it and I’m encouraging the kids to “sack Carthage, we have to sack Carthage! Make sure they never invade our peninsula again!” Now I’m trying to figure out how I can come up with a lesson that incorporates Roman history—I have two kids (not even related!) in my Saturday class of 4-5 years olds whose names are Cassius and Livia and I love to call her Empress. My Saturday classes are outdoors and there’s a slope nearby—I can possibly recreate Hannibal’s passage through the Alps. The sack of soccer balls could be the elephants…

Crossposts: http://ceebeegee.livejournal.com/729173.html

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