The body politic - mosying thru Abington PA - Mom

Scott printed out a Times editorial to show his fellow SEPTA workers. "We can keep wishing and hoping for a powerful economic recovery to pull the US out of its doldrums," writes Bob Herbert, "but I wouldn't count on it. Ordinary American families no longer have the purchasing power to build a strong recovery and keep it going."

Where does the money go? Herbert writes that the wealthiest people in America have steadily been earning more and more, according to the new book Aftershock by Robert Reich, who was President Clinton's labor secretary. Their 'stratospheric' climb has resulted in their earning 11 percent of the total income in 2007. This represents only 13,000 households in a nation of 300 million people.

"Americans are not being honest with themselves about the structural changes in the economy that have bestowed fabulous wealth on a tiny sliver at the top, while UNDERMINING the living standards of the middle class and absolutely CRUSHING the poor."

It's now business as usual for middle-class families -- whole families as well as one person families -- to work two, three or even four jobs to barely make ends meet.

Read the whole article here.

Harrumph.

I'm having a poor man's supper tonite: delicious fettucine which I'll pour over frozen green peas and frozen shrimp and slather with olive oil and black pepper. Of course, this is the kidney-healthy diet I maintain, small meals many times a day. This is what I had 4 hours ago. I'm too lazy to go shopping.

Y-a-w-n.....s-t-r-e-t-c-h. That was me this morning getting out of bed to get my car inspected.

My auto mechanic, Mike. He and Scott are friends from childhood. Mike is a superb auto mechanic. At last count, he made a little over $11 an hour, supporting a wife and son who plays ice hockey, the most expensive sport there is.

Mike is an example of a hard-working working-class man who is the backbone of our society. $11 an hour. Shame on America.

Mike and Scott formed their own business once upon a time and were quite successful until one day the accountant said, "You don't have any money in your bank account, Scott."

Turns out Mike's ex-wife had used all the money for drugs. That was the end of the business. And his marriage.

Went to the dentist. This was Amy's third day at work, my dental hygienist. I always ask for what I want. "Would you mind changing the TV station?" I asked. She got Turner Classic Films on, a few scenes from a Clark Gable/Claudette Colbert movie.

During a long and boring procedure I asked her to please talk to me as a distraction from the squirting water that was running down my throat to cool off the hot cleaning device. I told her to talk about whatever came to mind, telling me all about herself. IOW, I put her on the couch. I showed her how I would respond to her statements - besides grunting - with my left hand, the same way I would talk to my kids when I was eating or drinking and didn't wanna talk.

It went well. Then Dr V came in to check her work. I asked him why he hired her. "The vibe," he said. "I knew within three seconds I was gonna hire her. She had a positive vibe."

(Now Pew Research will spend $100,000 studying why people get hired. Save your money, scions of the Sun Oil Company. Simply read this blog post.)

Oops! Another casualty of the Great Recession. The rich get richer, the poor get...

While waiting for my car to get inspected I went for my daily constitutional. This place had some good prices for rugs. Even when I was manic, I never spent money. What for? To enlarge my worldly possessions? To what avail, I may ask.

Incontrovertible evidence that Edgehill lies on the side of a hill, except, of course, if you're a Republican, when, sadly, all truth is ignored and distorted.

Hmmm. Where do these stairs lead, I wondered. Let's go up top and see. Aha! We're on York Road. Never knew dat!

This bicycle was chained to the rail at the top of the stairs. As reward to the cyclist, I put a beautiful feather I found on the step on his bicycle seat, which he wrapped in white plastic against the elements.

Sign noting the city of Abington, where my son lives, was named by Money mag as one of the Top 100 cities in the nation. An Abington friend of mine's husband got laid off. They live in one of the lovely Tudor homes there. She was weeping when she told me. But within two months he found another job. Bye-bye Paddy Marie! They moved to DC. Three college-age kids.

Good afternoon, MaMA!

Helping hands. One pair is 88 years old, the other 64.

Read my friend Iris's recent blog post, wrin on the 10th anniversary of her mother's death. Eloquent!

I love my mom. She showed me a couple of my father's letters she has been sorting thru for the past 20 years. "May I take this one?" I asked. It was a typewrin description of their first home in Midway Park, Camp Lejeune, NC, where I was born. A four-bedroom cottage. Since my dad had served 18 months in Guantanamo Bay and had a secure job as Paymaster they didn't ship him off to WW2, tho he would've given his life for his country. Instead he gave his life for Lucky Strikes.

The b'ful drive home down the backstreets. I feel free at all times, but esp. when driving.

When I got home it was naptime. Scott comes over around 5 so we can nap together. We watch TV and slowly fall asleep. Mike and Pat was on thother nite. Remember I said how much I love the challenge of foto'g what's on TV? I esp. liked Katherine Hepburn's tennis shorts.

Oh no! Time to work on the Compass magazine again. It takes nerve for me to ask people to write articles. The person I wanted most said No, he had too many projects going. One of our writers absolutely bashed our mental health system since she was a patient who was fiercely verbally abused by her new psychiatrist. I called a friend of mine who knew said psychiatrist.

Says I, "My friend 'Dora' saw Dr. X."

"Oh, she did?" said my friend. "Did she get a tongue-lashing?"

"Yes," I said. "Dora said she became Dr X's whipping boy."

"I'm not surprised," said my therapist friend. "Dr X told me she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. She took out all her rage on her patients."

And, yes, Dear Reader, the woman is still practicing.

Welcome to my home, Grace Catherine!

This photos are totally out of order, but sometimes that can be fun.

We spent plenty of time with Baby Grace: looking at her, babbling with her, stroking her. Nicole went upstairs into the Study to nurse her, only the second person ever to use the study. Sarah had taken her laptop up there to write.

The Study used to be Dan's room. He told us where his bed had been and his Ethan Allen desk, which had been my brother David's, and is now in the lower level holding my underwear, warm PJs, w/my paint supplies on top.

Everything is recycled until is reaches the curb.



Dan particularly liked my Selectric typewriter, which he remembered from the Old Days at the apartment. We lifted up the hood so he could see how the ball element worked. He was fascinated. By now, Scott had joined us and, as a mechanic, enjoyed with Dan figgering out how it worked.

The Selectric was the pinnacle of typewriters, invented by IBM and then copied by lesser firms such as Remington, but then the computer came along.

Dan was surprised I still use my typewriter: to address envelopes or to fill out forms.

Beautiful day for a block-long garage sale. Dan Deming hosts his stash in the front. Anything you want, Mom, just take it! I took four books (one of which was mine anyway) to stowe inside my backpack for 'episodic reading.' IOW, when you get stuck somewhere, you can just take it out and begin reading it anywhere.

I brought over two items I desperately wanted to get rid of. Tried pawning off at my Self-Esteem Group but their esteem was so high they said No. I found two young girls perusing the sale and they took the computer speakers and the set of votive candles that one of our Guest Speakers left at the church.

From far away, it looks like Grace Catherine is sleeping on a huge piece of matzah. Actually it's the quilt my friend Jonatha Johnson sewed for the baby.

Why did I photograph Al Wipplinger, owner of Village Hardware Store, Hatboro PA?

B/c I had my camera and it was nudging me to take his photo. He stood there so proud behind his counter. I told him I'd followed him from when he was at the Village (Dead) Mall. "You had so many interesting things out front," I said. My kids would be in the pet store, stroking fur behind bars. "No, you may not have a puppy."

Al worked at a bank before he bought the mall store from a retiring man.

We talked about the importance of supporting local small businesses. One thing I always do is ask people's opinions. No, not on abortion issues (yes yes yes). Not on whether Obama is doing a doing job (g-r-o-a-n) but on what other Hatboro shops he likes.

The Korner Kitchen, he said. Very good food.

Okay, so Scott and I will try it again. And give it another chance. You can't do this with everything. If you don't like your psychiatrist or therapist, do not go back! (she's always preaching. she can't help herself.)

Time to go home, Grace Catherine. But didn't we have a great time visiting Bubby?

What? You didn't like her decorations of Bags on the Wall from her trip to Spain and Italy? Just pretend you did, little Grace. You'll learn about these things in time.

Her hi-tek baby seat. Like most babies, she loves riding in the car.

Hey, if you're driving your car, please be careful not to squash a squirrel. I've seen a couple of squashed ones due to the carelessness of speeding drivers. Your average squirrel will stop and think before crossing the street. Usually he will stay on the side of the road. Just give him a second or two to think.

Why don't we domesticate the squirrel? We know that cats and dogs hung around our yurts when we were flexing our muscles and learning to be the sophisticates we are today, ten thousand years later. Now it's time for squirrels to be our next fun pet.

I'd like you to meet my pet squirrel: Earl.

Right now - and this fiction, so bear w/ me - Earl is outside under Scott's new birdfeeder. He's very smart and no longer jumps up trying to get into the squirrel-proof cage, so like Ruth gleaning on Boaz's fields, Earl simply waits for the sparrows to spill their seeds on the ground. (Oooh, sounds like onanism from the Bible.)

He looks so adorable eating, twitching all over, and then when I call him, why he runs right up the steps and into the house. He jumps up on the lap, in fact, right now, he's jumped up while I'm typing (shades of Dan's old cat Blank) and lets me rub his face and ears. Slowly, he's gotten used to me so I can do this. But, it was a real slow process. He was, well, squirrely in the beginning.

I haven't figgered out which tree he lives in but after the leaves fall off in two months, I'll to find his home. Hmmm, why kind of nice present could I get him?

Any ideas?

Reflections on Norristown, Trevose, and Feelings

photo of Norristown State Hospital courtesy of Montgomery County Emergency Service

And so it was that I returned again to Montgomery County Emergency Service, Bldg 50, for a lecture on Cutting and Self-injurious Behavior, masterfully presented by their chief psychologist, Tim Freitas, PsyD. This mysterious coping mechanism, harming or mutilating your body, is done when a person's psychic pain has reached intolerable levels.

The cutter makes of the cut a ritual, from the decision whether or not to cut, to the doing of the deed, the cleaning of the wound afterword (one person uses aloe vera) and then displaying it to themselves and others.

Notable in the personality of the two cutters in the film he showed us was the bland emotion of the woman. No affect, except for heightened affect when talking about their ritual.

One woman who had caused lots of damage to her body said she refused to talk about 'the accident.' Her cutting was an elaborate device not to talk about the causes of her suffering.

BTW, Scott and I recently watched Carson McCullers' Reflections in a Golden Eye with Elizabeth Taylor, Marlon Brando and Julie Harris. A poorly realized movie, the viewer watched it anyway, mesmerized by the characters, each one more dysfunctional than the next. Brando played a repressed homosexual, Taylor the sex-starved wife of Brando, who had sex with everyone but her horse, and Harris, who played a woman who engaged in repulsive off-screen self-injury.

During the seminar, I gazed around at the beautiful high-ceilinged conference room. It was very elegant. When Norristown State Hospital was built in 1879, it was designed by a top Philadelphia architectural firm - Wilson Brothers and Co - who also designed the bldgs at the 1876 Centennial, as well as many railroad stations and bridges. (Thanks Wiki)



The hospital was orig'ly called the State Lunatic Hospital at Norristown. It hired the first female physician in the nation. Alice Bennett oversaw the women's units. This was done to mitigate frequent charges at these hospitals that male attendants abused the female patients.

Alice Bennett was excellent with the patients, encouraging their independence and to keep them working on the grounds of the hospital in various situations such as on the adjoining farmlands and greenhouses of the vast acreage.

Unfortunately, Alice had the idea that a woman's ovaries were the source of her mental illness, so she ordered half a dozen women to have their ovaries removed. When it was discovered, this foolish practice was terminated. But wasn't it once thought that "a wandering uterus" was the source of a woman's insanity, hence the name 'hysterical.'

We've come a long way, baby.

At the height of its popularity in 1954 Norristown housed 4,700 patients. Now it's down to about 300.

Mandy, who attended the lecture w/me, and I walked around the grounds. I brought my camera but when I attempted to shoot, the darn thing said Sorry, lady, your batteries ran out.

I was so mad.

Later that day I pondered. Was I really mad? What, in fact, was the emotion I felt when my camera didn't work.

See, Freitas got me thinking. Extreme disappointment would more like it.

I told him, at halftime, that I was 302'd (involuntarily hospitalized) right here during my first manic-psychotic episode. I was in then-Bldg 16 which has been razed. But you can't erase the memory.

Hello there, Frank Lloyd Wright! I thought he was the intake worker. Darn! I was so disappointed after they shot me up w/ Haldol and I realized it was simply a...man.

My sister Ellen and I drove to Trevose Family Shoes. I told Robin I'd take two pair, just to put them in a bag and keep the boxes (why should I bring em home only to trash em).

Since I'm accomplishing my Bucket List before I bucket, I need new shoes to get on with my journey.

This is the contagious effect that Chris Gillebeau's talk last nite had on me today. I did things I never would have. I planned some trips before my kidneys give out.

Remind me to do my own special Bucket List post. You do yours, too! It's no fun if I don't take YOU along for the ride.

Coming home from the shoe store Ellen said, "There's Bruster's Real Ice Cream. Wanna stop?"



I pulled in and introduced ourselves to the owner, D J Lee.

Ellie got a chocolate milkshake which she sipped thru a red straw, while I ate a complete dinner - an apple dumpling made in Lancaster, with a large scoop of delicious vanilla ice cream. At one point I said to D J, "Oh, this bite is really delicious. It's got the cinnamon sauce."



Best of all, we stood and talked to D J. I'm in my element, eating STANDING UP and talking to a very interesting person.

D J came over from Taiwan to attend Temple Univ's Tyler Art School. He took up photography and worked for the Inquirer, as well as teaching photography. About six years ago, he and his wife began doing research for a business. It took them three years and lots of research to decide to open Bucks County's first Bruster's franchise.

They make fresh ice cream every single day. The advantage is that there are none of those horrid little ice crystals that spoil one's ice-cream experience.

Scott just stopped by to invite me over to a night of movie watching. "Give me an hour to finish my blog," I said.

"I'll be waiting," he said. "Hurry over."

Good to meet you, Chris Guillebeau

Meet Chris Guillebeau, world traveler who changes the world a little bit wherever he goes. He can't help it. He's a noncomformist, author of The Art of Non-Conformity, whose credo is if you're not having fun and living a meaningful life, change what to do.

Leap the chasm. He was raised in Virginia. His dad would take him to the book store where little Chris would pick out piles of books. His dad would buy him all the books he wanted.

"We can empower and energize each other," he said to a room full of admiring applauding laffing young people, and a few grandmotherly types, ahem. He encouraged us to talk to one another and network in our time together.

Chris is traveling to all 50 states to promote his newly published book by Penguin. He writes for his "small army of people" from his blog as well as Business Week and Huffington Post.

Suburban Philadelphia was his third city. Tomorrow is Delaware or "The Forgotten State" as the license plate read. He spoke in the huge whiteboarded classroom at email marketing firm A Weber.com, which happens to be the place my son works.



In fact, this was the very first extracurricular use of the Classroom. Is it possible, I asked Sean, the marketing director, for my support group to use it to give our next Career Seminar?

We'll talk, said Sean.

I LOVE finding new places and had actually lay in bed last nite trying to think of a place other than the Giant Supermarket Upstairs Classrooms and the Huntingdon Valley Community Room.

Can you believe the Serendipity-doo-dah!

Chris unabashedly uses phrases like "changing the world" and "world domination." After Sept. 11, instead of sitting around moaning, and he his wife Jolie moved to West Africa. They spent four years in Liberia and Sierra Leone helping its citizens by building up the infrastructure. Just two people determined to change the world.

Proceeds from his book go for water projects in Ethiopia. He and his wife Jolie are deeply involved there.

Jolie Gillebeau, artist

Chris is arranging a huge conference next year in his home of Portland, OR. "Manifesto of World Domination" will be held at the Portland Art Museum. Seminars are being lined up.

What is this movement? Who are these good people? Why didn't I know about it? Who am I? Do I matter?

Ask yourself two questions, Chris said.

1. What do you wanna get out of life?

2. What can you offer that no one else can?

How can our lives tell a good story that will leave a legacy behind. It's not about money, he stressed. It's about being ourselves and "inspiring people to make positive changes in their lives." He said he's not interested in evangelizing. "I'm interested in recruiting."

One young woman with blond curly shoulder-length hair was an energetic new recruit and wanted to know how to keep in touch with him thru some kind of online forum. I was gonna holler out to her, "Create one" but kept my mouth shut. I would've signed up immediately. Reminded me of a feller who has an online forum for folks to write a novel in one month. "Unsubscribe me" I wrote. My novel took two years.



You know what I felt like being there? That I was entering a whole new world that I should've been a part of 20 years ago. Yeah, when these kids were in pre-school. Where have I been? Why haven't I known about this world? Is it too late to join?

Sign me up!



We sat in these chartreuse chairs, ergonomically correct. I said to myself, If I could photograph my fave thing in the room - other than a few of the really outstandingly adorable people there - what would it be?

It's imperative you seize the opportunity NOW. Don't wait. Do not leave with regrets. Do not say, Hey, I wish I had talked to Melissa Hancock from Bryn Mawr and learned more about her. Well, my sister Ellen and I, talked to her and learned about her one-woman crusade to call attention to Matthew Carey, a Philadelphia publisher from Revolutionary War days who is a distant relative of her late husband. She's a historian, going thru untold numbers of documents his family bequeathed to the Philadelphia Historical Society.

Someone should write about this, Melissa, I said. After you get your website up and running, contact the Inquirer. You created the little cosmos of Matthew Carey and his work. If not for you, no one would know about this man.

Then Ellen and I went out into the larger cosmos, a brilliant black night with cool caressing breezes and pinpoints of star after star in the unfathomably large cosmos.

I'll read Chris's book tonite. As you know, I'm on a reading binge. Last nite I said to myself, Ruthie! You're filling your brain up with so much stimulation. The news. The radio. Books. Magazines. Maybe you should give your brain a rest. Maybe it's tired. Maybe you should just lie quietly and do nothing.

I tried. Honestly, I tried. But ya know what? I could not stand it. Stimulation is what I crave. Call it an addiction. Maybe it is.

Bring on Chris's book!

Meg Hutchinson doesn't let bipolar stop her

Thanks to Lola Mitchell of the Depression & Bipolar Support Alliance of Oregon for telling us about Meg Hutchinson. Meg has wise words to say about her illness, from an article in the NAMI Advocate.

How have you channeled some of your experiences living with bipolar disorder into you music?

I experienced my first intense depression at 19. I knew something severe was going on and I first tried to see if it was something physical, like mono or chronic fatigue. I mostly kept it to myself. I would hunker down when it hit, for months at a time. …

Music helped me feel not so lonely. Looking back, it’s painfully clear what was going on. Music was a safer way to express what was going on while trying to be the sunny, happy-go-lucky kid. That was the image I was trying to uphold.

I used music as a way to start processing devastating feelings and spin them into something useful. It wasn’t until 2006, when I had a break and was hospitalized, that I could claim the emotions in song as my own.

Some people living with mental illness who are also artists fear that medication will stifle or compromise their creativity. Can one strike a balance in terms of being both healthy and artistically honest and productive?

This is a really tricky issue. First, there’s no reason we should destroy our lives to remain creative, to make visceral art. Too often people in the arts take their own lives.

I had some concerns about taking medication, but my experiences with my illness had been more terrifying than any other consequences. I actually discovered that I used to lose huge chunks of time creatively because of depression, in terms of time and touring, but the stability of medications allowed me to have a more consistent creative life. I also think my recent songs stand up to the songs I wrote prior to using medication.

I do sometimes miss the intense heat of mania, but with support, I’ve found a balance in my medication where I can experience a full emotional range. I do think it’s important to advocate for yourself in terms of medications.

The Living Side, the title of your newly released album, is also a phrase repeated in the song “At First it was Fun.” The song evokes the image of Icarus flying too close to the sun, perhaps a metaphor for the highs associated with mania.

At first it was fun, I glued my feathers on
I flew up toward the sun, never getting too warm
At first the great thrill, finally the big top
I walked the high wire, never looking down
Until the day, it all fell away
Oh I miss the ride
But I promise to stay, yeah I promise to stay on the living side

In 2005 I had my first taste of hypomania.

I had this feeling of "I’m kind of untouchable, this is so magical." I experienced how intoxicating mania can be.

There’s a kind of grief when you have to let that go, the natural cycle is to go very low after mania. There’s a grief in choosing not to be addicted to that. I miss it; it was seductive. This rich experience has taught me something about the living side—this is a life-threatening illness. I know it’s the right choice.

How do you manage your bipolar disorder when you’re traveling on the road for performances?

I have an intensely challenging schedule; I will perform at more than 130 shows this year. I visualize how I’ll manage each day—like using sports psychology.

I try to get good sleep each night. Alcohol is a risk in touring life and I’ve found that drinking less has had a good impact on my sleep quality. I’ll nap for a few hours, pass on an early interview. It’s important to get my own time, alone on the road. Sometimes I’ll spend the extra money to sleep in a hotel. It’s worth it to splurge if it’s going to help my sanity.

What kind of support do you find to be most helpful?

My sister was finishing up her master's in social work when I was diagnosed, and she really supported me. My family made the effort to educate themselves.

We can be so unforgiving of ourselves, thinking we can relieve a burden on our family through suicide and it doesn’t matter how much work serious mental illness creates for family, nothing is worse than leaving. Trust that they would rather support you than see you leave.I feel that the system failed me most in between inpatient and recovery. I had no structured place to go to get my feet on the ground. I recently visited the Genesis Club, a clubhouse in Worcester, Massachusetts and it’s a wonderful place. There are 350 clubhouses in the world and they’re growing.

What would you say to someone who recently may have been diagnosed with a mental illness?

Looking back at when I was diagnosed, I felt like I had created it, that I was failing everyone. It almost broke my heart to hear success stories because I felt I couldn’t get there.

Be gentle with yourself and trust your mind will heal. I really thought that I couldn’t function again the way I had. Remind yourself that the healing will happen, so slowly at first that it may not be tangible.

There are many extremes in the media showing the monster of mental illness, so at the time I was diagnosed, mental illness sounded like a death sentence. I didn’t know of high-functioning, positive models.

They’re all around us, living well. A diagnosis is not the end of life.

There’s an opportunity to get even better than you were prior to a break—to be healthier, have a better perspective on life. Mental illness presents an opportunity for growth. It’s painful, but it’s a spiritual wake-up call that you may not have paid attention to prior to upheaval.

Happy New Year: We're 5771 years old

Thank you, Peggela, for the Jewish New Year Card!

Peggela is one of the most thoughtful people I know. She's our Weekend Phone Greeter and stays in touch with many of our members, cheering them on. She is one priceless chick!

So is my mom, who sent me this hand-made card. The word you can't read is 'terrific.'



The best thing about the Jews is our social conscience. Certainly it flags upon occasion - is it flagging now with the hoopla against the Muslin Community Center at Ground Zero? Probably. The Rebs haven't spoken to me yet thru the New York Times.

Jews are credited, thru our Old Testament, with having the first religion of ethical laws, known as the Decalogue or 10 Commandments, when Moses received the Stone Tablets from God almighty. Have you seen the movie? Who played God? Eli Lilly and Sons?

Running with the Mailman / Poem: The Men Who Love Me

Mailman Tom and his buddies went to Forest Hills in Queens yesterday to watch the US Open. I didn't tell him I thought it was golf and then fortunately he mentioned he saw Venus Williams (photo from the Times) play. He and his buddies sat in a box courtesy of his friend, a representative for Heineken Beer.

Tom got home at 1 in the morning but was pounding out his route today. This is the same mailman who attends the Philadelphia Folk Festival.

Since I hadn't done my 20-30-minute aerobic walk I walked alongside him. Very hilly neighborhood but I was wearing my Magic Sandals.

Yesterday I paid a condolence call to a neighbor whose husband, Bill, died in a nursing home of Alzheimer's disease. He got it as a result of brain surgery in 1994 to remove a tumor. I actually wrote a poem about it that got published in a well-respected online journal, which is not as well-respected as a real magazine.

Those were the days when writing poetry was easier than eating an apple.

During my hour-long visit with Carol, she talked constantly while I listened intently. Many things ran thru my mind, such as Dear God, I wish I could write a poem about this....or a chapter like in Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson who no one reads anymore.

Every single person on earth is interesting including this housewife who walks with a cane and lives with her Down syndrome son, a handsome man, who works every day and comes home to watch the Hallmark Channel's Little House on the Prairie.

Now don't you knock over those flowers, Bruce, she said as he brushed by some huge white daylillies one of her nieces made.

I went over to the collage they made for the funeral.

Bill was such a handsome man, I said. This photo is my favorite, and I pointed to one where Bill was standing in a field in Pittsburgh with his two little kids. They had 5 in all. He was an insurance man.

His garage was turned into a toolroom and was a sight to behold. Me, who doesn't know an awl from an spool, was spellbound by the supreme organization of this man's toolshed.

One day, during my devout Jewish phase (I am currently a Jewish heathen) Bill hammered up a mezzuzah by my front door. This was after I was cured from bipolar disorder and I attributed it to God's intervention.

Ha! Hubris!

As I've told you before, it's only the finest beauty shops for Our Little Ruthie. My sister Ellen goes to Manhattan. Ada goes to two shops for different treatments. But I go to the finest of all...The Hair Cuttery.

Actually, it's not that cheap anymore. But Moi, who hails from Indonesia, gives me a great cut and color. I was reading so ravenously (my New Yorker and the mental illness hoax book) that I didn't even hear when Dawn called me to wash the color out of my hair, having washed all men out of my hair long ago.

Dawn wears the burkah. She has very gentle hands. With my head tilted back and her rubbing in the shampoo, I asked her if her children were Muslim.

No, she said. She's got three kids. She was born in Barbados. "I'm Bajian," she said.

After my appt was over, I went in the back and took Dawn aside.

Dawn, I said. I publish a small magazine and I'd like to interview you on the topic of An American Muslim Woman. Could I do dat?

She gave me her home phone and asked me to call her on Monday. "It's our holiday now," she said. "Ramaden."

Oooh, I hope she lets me interview her. She's gotta check w/her husband first.



By now, I was starving. In the frig I had flounder glued onto the Pyrex by its juice and loads of fresh veggies. Question was, could I avoid stopping at one of my favorite eateries: Manhattan Bagel.

This time I got an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese. See, I told you I'm Jewish. Ilyas, the owner, was there.

"Why don't you sit down when you eat?" he asked me.

"I eat like this at home, too," I said. "I like to taste my food. I'm concentrating on each delicious bite."

Suddenly a white SUV pulled up and I ran outside. He had picked up a long white metal tube resting at curbside.

"Sir," I said, holding the unbelievably delicious bagel in hand and chewing, "you had dropped that in the middle of the road and I put in on the curb. What is it?"

"It's for my trailer," he said, tucking it into the back of his car. "We noticed it was missing so I retraced my steps. Thanks for picking it up."

Headlines read: Good Samaritan killed as she schleps trailer part from middle of the road.

THE MEN WHO LOVE ME - published here

The men who love me,
Codgers mostly, call my name
As I walk by.
Their voices rising in jubilation
as I pass by.
I'm young enough still and
I've got good legs. My fresh mowed
Grass shows I work hard like they do.

There is Bill's house, alive with light and movement,
Though he's not there. We remember poor Bill,
Cocoon'd in a nursing home
No use to anyone after five-hour surgery to
Scoop out a tumor from his brain,
Big as a grapefruit they say,
Can that be true, Bill?

His house resounds with life,
A ceiling fan atwhirl as Bill's grown boy
throws off his
shirt & comes barechested to the window,
While Bill's car, like a faithful Schnauser,
Stands sentry in the drive
awaiting word.