The irrational circle and the ballad of Anthony Weiner

Happy Pi Day! Mr. D and I used to celebrate it in high school. He even won a constrained writing prompt once, where each word had to contain the same number of letters as the digits of pi–3.14159. The only phrase he remembers from it now is “audibly delicious,” but how could we ever forget the holiday?

It was uniquely ours, a quirk of our nerdy math-and-science school, a day to eat pies and march onto the football team to assemble into the shape of the Greek letter. We had our high school math teacher over for dinner a few nights back, and though I never took his discrete math course, he taught kids about fractals and other cool shit. I wonder if celebrating Pi Day was his idea.

Mr. B now works as a “freelance mathematician” and spends his extra income on “hobbies, drugs and alcohol.” What’s your drug of choice, I asked him. He confessed weed, and so we smoked him up shortly after the kids went to bed.  A bit loose on wine, he told us the story of our former principal, who started quite possibly the greatest public high school in a state so notorious for its education system that it’s not uncommon for families to leave. The old principal was apparently a bit of a stalker who exerted his power over a female staff member who worked there long after we graduated. The story reminded me of my all-time favorite parable, the Ballad of Anthony Weiner. (If anyone ever asked me who I would most want to have dinner with, dead or alive, it would easily be him. And he was blessed by the universe with the most perfect name! I am so grateful to live in a world where a man called Weiner sends women snapshots of his junk.)

But I digress. I texted another high school friend, Sebastian Clay, about my newfound gossip, but apparently it was already old news.

I think he might be a total Anthony Weiner,” I wrote. “Not sure if he texted dick pics, but just as a metaphor: brilliant educator/politician who also happens to be a creep with women.

Sebastian replied, “I [know] about [the principal] from before when I was in Catholic School, he was dismissed from St. M’s under similar circumstances, that’s how our school came to be, he brought half of the staff from [there] to our [high school], Mr M, Ms C, and I can’t remember the English teachers name now, and others that’s why the school was so good, they started off with a core of experienced teachers and a leader they believed in, I’m reminded of the Dave Chapelle bit where there’s a superhero who saves people but in order to save them he has to rape someone, our stellar high school experience and education was born from a charge of sexual harassment.” (emphasis added)

Chappelle’s joke was about Bill Cosby, the entitled, ego-maniacal sexual predator.

Mr. B defended our principal to the end. They were pals; still are, in fact.

Mr. B’s wife didn’t smoke with us, couldn’t smoke with us. She’s a healer witch (a nurse), and therefore can’t take the risk, but she told me stories about being an operating room nurse with urologists and the vile things they would say about women’s genitals. She spoke of times when she was groped in the OR, how her body would go stiff, how she’d hope that the hands wouldn’t move further. #Metoo didn’t exist in those days.

About a year back, Mr. B posted this on Facebook, and yes, I judged him for it:


Cosby wasn’t pure evil, despite his many atrocities against women. He was nuanced, as we all are. That’s what makes Game of Thrones so good. The bad guys (with the exceptions of the Boltons) are complicated. They push little boys out of castle windows, and we somehow still come to care for them. They “rape but they save,” in the metaphoric, Dave Chappelle sense.

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About a beej

I planned on blowing Mr. D tonight. I’m not sure when I came to that decision, but it might have been after the kids and I walked through the door and he announced dinner was almost ready. Or maybe it was the way the floors and kitchen counters sparkled. I told him tonight that I wish I made enough money for him to be the “house spouse” because he does this stuff so much better than me. He’s the better parent, too. More patient, more rational. (I think we’re equally loving.)

Mr. D is a great guy. I don’t say it enough, especially on this blog. We had gotten in a fight a few weeks back, and shortly after we made up, we ended up going to my parents’ house to drop the kids off for a sleepover. A close family friend was also there and mentioned to me that even her grandson speaks highly of Mr. D. “He’s a great guy!” I said. “I got mad at him for a kinda dumb reason, and he’s been putting up with my bullshit since Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?? He’s been putting up with it for years!”

I loved that line. It’s funny cuz it’s true.  (I’m trying to find the Family Guy clip of “It’s funny cuz it’s true” but can’t seem to locate the right one; anyway, I imagine my husband will appreciate the reference). I love my husband. He said his ears were ringing tonight, and I hope they get better. I hope my husband doesn’t have an inner ear infection.

I love that we love the same shows (most of the time). I love his sense of humor (except when he plays dark and twisted”Cards Against Humanity” cards, which, to his credit, he only does if it’s the funniest option; so I guess I love the lengths he’ll go to for comedy, even if it’s not my particular brand of it).

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Thoughts on Karva Chauth

Once again, I’m high and feeling some type way on Karva Chauth. (For those not in the know, Karva Chauth is the fast that Hindu wives observe on the fourth day of the waning moon for the health and well-being of their husbands. I fasted for Mr. D last year, but then we got into a massive fight, and I took a sip of water before spotting the moon through a colander, and then he threw his jar of dried fruit on the ground, and then we screamed at each other in the middle of our old neighborhood. Ah, memories!)
Anyway, there’s also a chance I turned into a witch earlier this year (I have this theory that a woman becomes a witch on her 33rd birthday because why not), and as a maybe-witch, I figured it might be an auspicious time to do it again–the right way–and so I did. I drank a ton of water at 4am, ate an apple at 6, and brushed my teeth at 7:30 (the sun may have technically been out, but it was cloudy). I’ve been without food and water since then, and it’s now 9:45 at night.

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Thoughts on football

I’m not a woman who watches football for fun. I mostly just watch when I’m high, and then start thinking of other things—of gods and men and war, how games are like modern-day battles, with athleticism, grit, fervor and pain all on glorious display, like Grecian epics (or tragedies, like in the case of last night’s Buccaneer’s kicker, who couldn’t make the field goals that would have altered the entire trajectory of the game).

In my slightly stoned state, I began comparing the rampant concussions in the NFL to ancient fighting pits, pitting warrior against warrior in front of crowds of blood-thirsty fans, hungry for victory but hungrier still for their enemy’s defeat. It’s such a guy thing, I thought. War. Sports. I can only seem to get into the game when I imagine it to be something else, when I ascribe some meaning that may or may not exist. But then again, how could there not be meaning to such a large and lucrative pastime? It means something when its players take a stand against injustice, when they use their time in the spotlight to illuminate issues that are bigger, that go beyond.

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Maybe I’m not a witch. Or maybe 33 is just not the year of my most glamorous self. It’s still a witchy number, but… I’m feeling ugly and uninspired. I can’t seem to shed the five-to-seven pounds I’ve gained over the past month, my face is constantly breaking out, my raven hair is turning gray, and I spend more time guzzling Pizza-flavored Pringles than actually doing my job.

Work has no passion. I bumble the hours away and pull something out of my ass (with Enrique’s help… although that sounds dirty and inappropriate when it’s not).  We’re just two writers seeking greatness in our own mediocrity and wondering why it hasn’t happened yet.

Maybe we are mediocre. We’re certainly lazy. I’ve spent a good portion of this blog contemplating arrogance and sucking my own dick, but we just completed a magazine survey and readership has gone down since I’ve been at the helm. Maybe I haven’t made things better.

I say I want to spend more time with the kids, but then I just spent this past three-day weekend napping excessively and largely ignoring my family. I wonder if I could ever be a stay-at-home mom, if I’d do that better than my real job. It doesn’t seem like the kind of work you can bullshit.

I spend more time playing Candy Crush than doing anything meaningful. At work. At home. It’s like I’m exhausted by the ennui of my daily existence. Drained from doing nothing.

It sucks that readership has gone down because I desperately want to be liked, and it’s as if my audience is saying they don’t like me. Then again, I’m not unlike Big A attempting to walk our new 40-pound puppy last night. As helpful as she was trying to be, she kept interfering with our leash-training efforts. “You want all the benefits without doing any of the work,” I told her, criticizing her shoddy dog-walking skills while feeling the harsh truth of my own words.

Meanwhile, Little A is doing better and hasn’t threatened to kill me since that one weekend last month. So, progress. Really. She’s like sunshine 89 percent of the time, and the coolest damn kid I know, and she needs me. She needs us. I see the difference it makes when Mr. D and I give more fully of our time, and I want more of it with my kids. Big A, Little A, and now, Doggy A.

It always comes back to Time. How we use it. How we squander it. I guess that’s why I’m not feeling very witchy. Magic is work, and I haven’t really felt like doing any.

What are we fighting for?

Little A is named after the Game of Thrones character who’s not supposed to even have a name. Or a face. And yet there she was, being a bad-ass, boss-ass motherfucker on last night’s season premiere, reminding those piece of shit Freys that the North remembers. A friend sent me a Facebook message immediately after: “Hot damn! That intro… when you guys named your daughter, bet you didn’t know she was going to be straight gangsta,” he wrote.  I responded with the “in-tears laughing” emoji, but what I really wanted to say was, “Well, actually, that seems about right.”

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Destination Disney

Been a while since I’ve been writing, and it might continue to be. So much has happened in the last few weeks, and the work/life pressures only seem to grow exponentially. It’s funny, but back when I was waiting to hear from the Times–back when I thought Spiderman’s prophecy had everything to do with the blog, with my writer dreams and aspirations–time seemed to move at the most glacial pace. I was waiting on so much, and hearing nothing from no one, and wondering why.

Then, about a week before my 33rd birthday, everything happened at once. I moved from a soul-less cubicle to an office with a fireplace. We close on the house of our dreams this Thursday (initially planned for Friday, which happens to be my nemesis’ birthday). I’m well positioned to get a salary boost, but only if I kick major fucking ass at work (thus my limited time to blog). And we just returned from a week-long trip to Disney.

Disney. If there’s one thing this week has taught me, it’s that we are not Disney people. Not that there’s anything wrong with Disney. It’s perfectly fine, and not terribly overpriced (excluding $30 Minnie Mouse sunglasses; wtf).  Disney magic just… feels… kinda… forced. And I believe in the real stuff.

Is there a relationship between magic and marijuana? Is it bad that I only experienced magic that one night I got high?

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