Rocked the kasbah

Today we are in the region of the Dades and Toudres Gorges and went on a “small, easy” hike. We left at 9:30am and didn’t get back to the hotel until 3pm. Our guide was a 20 year old university student named Mohammed.  He seemed really nice, and he’s handsome, and would jump at any opportunity for a green card. Josie (and Scott) I’m really sorry, but I might have accidentally betrothed you. (Did I mention that he is cute?)

You must understand, Mom and I almost never really know what to expect. Our written itinerary might be a loose guideline for what part of the county we are in, but often when Y conscientiously prepares us for what the coming day will bring… oh, wait. He doesn’t do that.* Even when we pepper him with questions, we still seem to find ourselves thrust into situations with no clear understanding of what is happening, how long it will take, what we are looking at, when our next meal or bathroom stop may be, where we will be sleeping that night, etc. etc. Chalk it up to grand adventure.

THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF:

#3: Surprises!

So this morning we found ourselves in the care of this nice young man, trotting dutifully along after him, hoping we were wearing appropriate clothing. (We knew we were hiking. We knew it would be “nice, easy, maybe three hours. Easy incline, no need to use your hands.”) We did NOT know we were cheerfully embarking on a death march of epic proportion.

I’m skipping over parts of what we talked about, because you are probably eager for the funny-slash-humiliating bits. I will simply state that in hindsight, vacationing on climbing trips with my father ought to have had the warning bells ringing loudly in both our heads. Oh, how fondly we talked about Dad. All. Day.

It became immediately clear that Mohammed is what you call “sportif.” “Legs of rock,” he said proudly. Mom and I do not have legs of rock. Or lungs prepared for a five hour hike in altitude.

Note that while we were gone from 9:30 to 3:00 pm technically the last hour was not hiking. Rather, it was spent in an isolated upstairs room of a kasbah, viewing hundreds of handmade rugs beneath the watchful gaze of a wizened old lady… that Youssef! Leave it to him to 1) never mention rug shopping; and 2) send us on a death march and then spring this moment of “hospitality” on us when we were exhausted, dripping in sweat and longing for our disgusting whole-bathroom shower experience.

(The bathroom is right inside the “front door” to the room, with only a curtain for privacy. The shower is just a spray hose jutting out of the wall next to the sink. No stall,  no curtain. You just stand there showering yourself all over the toilet and sink. Sort of like in a compact RV I guess. Still, my windows overlook nothing but the Atlas and I slept SO well last night. Who cares about a rotten shower? The never-washed wool blankets are also, strangely, growing on me.)

Despite being hard work, the hike was simply amazing. Mohammed was so kind, so patient and considerate… “only 15 more minutes to the top!” was a refrain he encouragingly repeated for at least two hours.

Mom is one tough woman, though I was grateful she was sucking wind badly because it gave me some desperately-needed rest without losing too much face. I was just being a good daughter, pausing a moment to let dear mama catch up, doubled over trying hard not to retch in front of Mohammed.

According to Mohammed, we were still better than the Dutch, who are “boeff” (miming large pot-belly with his hands) and never make it the top. I suspect the Dutch may be the ONLY nation we can claim supremacy over in this unofficial little Olympics.

We declined the “panoramic view” add-on, which was “just over that peak.” Having been climbing with Dad, our instinct for self-preservation belatedly kicked in. Plus, the view from the saddle was spectacular!  And there and back for a panorama in ADDITION to wherever our actual destination was (still a complete mystery, and still “15 minutes away”), was not appealing.

Fortunately, our true destination was not far at all. Over a rise, and impossible to detect, was a tent and several caves where Berber nomads actually LIVE. Really, truly. I choose to believe this was not just a tourist show simply because the  caves were only marginally more rustic than the kasbahs in the village. Or our hotel, for that matter.

An older woman made us tea, with a beautiful little two-year-old girl (Abeisha) to help her. We enjoyed our tea in the company of five-year-old Youssef, completely entertaining and adorable.

The trip back down was just as long although a different route. We were high up among the peaks and I think I may have blown my one good knee. (The other still hurts from La Plata Peak last summer.) Briefly, we heard the distant song of another Berber woman, across several small valleys, singing to herself as she disappeared over a high ridge.

Before I forget, ten people lived in those caves, and Mohammed told us that little Youssef’s father is 78 years old. (ICK!)

We teased Mohammed that we were making him late for a date with his girlfriend. Little did we know that it was actually ourselves who were late - - for our date with a rug salesman.

Exhausted, the hotel in sight, I remember thinking how close I was to a shower… But no.

“Maybe now you like to see a family and how they live in the kasbah?”

I’m learning (and clearly I’m a slow student) that when your guide (be it Youssef or his designee) adds a “maybe you’d like to?” … it’s a sure warning that very probably you WON’T like to.

In all honesty, I did truly enjoy the experience, even though we may have walked away as fleeced as the camel fur being patiently carded and spun by “auntie.”

Ali charmingly introduced himself and welcomed us warmly into his home. We walked up some steps to the top floor and sat on some rugs. A huge, vertical loom was set up on one side of the room.

Ali spent a great deal of time courteously and thoroughly explaining the process of creating hand-woven Berber rugs. And threw in the fact that some widows and divorcees from the village work on the rugs as a way to support themselves. (Oh, these Marocs are GOOD.)

After extended pleasantries and two cups of hot tea so we would feel especially welcome, the rug parade began. My goodness! Camel wool, sheep’s wool, even cactus thread… all colors and designs were ceremoniously, one at a time, set before us. We saw maybe 25 rugs, each lovingly described in great detail.

Ali went so far as to get out a scary-looking implement with metal claws. He then positioned himself on all fours on the topmost rug. “You have maybe cat? Small child? No problem!” He raked the evil-looking claws dramatically over a fine rug. And the rug withstood the test. “Lifetime guarantee! (NO, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.)

Then the real fun began. Mohammed looked kind of sheepish and amused as Ali got down to business. Numbers were written down on a small notepad. Outrageous numbers, which were exclaimed over, then crossed out and rewritten. We were HAGGLING! And doing OK at it, mostly because honestly – we didn’t want a damn rug!

Finally, an impasse was reached. Mom did NOT want a rug and we were leaving.

Oh no we weren’t! Now it was MY turn! Despite the fact that I’d been Lead Negotiator for Team Amreekya, I was not going to be let off the hook.

Throwing Ali a major curve ball, I asked to see cushions instead. Cooly, almost totally unfazed, he ordered the cushion parade to begin. After MUCH negotiating, and I must add, ALL of it done with smiles, obvious enjoyment on Ali’s part, and only minor discomfort on mine, I sealed the deal on two cushions (really great and unique!) for just $X.

I leave the “X” out of consideration for my husband, who is encouraged to assume I negotiated a SUPER deal!

The really delightful part is that I shook hands with and PAID “old auntie.” She’d remained quietly in the corner throughout it all, but only at the end did we realize SHE was actually directing negotiations. Ali was the charming, well-spoken sales guy, but this woman was clearly BOSS.

As they packed my cushion covers tightly for suitcase space, attention once again turned to Mom, and her small blue rug was offered to her for $5 less than our most outrageously low offer. How could we refuse?

Whatever we paid, it was certainly no more than we would have in Marrakech or another big city. So I look at it as $X for the cushions, and $X for the EXPERIENCE.  Really, Aaron. SUPER deal!

PS) Josie, saw Mohammed at dinner tonight. (He looked very fetching in a djallaba.) When he learned you were a lawyer, he backed out of the engagement. His exact words, I kid you not Josie, were “A lawyer? Sounds like trouble. She might know her rights and everything.”

Marrakech, Day 2

Or as I like to call it: "I've been peed on by a monkey."

The first day and a half of this vacation were technically travel. And maybe some time change too, but as I’m not smart enough to puzzle it out I’m simply focusing on the here and now. Who the hell knows what day it is back home, much less what time?!

The plane took off and landed right from the tarmac. In Madrid they shuttle bussed us to it. In Marrakech we walked into the terminal, which felt a lot like beloved Belize to me. The passport clerk was icy. Listing “writer” as a profession was wholly unacceptable and needed clarification. (Remind me next visit to list “bureaucrat” instead.) Also, we simply were NOT going to be admitted into the country without listing the hotel we planned to stay at that very night. The only problem was that neither of us had any idea – that was our guide, Youssef’s job to decide. We tried to explain that we were meeting a guide and the clerk just looked at us disdainfully and said again: “Hotel?”

Oh dear. Gathering my wits, I ventured hopefully, “Hotel Marrakech?” The clerk rolled his eyes but was powerless against my lie.

Incidentally, we passed Hotel Marrakech today on our horse and carriage ride. It’s at least 4.5 stars nicer than our actual hotel. I sort of wish we were staying there, but then we wouldn’t have cute policeman TV. More on that later.

Customs made up for the grumpiness of immigration. We were cheerfully waved past. Probably because a whole flock of wealthy looking Germans with stainless steel luggage were ahead of us. I’d rather have peeked inside their bags than my own too!

As promised, Youssef was standing right at the doorway when we came out. He greeted us warmly and we sat down in the airport lounge-slash-mock-bazaar (complete with live sitar music) for a glass of tea. The first of many I am certain. Mint tea runs through Maroc veins the way cheese runs through mine. It’s brewed green tea steeped over fresh mint leaves. They serve it very hot in very small, highly decorated clear glasses, which already I covet.

I like Youssef. He leads an interesting life, he’s extremely smart, and he seems both easy going and reliable. We are his ONLY two charges, which honestly is a treat. No herd of tour group cohorts for us… and no sweating the small stuff either. Youssef may be making a killing off us (more on our hotel soon) but I still think the situation is excellent from our perspective as well. After haggling an embarrassingly long time over a taxi* we rode to our hotel.

*REASONS TO LIKE YOUSSEF:
#1: No haggling over taxis!

Now I’m not going to bore you with a lot of historical detail. You can find that in Fodors, just like everyone else. But Marrakech is sort of split into two cities. There is the old city within the walls (the Medina) and the French, “new” city. The Medina is charming, crowded, dirty, fascinating, frightening and sort of crumbly. It also smells a bit like horse urine. The French/modern city is indistinguishable from any sophisticated European city (I mean the tourist area). Wide, lovely boulevards – public spaces featuring actual vegetation, high rise hotels of every flavor… row after row of balconies with white curtains and doormen in uniform. Exclusive, wealthy, but sprinkled with Novatels and less fancy places.

Guess which of these areas OUR hotel was in? Yes, the Medina. In fact, the very HEART of the Medina. I can look out my window RIGHT NOW (which has no screen, no lock and is letting in tons of honking, shouting, and diesel fumes along with the cool breeze) and see the snake charmer at the edge of the souk. He’s like a long block away.

After being shown our room*, we were to meet Y back downstairs in 30 minutes.

*THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF
#2: No haggling over hotel rooms! They’re shitty rooms… but we didn’t have to haggle!

Mom and I were both on our last legs – serious jet lag and lack of sleep kicking in. Our initial room was rather cell-like. No windows, extra high ceiling, two tiny beds with sheets, two very heavy wool blankets in closet (said blankets highly likely to be infested with crabs), one light bulb in sleeping area, one light bulb hanging in bathroom. No chairs, no towels (toilet paper and damp towels were later provided upon request), no place to hang a towel, a scary little step-into-this-cubby shower, and a sink that drained directly onto the floor at your feet. But the “selling point” was that a large glass door in back led to a “terrace” which in turn led to a rickety set of metal steps to the roof of the building, which Y generously also called a “terrace.”  It might have been charming, had there been any chairs. And were it not for two separate piles (LARGE piles) of rotting food. One of moldy bread (“For the birds!”) and one that seemed to include meat scraps and more savory items (“For the cats!”).

After a quick, rather shocked huddle, Mom and I determined that Y must be playing us. Figuring out just precisely how terrible the conditions would be before we objected. After all… we are paying MORE for this tour than most of the large companies charge.

So, after some hushed commentary, which mostly consisted of variations on: “Do you BELIEVE this?” and “We can’t stay here, we simply CAN’T,” we met Y downstairs and laid it on the line. Better to have these difficult discussions early on in our trip – and be vocal about our expectations.

After about 15 minutes of angry-sounding haggling (ahem, that’s US haggling with Y)… we ended up with an ENTIRELY better room. Our sink didn’t leak and we had a balcony facing the front of the hotel (instead of a security-challenged door leading to the charming roof).

To clarify, absolutely everything else about the room is exactly the same.

And what’s even funnier (to me) is that this morning we had to move two rooms down, to a room with only 2 beds. Because that 3^rd mattress on the floor last night was unnecessary and probably cost Y more. Seriously, if this room cost more than $30 a night, I will let a monkey piss on me. (Oh, wait.)

The best parts of this hotel? Real Morrocans are staying here on THEIR vacation. Seriously. A family of 4 had this room last night. Also, this afternoon (to be fair, it was noon exactly – check-out time) a rock-starrish figure came stumbling down the stairs in nothing but very flimsy, authentic looking PJs. Barefoot, disheveled blond hair, sort of stoned-looking… in his 50s I’m guessing. So, aging rock stars and real Marocs. I think we have earned serious street cred already on this trip.

And there have been other plusses. This afternoon I discovered a very fetching police officer working the intersection of death just below our window. He’s quite large for a Maroc (which makes him sort of “average American man” sized) and bears a striking resemblance to Denzel Washington.

I call him “cute policeman TV” and spent a delightful hour this afternoon watching my new favorite show.

The intersection below is one of the most wretched examples of traffic control I have ever personally witnessed. It’s a one way… no, make that THREE one way streets converging, and shortly after they converge, there’s also a strange little switchback that gives access to the (“no cars allowed”) public square. Traffic includes all manner of diesel engine from large city busses (this block appears to be a major transfer point) to beat up VW taxis to scooters (thousands – no, MILLIONS of them), bicycles, and horse carriages. Yes, this square features 20 or more horse-drawn carriages for hire and they plunge RIGHT INTO traffic.

Needless to say, we must cross this intersection EVERY TIME WE LEAVE THE HOTEL. Every single time, we somehow cheat death.

There are no crosswalks here. But if you’re lucky, you position yourself behind a bold young man and use him as your human shield. You shadow his movements EXACTLY. And DON’T look. It makes it easier. Twice now, we’ve managed without the aid of anyone passing by.

My policeman has a very busy job. He’s been out there since at least 3:00pm and it’s 9:00 pm now. He shakes a lot hands. He checks the papers of cars wishing to access the little switchback. Most have a piece of paper and he ushers them through. Those that don’t receive a handsome smile and a firm hand signal for “no fucking way, motherfucker.” There has only been one car-pedestrian accident during the time I was watching the show. It knocked over the metal barrier that the policeman leans lightly on when he’s not tending to police business. His navy blue uniform includes a white hat and gloves. Occasionally, other policemen join him for short periods. Some of these are also very handsome. Others have silly, oversized mustaches. It’s my new favorite show.

Today we ate breakfast at a cheap little café on a side street. (Y’s treat so of course it probably cost 2 pfennigs in pre-WWII Deutschemarks.) However it was delicious. Note to self: 3^rd world countries only recently liberated by the French bake hella good baguette. Bread and cheese and yogurt – Euro style breakfast. And espresso with steamed milk: “café nuss-nuss.” I had three altogether today. After breakfast a quick, fresh-squeezed orange juice from a cart on the square, then a longish walk to a very old palace ruin and another palace that is still lovely. All the colors and architecture I’ve been dreaming of. Last night we saw the major mosque – which is just a block down the street from our hotel. Which, despite being worse than shabby, is RIGHT in the middle of everything.

The twisty, windy streets and amazing street vendors are so exactly as I pictured they would be that had to pinch myself. Spice vendors! Things here smell alternately heinous (diesel, horseshit, monkey piss) and divine (frankincense, myrrh, walks lined with rosemary and verbena).

Americans are NOT in abundance which is a new experience for me, tourist-wise. Lots of French, Spanish, German and many Marocs from outside Marrakech. It’s a school holiday so we’ve seen lots of families and adorable children.

Lunch was on our own. Tajine of chicken, preserved lemon and olives. Note to self: Learn how to preserve lemons (something about curing them in saltwater). We sat for HOURS at a café, eating and drinking more café nuss-nuss. Then back to our room to relax and watch policeman TV (me), write in journal (mom) and learn Arabic (me – Salaam, Amreekyah, Barouk something-something). I plan to practice more.

Dinner across the crazy square of carnies, also known as the Djema al-Fna. What else can you call it? There are thousands of bodies! It’s about the size of Madison’s capitol square (but no capitol building – all open air market leading to twisty souk streets). In fact, it looks a LOT like the protests against Governor Walker at their height (100,000 people?)… if the protests had included snake charmers, fortune tellers and cross-dressed male belly dancers. (There are no female belly dancers here.)

Last night, following our tasty though charmless “welcome dinner” (which, may I point out, was billed as the “special welcome dinner” in our itinerary – was I alone in picturing an entire dinner theater experience, complete with music, costumes and flaming dessert?)… anyway, our tea after dinner was on the third-story terrace of a huge restaurant overlooking the chaos below. What a spectacle!

While we were up there we took note of several nearby restaurants with terraces and headed straight for one tonight. (Dinner on our own.) The food was good (simple pizzas) but the view was incredible as the sky grew dark and the call to prayer sounded. Following dessert, we were torn between wandering the carnival or just going back to our cozy (hah!) little room… let’s just say I am scared of the souk at night and doubly scared when I look at my hand. (That story must wait.)

I did, however, have my heart set on a photo with a monkey. Who wouldn’t, right?

I’d noticed the monkeys the night before, along with the cobras, small dogs and occasional half-diapered old man selling good luck charms. There are probably 50 different blankets spread out around the actual merchant stalls and they’ve all got their schtick. Finding a monkey was going to be a piece of cake.

“I want a really, really small, harmless looking monkey,” I told Mom, who was already scanning the crowd.

Yesterday there was a monkey running around loose, his lead skittering behind him as he raced circles around the dogs, getting them all worked up. I didn’t want THAT one, that’s for sure.

“Oh no,” Mom replied with complete conviction. “You want a big, fat, SLOW monkey. The big ones are mellower.”

By GOD. She was absolutely right.

Just as we feared all the monkeys had been packed up and taken home, a nice young man thrust one right into my face.

“Amazing!” I grinned. “It’s like you can read my mind!”

The (large, calm-looking) monkey climbed aboard (me) after a polite monkey handshake.
Shit.

Y always says “get the price FIRST. I’m going to tell you ONE THING to remember. You negotiate the price of everything FIRST.” Too late, I started negotiating.

“You take as many photo as you like!” The monkey daddy was now really mostly focused on Mom and her ability to operate my camera. “No! No! Her eyes closed! Do another!”
Monkeys can be kind of heavy. But this one was also surprisingly soft and pretty nice. He was sort of leaning back, chewing on the 10D coin I’d tried to hand to his daddy.

If there’s one attitude that sums up all of Marrakech, it’s this. “Hey! You look vaguely uncomfortable with that monkey in your arms! You will be delighted to have two!”

Suddenly, a second monkey was thrust eagerly at me. This one was also not at all shy and immediately climbed up onto my head. Monkey paws were shoving my hair into my eyes. The first monkey daddy is arguing loudly with the second monkey daddy – telling him to get away, I already have a monkey. The second monkey daddy briefly attached his monkey to my mother, who vehemently declined. She was busy learning how to operate the flash feature on my camera and practically wetting herself as the first monkey, still nestled into the crook of my right arm, is literally wetting itself. All over my arm.


This all took less than two minutes and the photos are pretty great.

The second monkey pusher didn’t get paid, although that’s probably not fair, since really it’s the monkey on my head that truly makes the picture.

And getting pissed on dramatically turned negotiations in my favor. I let monkey daddy number one know that technically, he now owed ME money. With the most poise and charm I believe anyone has ever mustered in such a situation, he grandly cleaned my arm with the sleeve of his fleece. (I ended up giving him about 5 times what you’re supposed to… 50D or $5.)

10:30 PM UPDATE: Cute policeman TV STILL on. Now he’s donned a white lab coat over his uniform.

Folly Brings Down Another Cancer Powerhouse

I’d like to declare a new awareness month to call attention to a potentially horrible health crisis: A mysterious illness seems to be infecting nonprofit foundations that raise money for cancer research.

If things continue at this pace, we’ll all be back to relying on the federal government for research funding… and we all know that’s a recipe for progress. (Snicker.) Smart people everywhere are amping up preventive health measures as the “race for the cure” is looking ever more like a grueling marathon.

Lance Armstrong finally being exposed as a cynical liar and cheat – albeit a liar and cheat legitimately missing one testicle – undeniably spells bad news for LiveStrong, his foundation to support cancer research.

Yeah, Nike dropped Lance while continuing to support the foundation. And Lance stepped down as board chair (while retaining an active seat on the board). But how long will that last? Methinks it’s only a matter of time before those yellow bracelets stand for shame rather than hope.

Add LiveStrong’s inevitable demise to Komen Foundation’s bizarre and totally avoidable plunge into the nation’s most polarized political issue. Komen was caught in crossfire it single-handedly created. Their unprovoked attack on Planned Parenthood (which, ahem, serves as a safety net for breast cancer screening for low-income women) was so unfathomably unnecessary. And so tragically mishandled.

Perhaps cancer nonprofits missed some sort of critical inoculation against the folly of misguided leadership?

Generations from now, it’s possible that anthropologists will sift through our landfills only to uncover an entire society’s strange infatuation with pink EVERYTHING, along with millions of yellow wrist artifacts, all bearing the same coy, oblique message.

Warring nation states? Dueling religions? Or the remains of powerful cults with once-noble missions?

Really Dude? Seriously?

     After seeing the pictures that Time Magazine recently published of Vice Presidential candidate Paul Ryan, I have only one thing to say.  Dude, what the hell were you thinking?  I realize that this photo session was a year ago and back then you were just a lowly congressman from the wilds of Wisconsin.  But you were a nominee for Time Magazine’s Person of the Year and an elected representative.  Is this the image you really want to portray?  Pauly Paul and the Funky Fresh Bunch just feelin the vibration?  Right Said Paul too sexy for his hat?  You look like you are just one bad tweet away from sending a picture of your penis to an intern.  The bottom line is you look like a fool and not someone who should be a heartbeat away from the Oval Office.  You can claim that the photos were all the idea of the magazine or the photographer, but you said yes to the concept.  You put that baseball cap on backwards, picked up that dumbbell and flexed for the camera. Why?  It doesn’t look congressional.  It doesn’t look vice-presidential.  Then I figured it out. Maybe, just maybe, you were going for senatorial.  Back when these pictures were taken, everyone knew that Wisconsin’s democratic Senator Herb Kohl was not running for another term.  His job would be up for grabs, and who better to grab it than a relatively young and power hungry republican from southern Wisconsin?  But how to set yourself apart from the republican mob and make yourself a shoe-in for your party’s nomination?  Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Ryan you are a closet fan of our little blog and took the sarcasm of a much earlier post a little too seriously.  I refer to post from December of 2010 about the pictures taken of one Senator Brown (R-Mass.) in his misspent youth.  Yes, perhaps Mr. Ryan was trying to take a page out of the centerfold Senator’s book and let his freak flag fly, but if that was his intent, it was still an epic fail.  He did not go far enough. At least Senator Brown had the balls, at least I assume he does it is hard to tell from the picture, to go full frontal and really put himself out there.   All Congressman Paul Ryan accomplished with this photo shoot was to take some pictures that made him look like a vain, supercilious ass. But then, as they say, the camera never lies.

And I Feel Swine

Dear Friends and Readers, I realize that we who contribute to this blog have neglected our duty for the past year.  We have failed to bring you witty articles about pop culture, health and beauty trends, travel, and fine dining.  We have failed to provide the insightful social commentary and useful tips on apocalypse preparedness on which you had come to rely.  The only excuse I give, in my case, for this gross oversight is my brush with death last fall.  After fighting my way, heroically I might add, back from surgery and infection, I found myself in an appreciative fog unable to be truly snarky and thus unworthy of posting to this blog.  Today, my friends, this changes because over the past couple of weeks a news story has chilled me to my very core.  It is impossible for me to keep silent about the impending disaster that hangs over us all holding our world’s happiness and existence as we know it in a precarious balance.  I refer, of course, to:

 

BACON-OCALYSPE 2013!

Last week it hit the national news and for a moment my heart stopped beating.  Bacon Shortage!  No not that! Please by all that is holy, anything but that.  Why now? We just learned how to put it into ice cream.  Is it just bacon, or will I have to give up my pulled pork, carnitas, and sausage?  Will we be forced to stand in long lines for meager pork rations while privileged government leaders gorge themselves on BLT’s?  Or even worse, forced to eat bacon substitutes like turkey bacon, soy products or in the most desperate situations Soylent Bacon also known as long pig?  I rushed to my local grocery store and snatched up packages of Oscar Mayer and then scoured the internet for some glimmer of hope, a silver lining behind this, the darkest and ugliest of clouds. It turns out that this story originated with the press release from an obscure British trade organization, and although the drought experienced this past summer will affect the pork supply in the coming year, there is not a shortage of pork products looming on the horizon.  No this was just a crass marketing ploy to soften the economic blow of higher pork prices due to the higher cost of feed.  So there will still plenty of pork products available, but the price may be less palatable.   Then again, I always say that pig is proof that god loves us and can you really put a price tag on love?

The Perfect Man?

So, first off, let me just say I adore my hubby. I'm very happy, in love and actually am quite happy to say I still lust after my own hubby after being married to the guy for 10 years.

But then there's Hugh. :)

So if I was one of those kinds of gals that had "the list" - you know the list of guys you'd bang the daylights out of before you die if you ever get the chance and dear hubby would just have to give you a freebie... that list - if I had a list, you bet your sweet patootie Hugh Jackman would be on it.

The guy is obviously talented, and who doesn't like a guy who loves his kids? But his latest stunt is pretty much what sealed the deal.

One might be thinking - WWF, WTF? But yes, the star of stage and screen has lent his talents to Wrestling, and actually caused damage to a professional wrestler.

I would also like to clarify that it's not the violence that gets him on the list, no it's the fact that he's both good and "bad" - you know, just the knowledge that he could kick someones ass for you if you needed him too - yep, list-worthy quality.

So I ask you readers - if you were a "list" kind of person - would Hugh make your list?

Summit versus childbirth...

Well, Dad (the blogger) suggested I write about my 14'er adventure and he's right. It's definitely a blog-worthy experience. He keeps irritatingly referring to it as a "peak" experience.

The big question on the early part of our ascent - when we were still jovial - was whether climbing a 14'er (a Colorado mountain of at least 14,000 feet) would be tougher than childbirth. Well, full disclosure, I had an epidural both times and thoroughly enjoyed the birth experience. (I know that makes me a freak.) Let me highlight here why sumitting La Plata Peak (considered a very easy peak) was infinitely more of a challenge.

1. There are no talus slopes in childbirth.

If you're not sure what a talus slope is, imagine a thousand medium sized, unstable, accursed boulders piled up so high you actually can't see the top. It's surmountable, but only just.

2. You don't usually hate your Dad during childbirth. (Your husband, maybe.)

If you're wierd like me, your Dad might be present during the birth of your child. But you don't viscerally hate your Dad at that moment. No, it's a triumphant, joyous, Lion-King thing. You proclaim "Dad! He's got your chin!" Not, "Exactly how much of your unfortunate genetic makeup did I inherit, you suicidal old fool?"

3. There is enough oxygen for a proper cry during childbirth.

Not so above 13,000 feet. Not enough oxygen to hyperventilate or have a panic attack either. I know. I tried. There's not even enough oxygen to eat your peanut candybar, though it is the only thing you've ingested since your 6am stop at the gas station for a reconstituted egg sandwich eight hours ago.

4. There are no false summits in childbirth.

It may take forever, but generally once the kid is crowning, you've made it to the final stretch. When the doctor says "three good strong pushes," he doesn't mean push hard three times and then whoaaa Nellie! There's another effing hour to go!

5. There is no lightning in childbirth.

Much less giant swords of lightning striking neighboring peaks while you - wretched fool that you are - are scurrying across a broad, 13,000 foot high ridge, nearly the tallest thing around. And when I say scurrying, I don't mean in an orderly, mouselike way. I mean flailing your puny human arms and legs for all you're worth, like a couple of hapless hobbits fleeing Mordor with a goddamn golden ring.

And now, a couple of ways that climbing a 14'er is strikingly similar to giving birth.

• Once you've done it, you enter a strangely exclusive club. You've crossed over. You belong.
• The only membership requirement is that you've done it... no one cares how gracefully (or pathetically).
• You can't entirely describe how difficult an endurance challenge it was when people ask.
• You wouldn't know quite how to tell someone to prepare (although bringing more than 20 ounces of water along is a good start).
• There may be both tears and hysteria.
• A good coach who believes in you is essential.
• Both feats may well end with you in the hospital.
• Only the ignorant dismiss it as a non-accomplishment.

Stop Taking my Words Away

A few weeks ago I saw a PSA on TV that urged people to stop using the “r-word” comparing it to ethic slurs like Kike and Spic, and by the “r-word” the ad meant retard. I am all for not hurting people’s feelings and treating those who are different from you with the respect and dignity that all human beings deserve. I cannot however wholeheartedly endorse this message because unlike Kike or Spic. Retard is not a slang word invented to denigrate an entire class of people. It is actual word in the English language that means:







verb (used with object) to make slow; delay the development or progress of (an action, process, etc.); hinder or impede. –verb (used without object) to be delayed. -noun - a slowing down, diminution, or hindrance, as in a machine. Automotive, Machinery . an adjustment made in the setting of the distributor of an internal-combustion engine so that the spark for ignition in each cylinder is generated later in the cycle.







While retard can be used in a derogatory fashion in reference to another person it is not a word like Kike or Spic which have no meaning beyond being an insulting term for a Jew or a person of Spanish descent. This is where the PSA went wrong. Instead of focusing on the word, why not focus on how it is being used. Maybe instead of banning perfectly legitimate words we should be teaching manners and etiquette, and letting people know that they should chose their words carefully. Because according to the definition above, I could describe a car as retarded, and it may not be an insult at all. So instead of creating a word police and chopping up the beautiful, messy and tasty gumbo that is the English language into an unrecognizable mush that, while it may be easier to digest, is bland and unappetizing, we should try to be better people with diverse vocabularies who do not need or want to resort to using retard as an insult.

Stumbling toward political correctness

As someone born in the 1970s, I experienced a lot of vernacular usage of the word "gay" and the word "retarded." I participated wholeheartedly in same.

Now that both of these slang terms have been identified as offensive slurs -- complete with public service announcement and mea culpa from Lady Gaga -- I have striven to remove them from my vocabulary. (Except for, as my excellent friend points out, literal usage. I mean, I hope it's still OK to compliment someone on their gay apparel? At least when accompanied by a hearty "Fa-la-la?")

I slip up occasionally. Just the other day, I used the word retarded. I immediately slapped my hand over my mouth and apologized, but still. But anyone who was the appropriate age when, say, the movie Valley Girls came out, or who ever had a poster of DuranDuran taped to their wall, knows that these two words took up an inordinate amount of real estate in our developing vocabularies. Old habits die hard.

It's easy to grow weary of the PC police. I mean, the front line coppers in the realm of disabilities have called for us to eliminate the terms "developmentally disabled" and even "blind." (I believe the correct term for both is now "differently abled.") I get where they're coming from. I truly do. But it can be difficult for even the most well-meaning person to keep up with what's potentially offensive.

Wearily, I will admit that this is probably exactly how my grandparents felt about the words "negro" and "colored person."

"What do you mean, that's offensive?" (I can hear Grandpa grumbling.) "It's a perfectly nice thing to say!" (Yeah, about 15 years ago, Gramps.) So maybe my withering wits are just incapable of keeping perfect track of the twists and turns of today's cultural linguistics. Or maybe I'm growing old and stubborn, stuck in my ways. Or maybe the demands of the PC police really are getting just a bit out of hand.

God forbid anyone's feelings get bruised in the Millennium Of Sensitivity.

Are You There Oprah? It's Me Mary....

Dear Oprah,

Today you aired the final episode of your talk show which has been a staple of daytime television for 25 years. For most of my life you have been on TV, dear Oprah, and although I have not been a regular viewer, I always been an admirer, a student, and yes a fan. In fact my friends and I used to say when we were in our early 20’s and just out of college that we did not want to be one step closer to God, we wanted to be one step closer to Oprah. You took whatever stinking wretched circumstance that life gave you and planted a seed that you nurtured into an amazing garden full of beauty, life, and hope. With this garden you managed to feed a world of hearts, minds, and souls. I found myself watching your show today, tears streaming down my cheeks ( I am a bit of a sap), and I knew there was so much I wanted to say to you. First and foremost I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for answering your calling. Thank you for sharing your ideas and wisdom with your audience. Thank you for making our differences something that unites us instead of dividing us. There are few real people that I can truly say that I wholeheartedly admire and respect in this world. Public figures so often disappoint because they try too hard to be perfect, to be what they thought world wanted or needed them to be. You have only ever been Oprah and what you are is miraculous. Secondly Oprah, I would like to say it has been my pleasure. You devoted an hour to saying thank you to the world today and I want you to know that it has been a joy, a blessing, and a wonder. You have entertained and educated and made the world a little better than how you found it. Today I had a thought, “what if there had never been an Oprah?”, and I wrote a little poem about it.

What if there had never been an Oprah?
Would the light seem a little dimmer?
Would we be a less wise, less caring, and less free?
What if there had never been an Oprah?
Would colors be a little duller?
Would we be less united, less educated, and less unafraid?
What if there had never been an Oprah?
The world would be a little smaller, a little meaner,and
a lot colder.
What if there had never been an Oprah?
I, for one, am grateful that I will never have to know.

In conclusion, my dear dear Oprah, I would like to end with something from Lennon and McCartney. “And in the end the love you make is equal to the love you take.” Thank you for the love Oprah and you’re welcome.

A desperate stab at cultural relevance

Ahhh, the new Beastie Boys album: Hot Sauce Committee Part Two.

Nice try, Boys, but the single listen-able track on the entire album (#7-Don't Play No Game That I Can't Win) sounds like a mediocre Thrill Kill Cult track from the 90's.

More disturbing is the fact that you re-worked the classic "Fight for Your Right (to Party)" into a new song. The barely recognizable send-up of your own former anthem sent chills up my arms... for all the wrong reasons. Instead of the intended ironic tweak at your "roots," it listens more like a desperate stab at cultural relevance. Note to collective selves: Don't mess with "Brass Monkey."

Your marketing machine deserves some kudos, however. What hasn't evolved musically (well, it's evolved, just perhaps not in an impressive way) about your charming little group has certainly evolved business-wise. After all, the appearances, notices, reviews and general industry "noise" convinced my hubby to buy your latest work.

Or perhaps that was primarily motivated by his own, private, stab at cultural relevance.

This is the Way the World Ends?

According to some rabid Christians driving across the country in RVs, the end days are upon us. In fact, they begin on this coming Saturday May 21st. These zealots point to biblical proof that at 6pm on Saturday the faithful will be raptured, or taken bodily into Heaven, by God. This will leave the imperfect, the sinners, behind on earth to face massive earthquakes and a hell-like war between the forces of good led by one Mr. Jesus Christ and the forces of evil led by the Anti-Christ (so I guess Dick Cheney is going to come back to public “service”). As many faithful Snarklet readers know, the Apocalypse an interest of this blog, but I am not pulling together a survival kit or stocking up on ammo, plastic sheeting and duct tape. Because, dear readers, I don’t believe this is the real thing. First of all the bible is not a good source for concrete information of any kind. It is a book with many authors and drawn from many sources throughout human history. It is not an Ouija board. Second of all, the rapture cannot happen on Saturday because of Oprah. What does Oprah have to do with it? Good question. Think about Oprah. A woman who has given back to the world more than or as much as she has gained from it. She has used her media platform to educate and enlighten the world and to bring people of all races, religions and walks of life closer together. So if anyone deserves to be taken bodily into Heaven, it is Oprah Winfrey, and the reason it won’t happen on Saturday is because that day just won’t work for her. On May 25th the final episode of Oprah’s talk show airs. A star studded occasion that boasts ad prices of Super Bowl proportions, and there is no way that Oprah is going to miss that. She knows that her faithful fans deserve this final goodbye before she exits the syndicated talk show stage forever, and she is going to give it to them. The rapture can wait until Oprah has time for it.