What Are You Reading?

I know carrying a book around in public, like in an airport, restaurant, or doctor's office, is a great conversation piece. Lots of people like to ask you what you're reading. But that's not why I carry a book around everywhere I go. I do it to keep from getting bored.

In fact, I would prefer not to talk about my taste in reading with every stranger or casual acquaintance I come across.

Last year I was in the break room at work and a lady who works in my building came in to get something out of the fridge. She was just being polite when she asked the dreaded, "What are you reading?"

I cringed. Because at the moment, I just happened to be reading a book about breasts: big, bouncy, bra-busting boobs.

Susan Seligson's Stacked: A 32DDD Reports from the Front is a sometimes humorous, sometimes anthropological memoir about the challenges of spending her life carrying around some massive mammaries.

And I just happened to be reading it when someone I hardly know asked me what I'm reading. Whenever this happens, I usually just hold up the cover and let them read it themselves. If they're so interested in reading, let them do a little of the leg work themselves.

I sighed, held up the book, and said sheepishly, "It's a book about breasts." I could have tried to explain more, but I felt like at that point any thing else I said would just dig me into a deeper hole. I accepted my reputation as the quiet, perverted librarian.

One good thing resulted from this awkward encounter: She never asked me again what I'm reading.

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Even though I don't like discussing my reading habits with strangers or acquaintances, I like talking about it with good friends and family. Or announcing it to the whole world on my blog.

Right now I'm in the middle of two very fun companion books. I have no idea if the books intentionally came out at the same time, if one is a reaction to the other, or if it's merely a coincidence.

The first is called What Was I Thinking? 58 Bad Boyfriend Stories. It was written by the ladies.


Then I discovered the counter-balance, Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me, written by the guys.

I'm reading them both at the same time, enjoying a few stories at a time from each, trying to parcel out the yummy vignettes as if they were Ghirardelli chocolates.

This is my absolute favorite kind of literature: memoiry, first-person creative nonfiction. And one of my favorite subjects: gossipy anecdotes about failed relationships with crazy partners.

I have noticed some differences in the approach, tone, and subject matter between the men and the women. In general, the women beat themselves up about staying with loser boyfriends. They learn lessons about how to avoid guys like that in the future. The men, in general, tend to beat themselves up for being losers. For doing stupid shit that got them dumped or rejected. It sort of gives the impression that, again in general, women are the ones who control what happens in a relationship. Men are the applicants, the seekers, the hunters. Women are the hirers, the prize, the prey. And they decide whether to allow themselves to be caught or not.

Sometimes the two books seem to be having a direct dialogue with each other. For example, one of the ladies' stories starts thusly:

"Before we start, I have to say this: I love artists. Always have, always will. Tell me you are a musician, a painter, an actor, and your cuteness quotient goes up about 83 percent."

One of the guys' laments that he could never win the heart (or any other body part) of a girl he was after:

"She also had a weakness for musicians. It killed me. How could she fall for that cliche? Why not a weakness for something more original...say, Boggle players?"

What I like about the Bad Boyfriends book is that each story pinpoints the moment when the woman knew the relationship was over. Some times it's the wrong kind of gift ("I would never be a black camisole kind of girl"), the pretentious misuse of a word (a "creche" is not a "caraffe"), or a cosmetic change that puts him in a whole new light ("Why would you do this to us?" she asks her boyfriend after he waxed his unibrow.)

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Here are few of my favorites:

One of the ladies writes about dating a guy who appeared to really have his shit together. Dressed well, took care of himself, very metrosexual. They go out a few times and then plan to spend the night together. He convinces her to come to his place because it will be easier for her to bring her stuff to his place rather than vice versa. (Easier for who? she thinks.) But she comes over with a few overnight things.

When bedtime arrives, he suggests that she go into the bathroom first. She enters his bathroom and sees that every single inch of space is covered with bottles of creams, lotions, and soaps. She changes into a teddy and waits for him in bed. He takes 45 minutes in the bathroom and comes out looking like the Bride of Frankenstein: his face, hands, body covered in creams and ointments. Despite all this, she's still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She leans in to kiss him good night, and he shouts, "Don't kiss me! It'll mess up my collagen lip balm!"

Her next boyfriend, the first time they spent the night, showed up at her house with a toothbrush, razor, deodorant, and flowers.

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One guy talks about trying to pick up a girl with a bad joke. He was born in 1968, which was an ugly year in American history. So he'd make this lame joke about the year he was born, "It was such a lovely year...the assassination of Martin Luther King...the assassination of Bobby Kennedy...the race riots..."

So he tries this joke out on a girl in a bar, only in the middle of telling it he realizes how lame it is. So he stops after, "It was such a lovely year...the assassination of Martin Luther King..." When he doesn't continue, she gives him a nasty look, calls him a skinhead racist, and walks off.

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Patton Oswalt writes that dating a stripper was the best thing he could have done for his marriage. Compared to his stripper ex-girlfriend, his wife is a model of patience, love, and sanity. Trying to summarize the story doesn't do it justice, so here's a sample:

MY WIFE AT HER WORST:
Buys a lot of, in my opinion, overpriced skin-care products.

MY STRIPPER EX-GIRLFRIEND AT HER BEST:
CHIVAS: So you're going to start work in a movie next week?
ME: Yeah. It should be fun.

CHIVAS: I need to borrow some money.
ME: What for? You okay?

CHIVAS: My landlord is a Nazi Hitler.
ME: What's wrong?

CHIVAS: He's all like, "You haven't paid rent in five months, and if you don't cough up the money, I'm going to be a total Hitler and padlock your apartment."
ME: Why haven't you paid your rent?

CHIVAS: What are you, my dad?

Full story here: http://www.playboy.com/magazine/features/pole-dancing/pole-dancing.html

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One girl had a crush on her Italian teacher in college. She was really impressed with the nice suits and stylish ties he would wear to teach. They started having coffee and getting to know each other better.

One day he came to class in a pink Barbie Doll tie. She thought it must be ironic, so after the class she asked him about it. No, it wasn't ironic: he was the president of the local Barbie Doll fan club.

As she so eloquantly writes, "At [that] exact second...my infatuation ended with a sharp internal yowl..."

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I'm coming to the end of both books, and I've been reading slower because I don't want them to end.

Health Care Rant

Like a cold, it starts with a tickle in your throat. A twitch in your eye.

Before you know it, you're sending nasty emails to family members and blogging about how stupid the American public is, the vein in your forehead pulsing with fury.

I feel a rant coming on and I'm about to blog all over my keyboard.

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My insurance company recently sent me a form. They wanted me to explain, on three separate forms, exactly how I broke my clavicle. Please provide as much detail as possible, or it may delay the processing of your claim.

There is absolutely no medical reason why the insurance company needs this information. It will not speed up my recovery or enable them to provide better medical care. In fact, no doctor or nurse who cares for me will ever see this form. So why are they asking for it? Because they want to know if someone else might be responsible for my injury. They're looking to get out of paying for my medical care.

It shouldn't be this complicated. I have a broken clavicle. Who cares how it happened. It's real and it needs to be fixed. I pay health insurance (or my employer does) precisely for this kind of situation.

How much time, energy and money are wasted by insurance companies trying to get out of doing exactly what we pay them to do?

In other countries they have something called a single-payer system that bypasses all of this bullshit.

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Speaking of other countries, I don't understand why we're the only rich country in the world (and the richest of them all, at that) that doesn't consider health care a BASIC HUMAN RIGHT, along the lines of public education, clean water, a fair court system, free elections, etc. Why are people so afraid of this?

We're the richest country in the world, but we're #42 in life expectancy. We pay more for health care, with worse results, than 41 other countries. There's so much to admire about this country, so why can't we provide for our citizens like the rest of the civilized world does? Why is this not even a priority for us?

Okay, I'm being rhetorical, because I have lots of theories about why we're the outlier. And none of them are charitable toward Republicans, conservatives, and most "Christians." There is a disease among people on the right that makes them believe that the government is bad. It doesn't serve any worthwhile purpose. Forget about schools and roads and police and national defense and a hundred other services that girder the system we operate within, the government is not to be trusted.

One of the most hilarious and distressing things I've heard was hollered at one of these town hall meetings lately was, "Get the government out of my Medicare!"

I can't even think of an analogy that illustrates a total lack of rationality more than that. I could try: it's like saying, "Get God out of my church!" But that's still not as clearly ridiculous as the quote I'm trying to analogize.

Guess what, Medicare is the government!! It's a government-run social program that provides health care to Americans over 65. See, the government can run health care!! It was started in the 1960's by LBJ, a Democratic president, and was opposed by most Republicans, most notably Ronald Reagan. But it's been wildly popular, and some people theorize it was the passing of this popular social program by Democrats that kept the Republicans out of power for so long.

It was funny listening to Michael Steele, the Republican committee chairman, trying to do verbal gymnastics on NPR this morning to explain his attitude toward Medicare. He won't say whether he's for it or against it, just that he wants to improve it. Even though it's a government-run health care system, and he's against those. But he can't come right out and say that he's against Medicare, because it would be political suicide. But he can come right out and say he's against the government running health care. Except that Medicare does that. And except when it (the government) regulates insurance companies.

So, I ask, again rhetorically, what is wrong with all these old people who cling to Medicare like their life depends on it (because it does) and yet furiously decry any form of government-run health care? Jesus, people, pull your head out of your Glenn Beck!!

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There are two right-wing "compassionate Christians" who submit comments on my brother Dan's blog. During debates about the role of government and social programs, both of them have voiced a similar attitude that absolutely baffles me.

They've said that as Christians it is their duty to voluntarily help the poor. So if the government gets in the business of helping the poor, it takes away their choice. It takes away their ability to honor God. If they're forced to help the poor, they don't get credit for it.

Please forgive me if I've misunderstood. Perhaps they're just not very good at expressing what they mean. But what it sounds like to me is that they need poor people in order to be good Christians. Their goal is not to eradicate poverty, but to be good Christians. It's Christianity for robots. Jesus said care for the meek, so we better go find us some meek. Maybe even cultivate a group of meek that we can keep as pets. We'll be such good Christians when we care for them!

Obviously, I find this attitude incredibly nearsighted, selfish, and repugnant. Notice how this isn't at all about the people you claim to want to help (or volunteer to help), but about you. You want to be a good Christian. You want to volunteer to help. The people who don't have adequate health care? They're just a means for you to get into heaven.

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Who would Jesus deny health care to?

Addressing My Home

My new house needs a name.

Like my cats, my car, and my family members, I give names to things that are important in my life.

Right now the house is only known by its address. As addresses go, it's an awesome one: 1710 [FAKE STREET.] I love the house number 1710. It's simple and short. There's no letters or apartment numbers or dashes ("Apt. 5a-208".) Seventeen-Ten. Four syllables. And the number reminds me of a good football score. Or a good historical year, like for example, the year that Johann Kaspar (Jean-Gaspard) Reichsgraf Basselet von La Rosée was born.

The street name, [FAKE STREET], is simple, appropriate, and unpretentious. It's right across the street from a [FAKE URBAN FEATURE] and it's a [FAKE TOPOGRAPHICAL FEATURE] of middle class Americana. There's no cute spellings or pretentious words that have nothing to do with the geography of the area (i.e. Parke Harbour.) I don't have to spell it out when I give people my address.

Still, I'd like to have a name to go along with the awesome address.

The only other name I've used for a place of residence before is when I christened the first house I rented with my ex Timbecca Manor. (This was part of the larger Timbecca Empire, which, like the Roman empire, became too large and crumbled.)

So I'm taking suggestions on what to name my house. Some possibilities:

• Timland Ranch
• Timpire State Building
• Fortress of Timitude
• Furball Central
• The Brick Haven
  

I'll have to think some more on it.

Even a Broken Clavicle is Right Twice a Day

If my life were the Chinese Zodiac, this would be the Year of the Physician.


I've been to six different doctors this year, about a dozen different times. And the year is only half over.

But it wasn't until August that I'd made it to the emergency room.

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There were only about 10 minutes left in the two-hour tennis workout. We were playing doubles and the old man hit a shot that was short and wide. My first instinct was to just let it go, but then my competitive spirit kicked in. I can get to it! I thought. So I sprinted for the corner of the court. Going full-speed, I stretched out my racket. The ball hit the racket and bounced back from whence it came.

But I couldn't stop. About to lose my balance, heading face first into the pavement, I did what I thought you were supposed to do in this situation: I turned my shoulder and rolled.

I did a somersault on the hard concrete court. It must have looked graceful enough, because after the cursory "Are you okay" from my companions, they asked if I was ready to continue. I wasn't. I knew immediately that something was horribly wrong. I was dizzy and my shoulder felt out of whack. I put my left hand up to my right shoulder and felt a bone sticking out-- under the skin, but definitely not where it's supposed to be.

"You won the point" the old man told me. "Well, that's a consolation," I said, and sat down against the fence trying to get my bearings. I was convinced that I'd dislocated my shoulder. It felt all out of whack. Like literally, whatever whack is, my shoulder was way out of it.

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A tennis friend drove me to the emergency room.

They took x-rays and I waited for the diagnosis. While I was sitting on the bed a cute nurse came up to me and said, "What have you done to yourself, my dear?"

I told her, "I hurt my shoulder playing tennis...but I won the point!"

"Was it worth it?" she asked in a motherly voice.

"No."

"Well, I can't tell you what's wrong, but I've seen your x-rays and you really did a number on yourself...But we'll get you fixed up."

At this point I was still convinced that my shoulder was dislocated. I'd heard stories about dislocated shoulders, and how popping them back into place hurts like a motherfucker, but after a moment of agonizing pain you feel good as new. So I was bracing myself for someone to pop it back into place.

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The doctor came in. He was friendly but didn't waste a lot of time. "You broke your clavicle."

Well, fuck me! I thought. I guess you can't just snap the bone back into place like a Lego piece, can you? He must have read my mind, because he said, "You're looking at 4-6 weeks."

It turns out there's not much they can do for a broken clavicle. It's like a broken toe. It heals on its own and all they can do is make it more comfortable. The bone sticking up would eventually work itself back in place. In very rare cases, they need surgery. He offered me painkillers, told me to take Advil or Tylenol for the pain, and said they'd give me a sling to help support it while it heals. He even said I could play tennis if I wanted (with the heavy implication that I wouldn't want to play tennis for a while.)

But contact sports like football, MMA, and cage wrestling are definitely out.

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Although I had a pretty good idea before, I can definitely, unequivocally and with authority say that I do not recommend breaking your clavicle. Since it's my right shoulder, I'm learning to do a lot of things with my left hand. Drive. Brush my teeth. Carry groceries. Wash myself. Dress myself.

Thankfully, I can still type and operate a mouse with no trouble. Four to six weeks without tennis and without playing on the computer? I don't know if I could handle that. But any activity that requires me to raise my right elbow is painful. Getting dressed and showering are the worst. Fortunately I only do those about once or twice a day.

I also have this ugly-ass sling that I have to wear.

(Mine looks exactly like this, right down to the ugly sky blue padding sticking out that clashes with all of my clothes.) Not only is it a form of torture to get into the sling, but once I'm in it it shouts, "Dork! Dork! Dork!" And not just any dork, but clearly a dork looking for attention. Ask me about my injury! it shouts.

I was wearing the sling inside my shirt, but my brother and sister-in-law convinced me that I have to wear it on the outside, as a warning to other people to Handle Me With Care. (Otherwise the cops might rough me up or something.) They have a point, but I still hate wearing it in public. I mean, really, would you ever have sex with the guy in that picture?

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Although I don't recommend breaking your clavicle, I have to admit that there are some silver linings to this ugly, blue-padded cloud.

There's never really an optimum time to break your clavicle, but the timing for this break was not terrible. I just finished moving into my house and getting everything unpacked. The very day before I had hung the last of my things on the wall. There's no way I could pound nails into the wall with a broken clavicle.

All three of my summer tennis leagues ended last week. The fall ones don't start until September. Although I'll be missing a tournament next week, this is a pretty optimum time to be missing a month of tennis. Plus, the entry form for the tournament was sitting on my car seat when I got injured. I had planned to turn it in that afternoon. But getting injured when I did, I saved myself the $10 entry fee.

The end of the semester is this week. After Thursday, I'll get two weeks off to devote to my recovery.

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But perhaps the best thing about this injury is my obsession with the word clavicle. (Collar bone is the other word for it, but that's not nearly as funny.) As I was driving to the tennis courts the morning of the injury I was listening to NPR, and they had an interview with Harold Ramis about writing comedy. He talked about funny words and mentioned that the "k" sound is funny (Hoboken, kangaroo). Well, clavicle has two "k" sounds.

It's a funny word that I could say over and over again.

On Saturday night, as I was nursing my injury and watching TiVo, I saw the pilot to Parks and Recreation that had aired on Thursday. In it, Amy Poehler falls into a pit and is convinced she broke her clavicle. (The nurse who examines her tells her she's fine, but she still wears a neck brace.) The very same day I break my clavicle, I watch a joke about one? What are the odds? How often do you hear that word on NBC sitcoms?

I called my good friend and asked him, "Hey, how's your clavicle?!"

My dream is that one day Steven Colbert will start wearing a ClavicleStrong! shoulder strap.

I'll leave you with a song that's been in my head the past two days: O Tannenbaum with a few modifications:

O Clavicle, o Clavicle,
Wie treu sind deine Knochen!

(Oh clavicle, oh clavicle,
how loyal are your bones!)