Meant To Be

Three Weeks From Tonight I'll Be Stringing Lights on Cape Cod

Tonight, after (an extremely cathartic and clearly much-needed) therapy, I walked all the way home

from way down here,

in large part so that I could eat dinner from here

without being consumed with too much self-loathing and guilt and fear related to expanding too much here

and not being able to fit into here

In other news, my mom left me a message earlier today telling me she was walking through Home Depot and stumbled across a 50-pound bag of sand, which she bought so we could use it in our centerpieces, even though she had to ask three people to help her lift it into her cart, out of her cart, and into her car.

I'm pretty sure she's pretty much the cutest mother of the bride ever.

Tooth Hurty

Well that hurt.

And this is coming from someone who has more teeth with fillings than without, in addition to two other crowns over the past four years.

I don't know which was worse, the fact that I was literally lifting my butt off the seat and yelping, or the fact that my special root canal dentist kept calling me "Buddy" and "Big Guy" and telling me how he was really putting me through torture and he hated to do that but really he found his job on the whole very satisfying.

Anyways, 5 extra vials of novacaine later, it's all over. Until I get my permanent crown placed on Monday.

I may have to look into just having them set up the wedding tent outside the dentist's office. Or over my insurance guy's freshly dug, shallow grave.

The only thing that gives me any consolation is that someone bought us our brushed steel Cuisinart food processor. Which should come in handy when I'm eating strained foods for the rest of my life.

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings

I’ve got a whole lot of feelings going on tonight.

I’m feeling depressed, because we returned last night from our whirlwind four-day bachelor party tour extravaganza in Montreal, the self-proclaimed (kind of) slut capital of Canada, which was loads of fun and filled with Labatt’s Bleues and hommes nus – all in mostly tasteful moderation – and mainly just a very nice Break From It All, which only served to enhance my depression because I still live in New York City….





....and yeah yeah yeah, everyone complains about living here and the love-hateness of it all, but seriously, I think I’m just about through with it, and every time we leave and go someplace smaller and perhaps quieter and certainly more livable, it just makes me remember that life in the Big Apple seems to have some rather deleterious effects on me and my anxiety and tension and focuslessness. I’m also feeling hot and muggy because, well, it’s hot and muggy, but I’m also feeling cranky because my tooth still hurts, which maybe I should have just sucked up but instead I drove our rental car to my dentist on Friday morning and was told the only solution to my pain is a root canal, which I’ll be receiving tomorrow afternoon and which makes me feel somewhat uneasy and irrationally vengeful, the former of which is further enhanced by the fact that there are now less than four weeks until the wedding which makes me feel just a little bit freaked out and scared and nervous and excited and like I might quite possibly vomit or laugh or cry at any given moment. I’m like some sort of mutant pregnant woman, my emotions are now dictated by some sort of invisible cosmic cycle of lunacy and I’ll be sitting on the subway and imagining M. walking towards me at our ceremony and I’ll start to cry but before the third tear is shed I’ll get frantic at the thought that we still haven’t ordered our Wedding Participant Gifts but by then I’m already remembering how pissed off I am that the Goth DJ has fallen off the face of the earth (the good news is that, as of last Thursday, he fell back on with a nice apologetic email), and all I can really do is sit here with my enormous belly, sweating and cranky but also excited and impatient, waiting to Birth This Sucker and see what it finally looks like after all this gestation…..and I hate to turn this into an e-diary or an emotional expose rather than a silly piece of bloggy fluff, but I think it’s all par for the course and so I will end with a picture of a dog under a dining room table, which is always good for a titter.

A Whole New World

Today, on my last 25th-day-of-the-month as a bachelor, I learned a very important lesson:

Just because a Vicodin pill happens to be from a prescription filled in early 2001 does not mean it's not wondrously, perfectly and indisputably effective at making everything -- from a malingering toothache, to fifty pounds of laundry on a sunny day, to planning a wedding, to getting financially raped and pillaged by the drycleaner altering one's wedding suit -- feel just a little bit less mentally oppressive.

If anyone's looking for me at the wedding, I'll be the vacant-eyed addict laying facedown on the lawn and pulling on my cheeks to see if they're real or not.

Over-reacting

I'm faced with a predicament. Or maybe it's more of a stew. A pickle, perhaps.

I was talking to a colleague in the hospital this morning and, as is sometimes wont to happen even though I usually try to bar it from doing so, my personal life came up. With someone who evidently didn't know I was gay. Or, if she did suspect or know, it hadn't been put on the table. And as soon as My Sexual Identity was on the table, I witnessed an immediate and predictable shift in her whole demeanor. She changed. She cocked her hips. Twiddled her fingers. Put on her best (but sub-par) Jim Jay Bullock voice. Started substituting fabulous for every fifth word in her lexicon.

And I thought to myself, Well color me crooked, bitch is trying to speak Gay!

It's certainly not the first time, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

It gives me pause for thought because, on the one hand, it feels a bit patronizing and/or offensive and/or oogy, but on the other hand, it's nice to know people Like the Gays and want to Accept Us and Speak Our Language.

And watch our TV shows (as long as we don't kiss).

And have us redecorate their homes (as long as we don't move in next door).

And get our advice on their relationships (as long as we don't ask for legal validation of our own).


It suddenly occurs to me: Gay is the New Black.

Just like George Jefferson and Richard Pryor and all of the minstrels and the rappers and the comedians and soul sisters that came before us, we Gays are funny, fashionable, daring, pretty, rhythmic, exotic.

Everyone wants to be our friend, add us to their nightly line-up, invite us to their party (as long as we provide the entertainment).

Which feels great, until one develops the distinct feeling that what they really want is to suck our lifeblood, to tap into our brains and siphon out all the humor and style and sparkle and glitter until all that remains is the subtle, rattling slurp of our empty, well-groomed skulls.

I'm being dramatic. So she flared her eyes at me, added a couple extra s's, tossed out a few fabulous's. No harm, no foul. Better that than a withering look of disapproval, a turned back, a brick through the bedroom window or, better yet, a brick to the head. Besides, think of all the people I know who aren't like that, who accept me and treat me as the mentally ill, neurotic, compulsive just-happens-to-be-gay man that I am.

It's not that bad. Right?

I suppose it just feels, occasionally, like it's all part of a bigger problem, part of the double-edged sword of Acceptance, Normalization. To be accepted and to feel normal are nice things, but to do so On Our Own Terms, without needing to wonder how our Blackface make-up looks, would be even nicer.

Someone had better distract me with a chicken pot photo before this soapbox caves in.

Amber Alert

*************
dm said...
The chicken pot was recently sighted at the williams sonoma @ columbus circle, in case anyone is interested... can we add this to the gawker stalker map?
1:52 PM
*************

It has now come to my attention for the second time in a week that there exists a small, starving surviving population of refugee chicken pots living in various Williams-Sonoma's throughout the greater tri-state area.

If further sightings occur, the general public is encouraged to submit photographic evidence to Concerned Homosexual Mothers of Chicken Pots (CoHoMoChiPo) at groomzillanyc@yahoo.com.

The most creatively photographed submissions may be eligible for a special prize.

Bronx Fashion Rule #435

Morbidly obese women -- or men, or children -- standing in line at the Post Office on Jerome Avenue should not be allowed to wear Phat Farm tank tops unless they demonstrate a clear and indisputable acknowledgment of self-deprecation.

Why I Hate Williams-Sonoma

Yin and Yang; or, Burn this Post (but save the puppy)

Things presently causing me great agita:

1. The resulting tension headache from having spent the last fifteen minutes on the phone trying to delicately negotiate our Flower Lady down from $750 to $500, a Flower Lady who is every bit as lovely and non-confrontational as myself but who also needs to make a living, all of which can make for an awkward bargaining-down of gardenias and delphinia and posey callas and green hypericum. We compromised just a little over halfway in between, after taxes. Moral of the story: always go in with a firm and clear budget in mind, because if you don't, you end up telling the Flower Lady, "Uhhhh....I dunno, hadn't really come up with a number," and then you end up having to make a deal in such a way that feels like you are playing tennis with one hand nailed to the court.

2. The fact that FedEx did not deliver our Tester Ring on Friday morning, despite my firmly resolved presence by the door buzzer from 8am to 2pm, thus relegating our Tester Ring to the dark confines of the FedEx holding pen all weekend, and relegating my Impatience and Need To Know to the dark confines of my mental holding pen.

3. The several-thousand dollar increase in catering costs which M. and I discovered last night whilst determining how many dishes we will have to wash or kidneys we will have to sell to pay for this motherflipper.

4. My perpetually unhealed tongue wound which resulted from my too-hasty post-crown still-Novacained enchilada lunch, and which causes me great ebbing-and-flowing waves of pain as it remains unable to settle on whether or not it wants to heal, much like I would imagine that man in the Greek myths who had his guts eaten by that big bird every day. You know that guy? I've also been biting my nails again and managed to cut my upper left gumline. And my new crown is achey.

5. The sudden disappearance of Goth DJ, who has not responded to my last two emails, nor to the voicemail I left him last night. Perhaps he's just having a bad month.


Things presently causing me great hope and/or inner peace:

1. The flowers are settled. Credit card number given. Verbal telephone handshake with the Flower Lady. And they're going to be really, really beautiful. And she refuses to use roses because they're not interesting enough. And when we got to my parents' house on Friday night, my mother presented us with an enormous box of store-bought shells and starfish and sea glass and other assorted oceanic minutiae which could easily veer into Tacky, but which somehow don't, plus she came up with a centerpiece idea which totally trumps the idea we had in mind (think: styrofoam cones, glue and sand), so now we get to knock off the flowers for the card table and the flowers for the plate table (don't ask) because we have supplemental decor. Plus we're not going to have a Port-a-Potty, which relieves us of the need for a Port-a-Potty bouquet. The nodding of heads and feigning of interest would be an appropriate audience response at this point in the post.

2. I think we're really going to love our Tester Ring, even though it comes from a slightly Less Distinguished Source. I'm going to assume that it's of the same quality as the one from the Other Source, and that we will be able to gloat and preen about yet another Wedding Planning Bargain. And FedEx is open until 9:30 tonight, which gives me great glee.

3. We tested more food from The Caterer, and damn me to Hell if it's not the best Wedding Food I've ever tasted. Seriously, it's good. She does sushi like nobody's business. Plus we talked to the Cake Lady, and figured out the finer points of cannoli cake, and it might be one of the cutest wedding cakes ever.

4. I came home on Thursday to find a message from the Herky Jerky Union Insurance Guy, sounding very conciliatory and making sure I'd received the letter telling me I could get my dental work, which I am (probably mistakenly) assuming came at the behest of the Executive Directrix I cc:'d on the letter. Either way, it feels good when The Mighty Fall.

5. I have no positive counterpoint about the Goth DJ, except that Hope Springs Eternal, and I'm going to assume he's just at a Goth Convention, or a Goth Spa. With our deposit. Instead, I'll focus on the fake puppy which my mother presented to us, which snores and looks like it's breathing, and does so for 3 full months on only two D batteries. We named her Sleepy, and I think she will be a bastion of plastic peace and calm in the coming 5 weeks.

Red Alert; or, I Need a Baby

I spent the last hour and a half curled up on my couch in absolute tears, watching my illegally downloaded copy of All Aboard! Rosie's Family Cruise.

Which can only mean one thing: starting June 25th, it's gonna get real ugly.

Post Prandial

What is it about New York City that makes me feel more ashamed to walk into a McDonalds than into a dirty book store?

Not that I've been to either. But still?

Alive and Clucking

Sent to me by an anonymous and assumedly well-meaning and not at all mocking source...........



And just as I was about to lose all hope, it suddenly occurs to me that Sally Field was right the whole time, I can't just run off to Wellfleet and get married like everything's normal, like nothing's wrong, I can't just go on pretending like there's not a chicken pot-sized hole in my heart, I just can't do it....not without my daughter.

I will scrimp and I will save and the other children will go hungry for as long as it takes, but I will find her. By God, I will find her.

On the Subtle Interplay Between Shy Bladder Syndrome, Dental Work and Therapy

Yesterday my department held a day-long retreat to talk about a lot of things which don't really involve me, but nevertheless provided me with an opportunity to get out of the office for the day.

It also provided me with an opportunity to have two extremely disconcerting and uncomfortable urinal incidents with top-level department heads, the first of whom was already at his urinal when I arrived and proceeded to first greet me and then stand with both hands on his hips while he alternated between drinking out of his coffee cup resting conveniently atop the urinal and looking around at various focal points in the men's room, including me standing at my own urinal pretending to urinate even though any chance of doing so was now nullified; and the second of whom is someone who just started at the hospital and is the Boss of the Bosses and so I wanted to meet him, just not in this particular setting, but then he said hi to me while we were making our simultaneous ways to our respective urinals (this was later in the day) and continued to talk to me throughout the duration of his own urination with his distal hand cocked on his hip and his face completely turned towards me standing at my own urinal trying to simultaneously hold some semblance of a meaningful conversation and be happy that the Boss of the Bosses was talking to me and do times tables in my head so that I could pee. Which I did, somehow, but only through sheer determination and my preternatural ability to place mind over matter.

Some day I'll share the story of what made me a Pee Shy Guy in the first place, a story which, in a nutshell, involves a 1987 basketball tournement, a locker room in a rival school's gymnasium, and three terrifying twelve year olds with a penchant for torturing younger children from other schools trying to peacefully urinate in a private stall.

I'll tell that story another day because right now, today, I am freshly arrived from getting my Brand New Temporary Crown placed, having finally received authorization from my insurance company to do so, but only after sending my Threatening Letter. It took so long to happen and I fought so hard for it that I kind of forgot what little fun it is to actually get a crown. So now I'm going to have to sue my insurance company when I bite my Novacained tongue off or burn my Novacained cheek off on my piping hot Trader Joe's Enchiladas Verde.

I'm going to speak for everyone involved when I say that it's a Good Thing I have therapy tonight.

Just One of the Guys

Yesterday M. and I spent half an hour in the new Trader Joe's wine store downtown, trying to pick out some suitably delicious, yet economically sound, wedding wines. We had two different Trader Joe's wine guys helping us. We discussed cabernets and chardonnays, pinot grigios and pinot noirs, the merits of Two Buck Chuck versus one of their other 4- and 5-dollar contracted labels. For thirty minutes, we talked about our wedding, our friends, our mothers who like Chardonnay way more than we do.

And then, when we'd finally achieved a reasonably confident short-list of wines, one of the wine guys looked at M. and said, "Now you'll just have to see which ones your girlfriend likes."

And my sister doesn't get it when I talk to her about the minor subtleties of being gay which make life just a little more awkward and uncomfortable.

Six weeks and counting

My date-night with M. last night proved three things once and for all:




1. Titanium is the new platinum.





2. Amber Tamblyn is my new idol.





3. We desperately need to move off of Ninth Avenue and into Brooklyn.

A Shocking Realization; or Nude Chris Daughtry Trumps Accupuncture

Every Wednesday and Thursday morning, my weblog is inundated with a relatively large onslaught of visitors. A cursory glance reveals that 99% of these visitors are fresh off of Fox and hungry for some nude You-Know-Who. This fact has, of course, already been discussed. What has been less discussed is that my special Visitor Recording Device shows that some of them find their way to this site and then stick around, sometimes leafing through 6 or more pages.

And this is where it gets sad, because somewhere along the line I got it into my head that perhaps these blue-balled McPhee-o-philes were able to place their sizzling hormones on the back burner, quickly recognizing the meritous and thought-provoking nature of my online endeavor and happily choosing to assuage their burgeoning curiosity about same-sex nuptials over their originally intended yen for nubile Photoshopped flesh.

Then, just five minutes ago, the lightbulb over my head flickered on with a rusty creak, and it occured to me: they're not thumbing through my blog because they want to see how the mind of a gay man ticks or find out how it all ends, they're doing it because the painfully blinding testosterone coursing through their sleep-deprived eyeballs has made them certain - - absolutely certain - - that somewhere, somehow, if they can just get past all the chicken pots standing in the way, there has got to be a nude picture of Her hidden amongst the pots and pans and slicers and dicers, because Google and Yahoo and Altavista have deemed it so.

To which I say: keep reading, all you dirty basement uncles and 3am WebTV sixteen year-olds. For if Nude Katharine McPhee is satisfaction, and satsifaction leads to enlightenment, and enlightenment to nirvana, then I've got your fix.

***

In other news, I got a free acupuncture session today - - my first ever - - and, aside from the slight burning in my ears and the awkwardness of laying on an examining table at my place of work, barefoot and unbuttoned, it was remarkably relaxing. My acupuncturist-in-training even shared some insights on my relationship with my father merely by looking at my tongue, and could tell I had good kidneys (I do!) just by checking my pulse.

And if that doesn't beat nude songstresses who should have been kicked off last night but weren't, then I don't know what does.

Speaking of which, how come nobody's getting on here by searching for Nude Chris Daughtry? Because Nude Chris Daughtry is something I would sell my proverbial chicken pot to see.

God I hope I get It

Date: Mon, 8 May 2006 23:43:19 -0400 (EDT)
From: society@nytimes.com
To: Groom Zilla

Thank you for your submission. Your material will be reviewed by one of the paper's editors. If your item is chosen for publication, a member of The New York Times staff will contact you a few weeks before your event.

It's Over

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT, M. and I finally started looking at wedding bands yesterday, in the Diamond District of all the Godforsakenest of Godforsaken places, and it was all very overwhelming and disillusioning and awkward (e.g. "Here, look at zees, eez the zame one Brad Pitt wearink"), but then a co-worker directed me to this place and I've now found several rings that I might love, all of which would force me to get over my lifelong dream of having a platinum ring like my mother's, but all of which are also handmade and beautiful so it wouldn't really matter, but they all evidently require at least six weeks of handmaking time, plus M. knows someone who knows someone who works there whom he doesn't like or who doesn't like him or who bought me the chicken pot or something and I knew this would happen, I just knew I'd let some major make-or-break thing slip right through the cracks, it probably happened while I was sitting shivah for my chicken pot or writing thank you notes or comparing shades of ecru, but now the whole precious thing is tarnished or it seems that way anyways and I'm going to have to go to Zales(TM) like Crazy Judy Who Sits Next To Me suggested, and when my great grandchildren come to visit and start to finger my tarnished and rusted and fake 8-karat aluminum wedding band and ask me to tell them the story behind it, all I'll be able to say is, "I got it at Zales," so at this point I may as well just sell the KitchenAid mixer and the crock pot and the cookbooks and bundt pans and split the money with M. and move to a deserted refrigerator box on the outskirts of Duluth with all the other Failed Brides.





Then again........



I could be watching my hands peel off as I swim around in my own urine inside a giant glass ball.

A One-Way Ticket on the T-minus 47 Day Express; or, Hold the Vomit

It dawned on me this morning, mid-Loofa, that my life at present is a little bit like those last ten clackety-clackety-clackety feet of rollercoaster track before one goes hurtling over the pinnacle: the assumption that it's going to be just as fun as it looked from the corn dog kiosk, the hypothetically secure knowledge that it's the only ride you really wanted to go on and certainly the only one that was worth the three hours spent in the burning sun with shrieking children and hairy-backed men and heavily hormonified teenagers, the precursory excitement at the thought of everyone getting out when it's all over and screaming about How Fun It Was and rushing to the video monitor to see their expressions during that fourth big drop, the too easily-forgotten security of the familiar sweaty hand gripping your own under the safety bar - - and the somewhat pathetically sincere hope that you don't pass out, have a heart attack, or experience multiple episodes of vomitous along the way.

Crazy for Crowns

This is what I do at work, when I'm not searching the South Dakota Craigslist for unused Staub chicken pots. Or, I should say, this is what they force me to do. Just think of all the poor and helpless, social worker-less dying people left to suffer while I fight for my right to dental work. Shame on you, union.

The good news is that it prevents me from delving into the more shallow recesses of my brain which, with just over seven weeks to go, are percolating with a million and three Things Still Left Undone Before the Wedding. Trust me, one peek would turn your hair white.

And now, your dinner (imagine the important parts in bold print):



May 4, 2006


Mr. X
Supervisor, Dental Department
xxxxx National Benefit Fund
xxx West 42nd Street, 4th floor
New York, NY xxxxx


Mr. xxxxx:

This letter is to detail in writing the efforts I have made thus far in obtaining authorization for a porcelain crown, following a partial break of my rearmost right bottom molar on April 4th, 2006.

· April 4th, 2006: I received a dental exam and a full set of dental x-rays from an associate of Dr. Samuel X(212-757-xxxx), whose office number I found on the 1199 dental provider online directory. Dr. X's associate examined my broken tooth and advised me of my urgent need for a crown, but then told me that they would not accept full payment from xxxxx, and that I would be responsible for at least $1200 of the fee.

· April 5th, 2006: I received a list of Members Choice xxxxx dental providers from your office, all of whom were either no longer participating with xxxxx, no longer present at the listed address/phone number, or otherwise unavailable.

· April 5th, 2006: Due to my inability to locate an available participating provider, I visited the dental clinic at xxxx Medical Center, where I was once again advised of an urgent need for a crown, but was again told I would be responsible for a sizeable fee.

· April 6th, 2006: I received a dental examination from an associate of Dr. Jay X (718-652-xxxx), to whom I was referred by another xxxx member. Dr. X's associate examined my tooth and once again advised me of my urgent need for a crown.

· April 7th, 2006: I hand-delivered a pre-authorization request for a porcelain crown from Dr. X's office to a woman in your xxxx dental department. When she advised me that the approval might take up to 8 weeks, I told her that I was in serious pain and that three dentists had advised me to have a crown placed within the next week or two. At this point, your associate told me that the authorization should be reviewed within a week or two.

· Week of April 17th, 2006: I called your office to check on my authorization and spoke to several people, including yourself. At that time, your office advised me that my authorization had been denied due to insufficient x-ray evidence of a need for a crown. It is unclear when your office would have alerted me of this denial, had I not contacted you myself. At that time, you personally advised me that you would resubmit the request for authorization. You did not advise me to have another set of x-rays taken at that time. I reminded you and your associates that I was in pain and that I was fearful of developing an infection and/or losing more of my tooth.

· April 25th, 2006: I again called your office and spoke to a female associate, who advised me that my authorization had not yet been re-reviewed, and that it might be another “few days” before it was reviewed. I once again reminded your associate that I was in pain and fearful of an infection or further tooth damage.

· May 1st, 2006: I again called your office and spoke to your associate Mr. X, who advised me that the authorization had still not been re-reviewed. After placing me on hold and speaking with you, Mr. X told me that, according to you, you had advised me on the week of the 17th that I should have another x-ray taken of my tooth, and that this should be submitted with my renewed request for authorization. I advised Mr. X that no such guidance had been provided, but that you had instead told me that the request would be resubmitted as-is.

· I spoke to you personally later in the day on May 1st, at which point you also suggested that you had advised me on the week of the 17th to have another x-ray taken. As I told you then, I am certain that you offered no such instruction. Obviously, as my consistent contact with your office would indicate, I am eager to resolve this issue, and would have gladly and swiftly walked to Dr. X's office at that time to have another x-ray taken. You advised me that once I had received the new x-ray, I could hand-deliver it to your office and that you would expedite the review. You also told me I could make an appointment with Ms. X for an in-person examination of my broken tooth, but you could not tell me if this would expedite the approval process.

· May 2nd, 2006: I received a fourth dental exam from an associate at Dr. X's office, who took a single x-ray of my broken tooth and assured me that the x-ray clearly evidenced a need for a crown.

· I plan on hand-delivering this new x-ray to your office on the morning of Friday, May 5th.


As you can see from the above timeline, as of May 5th, four weeks will have passed from the time I first provided your office with my authorization request. My tooth has remained partially broken for over four weeks, causing me physical discomfort. A dentist first advised me of the urgent need for a crown over four weeks ago, stressing the real possibility of further damage or infection, which could lead to complications including endocarditis, a serious and potentially fatal heart infection. I have been forced to endure the physical pain and discomfort of a broken tooth, and have been unable to chew food on that side of my mouth for over four weeks.

I work very hard at xxxx Medical Center as a member of the xxxx union, paying my union dues every month and representing the union in my capacity as a social worker with the terminally ill. I have made every possible effort – including hand-delivering my authorization request to your office on 42nd Street, an hour-long commute from my office at xxxx Medical Center – to expedite the review process and receive a dental intervention which three different dentists have advised. It has been more than frustrating to receive inconsistent information and guidance in such a prolonged time period from your office, when I am only trying to receive dental care to which I am entitled and which will have an impact on my overall health and well being.

As a social worker with the terminally ill, I pride myself on my patience and composure, as well as my knowledge of the complications and intricacies of the health care system and its various bureaucracies. It is not easy to “rattle” me. At this point in time, however, I must again advise you that I expect this matter to be resolved as a first priority for your office. Your failure to follow through may result in further harm or damage to my physical person, which would leave me with no choice but to explore legal action against xxxx, an entity whose purpose is to protect me and not to cause me further pain and suffering. This issue goes above and beyond the regretfully inadequate and restrictive level of dental coverage provided by xxxx.

I appreciate your understanding in this matter, and look forward to having this issue resolved in the next week. As always, please feel free to contact me with any questions at (917)xxx-xxxx.



Most sincerely,



________________________
Groom Zilla, LMSW
Social Worker
xxxxx Medical Center
xxxx, NY


Cc: Ms. X, Executive Director xxx NBF
Mr. X, xxxx Organizer, xxxx Medical Center

Looking Back

This coming Sunday marks the one year anniversary of my own private weblog.

And what do I have to show for it?

A kitchenful of Crate & Barrel boxes, fourteen new grey hairs, and a sudden, startling surge in viewership.

At least one of which -- perhaps two -- is due to young basement-bound teens hungry for Nude Katharine McPhee.*


*I should acknowledge my clear and intentional understanding that every time I reference Nude Katharine McPhee (there she is again), I maintain my firm grip as the number one search result for Nude Katharine McPhee, thereby ensuring a steady viewership well into Sweeps Week. And an inevitable lawsuit from (Nude)Katharine McPhee's mother.

In Memorium

Happily, M. and I survived the weekend unscathed.

Sadly, everyone else cannot say the same.

They say there's no word for a mother who loses a child.