Disgusting

U.S. Rule Limits Emergency Care for Immigrants, New York Times, September 22, 2007

Whatever happened to "First, do no harm"?

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On Really Romantic Evenings of Self, I Go Salsa Dancing with My Confusion

I've lucid dreamed ever since I was a kid, but I was never aware that it was called that until my freshman year at Penn, when I saw Waking Life for a class I took. It instantly put me into an existential crisis (Am I dreaming or am I just dead?) that I quickly got over when someone told me that, while you could probably control actions in your lucid dreams, you couldn't control physical sensation, and then proceeded to pinch me. Hard.

Anyway, five years later (which makes it six years since the movie came out), it seems that people are finally becoming aware of lucid dreaming.

This is where I insert a variation on what I find I'll often say about bands: "Dude! I was having lucid dreams ages ago, way before it got popular!"

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A Package, Finally

Dear Town Shop:

In the grand scheme of things, $200 isn't a lot of money. However, $200 is a lot to spend on two bras. Because the Good Lord "blessed" me with the inability to buy 'em at Victoria's Secret, I have to make the occasional pilgrimage to the Upper West Side of Manhattan and buy for eighty or ninety bucks what someone smaller than me can easily buy for twenty.

On July 11, I spent nearly two hours trying on bras at your establishment, with the assistance of three very aggressive women who spent a good deal of time poking my breasts and asking them (not me) why they were lopsided, then yelling down the hall that they needed a different size because yet another bra didn't fit me. Needless to say, this was a fun experience.

Finally, finally, I found three bras that worked. Well, I found one bra that worked. And two bras that would work after the back and/or straps were taken up by the able seamstresses employed at the store. Someone asked me if I could come pick them up the next weekend. "No," I replied, "I live in Philadelphia."

"No problem, we'll mail them to you, free of charge."

I walked to the register and paid: $250 for three bras and a pair of panties that matched the only one I was able to take home that day. I filled out an address card and the gentleman behind the counter said that they'd be mailing me the bras the following week. I left $200 worth of merchandise behind me and headed out to meet my boyfriend, who'd been patiently(-ish) waiting for me at the bookstore across the street.

Ten days later and still braless, I called you and was informed that my bras had been shipped on July 17, so I'd have them any day.

I waited. And I waited some more. And finally, yesterday, thirty days after the initial purchase, my bras arrived. You'd sent them in a lightly-padded envelope via regular first-class mail: no insurance, no tracking number, no delivery confirmation. Two hundred bucks and two hours of my life that you really didn't seem to care about getting to me.

I think I need to find a bra store in Philadelphia...

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Put it away...

Three Dreams

I'm dreaming a lot, lately. Usually when I'm at the boy's, because I suspect I'm a lighter sleeper over there. But last night, alone and in my own bed, I had a series of quite bizarre dreams...

One
My parents are recently divorced, but the whole family is still together a lot. My dad and sister, Lindsay, have been acting strangely, and my mother notices that Lindsay has started wearing a ring that goes across both her ring and middle fingers on her left hand. After some investigation, we discover that my father divorced my mother to marry my sister. Lovely, right? (I blame this one on seeing a version of Antigone last night. The Greek incest must have been very much on my mind. Shudder.)

Two
I'm working for someone who may be, but is at least very much like, Jeff Lewis. We're about to have a big open house when the boss decides that it's full of bad energy and must be cleansed. So as people start to arrive at the open house, it becomes my job to keep them clear of the living room, where there are eight naked "monks" of some denomination or other spooning on the couch while they chant the spirits away. (I think I watch too much Bravo.)

Three
Sex and the City and I must be Samantha because she's the only one I don't see, but I know I'm participating in the events of the dream. We run into Charlotte's bedroom and rouse her from her sleep because we need her to help us "at work." She complains that she's supposed to be out of town, and if everyone thinks she's still on vacation, why does she have to get out of bed. We tell her that if she was going to get home early from her honeymoon, the least she could do is help us out. Then it turns out that work is nothing more than standing around in a hotel lobby looking fabulous and talking about our shoes.

Awesome, right? Sometimes, I wonder what's going on with my head...

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Put it away...